Surprisingly, Kincaid hadn’t looked away, locking in on Porter instead with an unflinching gaze. Athletes had the capacity to shut out everything and focus.
He knew Kincaid wouldn’t want to take him to the cabin. Kincaid had no good reason for doing it.
So Porter chose his moment and played his trump card.
Kincaid had leaned his weight on one hip, considering Jim Bell’s sickly son.
Porter had fidgeted shamelessly, running through the catalog of body language indicating low self-esteem, knowing that a lack of physical control would be a sign to Kincaid of ultimate weakness. Which in turn would make him feel superior. Guilt would follow, which in turn would motivate him to make a decision he would later regret.
Pippin perched on the passenger seat of the Buick, ears pricked, happy to be out. The car slogged through the snow until it lost traction and fishtailed. Caroline hit the brakes, worsening the skid. They slid to a stop in the middle of the road. She sat, hands shaking, working up the nerve to try again. No wonder Nan called it the old boat.
The pavement gleamed wet. Tiny snowflakes flashed past the headlights. She prayed Greyhound would be running on schedule.
She passed the turnoff for Storm Pass but didn’t take it, heading straight out to the county road. She glimpsed Kincaid’s Garage, with Gus’s pickup parked outside. The inside bays, she knew, provided shelter in winter for Ken’s red Porsche.
She bid a silent good-bye and tightened her grip on the wheel, which did nothing to quiet the quaking of her body. She wasn’t used to driving in snow. At this rate, she would be lucky to make it to the Greyhound stop in one piece.
She pressed her foot on the accelerator. The Buick responded slowly, sliding into another skid. This time Caroline kept on the gas, slow and steady, steering into it until the car righted itself.
There was, Caroline thought, a method to winter driving.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Officer Mike Hartung loved his job, he really did. Like now, where the last of the morning rush was wheeling past him in Eckington, a neighborhood that was most definitely not listed on D.C. tourist maps.
He had grabbed a few hours’ sleep at home last night before heading back to Georgetown just before dawn to see what the night crew uncovered. They had done their jobs thoroughly. By the time Hartung’s takeout coffee had cooled, there was little they didn’t know about the habits and lifestyle of Dr. Porter Moross; his wife, Caroline Hughes; and their dog, Pippin.
The dog, for example, was a purebred.
The wife had a cache of things hidden up in the attic crawlspace. E-mails and cards from an old beau, along with some Milky Way bars and an unopened bag of cherry Twizzlers.
The collection of DVDs, pills, and syringes would have been enough to convince anyone that Dr. Porter Moross was a straight-up freak. And that was not taking into account the contents of the Sterlite container Moross kept under their bed.
A hush fell over the room when one of the officers pulled out a horse’s tail and riding crop.
“Thank God for latex,” he said, referring to the gloves they all wore when handling evidence.
There was a snicker or two. One guy shook his head and left the room. Everyone else just kept working.
They hit pay dirt in the office, after the computer had been hauled off to have its hard drive analyzed and the safe had been cracked.
They hit the mother lode inside Moross’s locked files, in the form of an old-fashioned check ledger where Moross had kept backup entries in his tiny, precise handwriting of every dime he spent. Control freak, Hartung thought. The contents of the ledger would be reviewed by a forensic accountant if the wife didn’t turn up safe and sound pretty soon, but Hartung never forgot something he had first heard as a rookie.
In the end, money is what brought down Al Capone.
He figured it was worth a minute or two to check out the latest entries. One jumped right off the page. Two years’ payment in advance to a U-Store facility across town.
Judging by the location, Moross wasn’t using it to store the leftover antiques that wouