Rose didn’t respond to his statement. “The people here on the rez will take care of his burial,” she said. “Tom and Gina Mallon have donated a space in their plot in the graveyard.”
Joseph pictured the cemetery in the redwood grove beyond the community center: small, with well-tended graves topped by modest markers. There were worse places to spend eternity.
“Joey?” Rose said, using the diminutive no one had called him by since childhood. “D’you suppose it was losing his trailer made him do it?”
Right then and there he knew he’d never share his suspicions about Harold’s starting the fire.
“I saw him at the mill last night, watching it burn. That place was his last connection to the days when he was reasonably happy; its loss must’ve been too much for him.”
Rose nodded, accepting the explanation without question, then sighed deeply, pressing his hand.
They’ll remember you as a sad, broken man, Harold. But I’m damned if I’ll let them remember you as an arsonist.
STEPH PACE
Steph started along the path through the rhododendron grove. It wound uphill in a series of gentle rises interspersed with steeper flights of stone steps and would, she knew, eventually loop back to the parking lot below. The rhodos, many more than twelve feet tall, grew to either side, their branches tipped with new growth. In another month or so the buds would form, and by May the brilliant flowers—deep purple, lavender-blue, red, pink, and white—would lure scores of visitors. But now the preserve was drab and deserted.
Midway up, the path crossed a humpbacked bridge over a stream that ran fast and clear, surging around the rocks in its bed. Steph stopped, leaned over the side, and watched the water. It was cold here in the grove, and mist draped the rhodos’ topmost branches. Cold inside her, too.
She was afraid, even though she’d made it a point to speak with the caretaker, told him she would be back near closing time, and knew he would come looking for her if she didn’t appear. Somewhere up ahead Timothy McNear waited; she had seen his Lincoln, the only other other car in the parking area. She’d feared him since she was a teenager, and she was probably a fool to have obeyed his summons.
Too late now. After a moment she gathered her courage, squared her shoulders, and continued up the path.
At its top, just before it looped back downhill, she spotted McNear hunched on a stone bench, wearing a tan wool shirt and cords. He leaned foward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them. Her fear didn’t exactly leave her, but it eased some, and she thought, My God, he’s such a sad-looking old man!
McNear heard her approach and stood. “Miss Stephanie,” he said, “I was afraid you’d changed your mind about meeting me.”
“No,” she said, “I was delayed at the restaurant.”
McNear indicated that she should sit and resumed his place. He was too close, and she could feel his body heat. Quickly she shifted away, but the bench was small and she couldn’t put enough space between them. He seemed oblivious to her discomfort.
He said, “You know why I wanted to meet with you.”
“I assume to talk about . . . that night.”
“June thirtieth, nineteen-eighty-four.”
“Why, after all this time?”
“Because the past has an unfortunate habit of ressurecting itself and disrupting the present. The waterbaggers are holding the events of that night over my head. That’s why I gave them the right-of-way across my land.”
A chill descended on Steph’s shoulders. “But how can they possibly know anything?”
“They claim they have an eyewitness to me moving Mack Kudge’s body from my garden to the pier at the mill. Someone who told them about it in detail. It could only be one of three people: you, Joseph Openshaw, or Curtis Hope. If I can identify the person and persuade him to recant his story, the waterbaggers can be stopped, and our river and community saved.”
Me, Joseph, or Curtis. The other night when Joseph came to the house, he said he thought Curt was out of control, but I can’t imagine him going so far as to help the waterbaggers.
She asked, “Why the change of heart at this point?”
McNear’s gaze grew remote. “It’s something I can’t explain to someone as young as you.”
“Young? I haven’t felt young in twenty years. Try me.”
“Suffice it to say that I don’t want to be remembered as the man who ruined Cape Perdido—twice. So, Miss Stephanie, are you the one who betrayed me?”
“I barely know Woodsman or Erickson. Besides, I don’t really know what you did that night. I’m sure Joseph doesn’t, either. Curtis . . . I couldn’t say.”
McNear frowned. “Surely you’ve discussed it with them.”
“Joseph and I didn’t say a word about it from shortly after it happened until a couple of days ago. And Curtis has never discussed it.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Do you, Mr. McNear? Think about it. When was the last time you discussed it with anybody?”
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
Timothy stared at Stephanie Pace, trying to adjust the concept he’d held in his mind all these years to the one she’d just presented. After a moment he said, “Perhaps you should tell me what you remember.”
A look akin to panic passed over her face. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay.” A deep, nervous breath. “When I was working for you, I mentioned to Joseph and Curtis and Mack about all the expensive things you had, and the cash you kept in the study. And after you . . . after I quit and told them the reason why, they were angry and wanted to get back at you. So we decided to burglarize your house. It was a stupid thing to do, but we were young and impetuous . . . and, oh God, I wish none of it had ever happened!”
The reason why. A harmless pass at a beautiful young woman. Well, harmless to a middle-aged reprobate like me; attempted rape to her.
“Miss Stephanie, if I could go back in time—”
“Doesn’t matter now.” She slashed her hand through the air, a swift, negating gesture.
She doesn’t want my apology; just wants to get this over with. Well, no more than I.
“Go on with your story,” he said.
“We’d heard Robert was taking the boys to San Francisco to catch their ship for Australia, and we’d seen in the paper that you were addressing a lumber industry trade association in Sacramento that same night. The house would be empty. I still had my key, so we didn’t really have to break in.”
“Weren’t you afraid you’d be the obvious suspect in a burglary?”
“I knew you’d suspect me, but I didn’t think you’d tell the sheriff. You wouldn’t want anyone to find out what you’d tried to do to me.” She smiled painfully. “And I was right, wasn’t I? You never reported the theft, and Mack’s body turned up on the pier at your lumberyard, rather than in your garden.”
He pictured himself going to the potting shed in the far reaches of the garden for a wheelbarrow and tarp. Trundling the body to the garage, loading it into his car. The nightmarish drive through the thick fog. Circumventing his own security force. The awkwardness of Mack Kudge’s dead weight as he carried him along the pier . . .
“Go on.”
“As soon as we were inside the house, we got spooked, realized that we were in over our heads, but none of us dared back down and lose face. Mack and I were in the study when I thought I heard someone upstairs. We’d decided that if anything went wrong, we’d split up and meet later at the beach at Cauldron Creek, so he and I stuffed the money into my tote bag and left by the door to the garden. I had the bag, was well ahead of him, was halfway to the rear wall when I realized he wasn’t behind me anymore. Then, when I got to the wall, I heard a shot. I ran, caught a ride on the highway with a passing tourist, went to the beach, and waited. A little while later, Curt and Joseph showed up. They’d been in separate parts of the house when they heard the shot, ran into the garden, and found Mack’s bod
y. So they left everything and took off.”
Stephanie’s voice had gone shrill while reliving the night. To calm her, Timothy put a hand on her arm, but she pulled away as if it were red-hot.
“Were any of you armed?” he asked.
“I didn’t think so at the time. All of us owned guns: the guys were hunters; I had inherited my father’s old twenty-two and was a good shot. But we made a pact before we went up there: no weapons.”
“But now you suspect someone didn’t honor it?”
She looked away from him.
“Well?”
“. . . I suspected someone had brought a gun almost from the first. And later Joseph let slip that he thought I might have panicked and shot Mack by accident. Curtis wouldn’t talk about it—ever. That’s what drove the three of us apart. Suspicion.”
“And from the vantage of the present, what do you think happened?”
She closed her eyes, put her fingers to her lips.
Timothy waited.
“Joseph came to see me the other night. Since he’s been back, he’s insisted we not talk about what happened, but he finally admitted he’s constantly thinking about it. And he’s worried about Curtis. He made me go over what I remember in detail; then he did the same.”
“And?”
“He remembered that he and Curtis didn’t come upon Mack’s body at the same time. Curtis was in the garden standing over it when Joseph came out of the house.”
A very different scenario than I imagined.
To make the seed of suspicion Joseph had already planted in her mind grow, Timothy said, “So you think Curtis may have been the one who accidentally shot Mack. And he may be trying to put his crime on me by claiming to be an eyewitness.”
“Why would he do that, after all these years?”
Timothy shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything?”
And there it is: a way out. Give them Curtis Hope. Admit to concealing a burglary and moving a dead body. Admit to being a fool for a young woman. Admit to trying to save your reputation.
Admit most, but not all, of the truth.
JESSIE DOMINGO
As soon as the door to Fitch’s room closed and she heard him on the phone—presumably talking to one of those many machines—Jessie slipped back outside and headed for the far wing of the motel, where the waterbaggers were staying. A maid’s cart was parked in front of one of their rooms, and the woman who on the night of the power outage had introduced herself as Nita Bynum was stripping the queen-size bed.
Jessie stepped inside and asked, “Is this Mr. Erickson’s room?”
“It was. He’s checked out.”
“Oh? The others, too?”
“Two of them. Mr. Woodsman’s still here.”
“Which is his room?”
“Next door.” Nita gestured to the left. “But he’s not in. I ran into him when he was leaving.”
“He say where he was going?”
“Asked if there was anyplace to eat around here besides the Blue Moon. Said he was sick of the same old menu. I told him to try the Oceansong. They do a pretty good burger.”
“That’s the place on the bluff, up by the volunteer fire department?”
“Right. You’re looking for Mr. Woodsman, you’ll probably find him there.”
The Oceansong was aimed at the tourist: a pit fireplace with a gas jet and fake logs opposite an expanse of windows overlooking a deck and the sea. Long bar and little tables, a chalkboard scrawled with offerings such as popcorn shrimp, nachos, and chicken strips. The deck was closed, its umbrellas battened against the wind; fog was rolling in, a thick bank of it, bringing the night on early. Jessie scanned the room, spotted Woodsman at the bar, just saying good-bye to one of the TV people she’d seen around town. She went over and slipped onto the stool next to him.
He glanced at her, then raised his eyebrows. “Ms. Domingo. We haven’t met, but I know you by sight.”
“And I know you, too, Mr. Woodsman.”
“Neil.”
“Jessie.”
“May I buy you a drink? I don’t suppose there’s anything that says we can’t associate with the opposition.”
“None at all. I’ll take an IPA, if they have one.”
“I’m sure they do.” He motioned at a sign on the backbar: “Largest Selection of Premium Beers on the North Coast.”
After the bartender had taken her order, Woodsman asked, “So what brings you here on a foggy evening?”
“I’m tired of eating at the Blue Moon. Someone told me this place does a good burger.”
“You must’ve been talking with Nita Bynum. She steered me here, too. The Blue Moon’s okay, but it’s a limited menu, and I’ve about worked my way through it.”
“I understand the others in your party have left.”
“Only temporarily. There’s some problem with the documents we filed with the state water board, and they’ve gone to Sacramento to address it. I remained behind to deal with the water bag removal and the media. Can’t get away from the reporters. That one”—he motioned to the man he’d been talking with, who was now seated near the windows—“followed me here.”
“When’s the bag being removed?”
“Tomorrow or the next day. The waste management company is going to tow it to sea and scuttle it.”
As the bartender arranged a napkin and glass in front of Jessie, she studied Neil Woodsman. He was probably in his early thirties, good-looking in a rough, outdoorsman’s way. His accent was British but somewhat twangy and nasal. Cockney, perhaps?
“Thanks, mate,” he said to the bartender, and toasted her.
“So, Neil,” she said, “where do you live in North Carolina?”
“Raleigh, but I’ve lived all over the world, most recently the UK.”
“And you’ve worked for Aqueduct Systems how long?”
“A year.”
“Is your educational background in resources management?”
Woodsman smiled. “Are you interrogating me?”
“Just interested.”
“I feel as if I were in the witness box.”
Slow down, Jessie. Go easy on the personal stuff.
“Sorry. The reason I asked is that most of the people on the staff of my foundation have that background, in some cases coupled with law or business. Take Eldon Whitesides, for example—do you know of him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s our director, flew out yesterday. I thought he might have contacted you people.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Eldon’s very direct. When he wants to know what the opposition’s up to, he’s likely to just ask them.”
“Well, maybe he contacted Gregory, but if he did, I haven’t heard of it.”
Jessie sipped beer, tried another tack. “So tell me, what do you think of Cape Perdido?”
“A boring place to visit, and I wouldn’t want to live here.”
“The people—”
“Are typical of people in small towns. Narrow-minded, provincial, suspicious of outsiders, resistant to progress. I’ve always hated places like this.”
The vehemence behind his words startled Jessie. “Did you live in small towns while you were growing up?”
“I’ve seen my share.”
“They must’ve been pretty bad.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, your condemnation of a town and people you’ve known less than a week has got to be coming from somewhere.”
Woodsman looked at his watch and downed the rest of his drink. “It’s been nice talking with you,” he said, “but I have some calls to make.”
“I thought you wanted to get something to eat.”
“I’ll buy a sandwich at the deli.” He dropped some bills on the bar, then crossed the room and pushed out the door.
Jessie watched it swing shut with narrowed eyes. Something had pushed his buttons. She stood, and by the time she got outside, Woodsman’s figure was a distant sh
adow on the road’s shoulder, heading toward the motel. She got into her car, waited for a logging truck to pass before she pulled out of the lot; soon its high beams showed Woodsman cutting across the ice plants in front of the motel.
Jessie drove onto the shoulder and idled there, watching Woodsman enter his motel room. She waited a minute or two, deliberating what to do next, and was about to pull back onto the road when he came out again. He went to a white compact that was parked near his unit, slid inside, started it up, and turned north on the highway. Jessie ducked down as he passed her.
Calls to make, my ass!
As she followed, Woodsman kept the car at a steady fifty-five, following the highway toward Oilville and the airport. After a mile or so he turned right into the hills on a poorly paved secondary road. She had to hold back so her headlights wouldn’t alert Woodsman that she was behind him, and after a few miles she realized she’d lost him. He could have turned into any one of the lanes that led off into pastureland to distant houses.
She slowed, looking for a place to turn around, swung off the broken pavement into a packed-gravel semicircle, then back onto the road.
Headlight beams came around the curve on the uphill side, and a light-colored vehicle rushed toward her, going much too fast.
JOSEPH OPENSHAW
Joseph slammed on his brakes and skidded onto the shoulder when he spotted the car nose-down in the ditch, its headlights shining onto reeds and dead blackberry vines. He pulled on the emergency brake, got out and trotted over, scrambled down the slope to peer through the driver’s-side door.
Jessie Domingo sat grasping the wheel of the stalled car, her head bent forward.
“My God!” he exclaimed, and pulled the door open. “Jessie, are you all right?”
“Joseph?” Her voice was thin, shaky.
“Yeah, it’s me. What the hell happened?”
“I was trying to turn around.” She let go of the wheel, looked up at him. No blood, no visible injuries. “Somebody came around the curve too fast, and I panicked. Hit the accelerator and . . . here I am.”
He reached inside and helped her unfasten her seat belt, guided her from the car, and got her leaning up against it. “You hurt?”
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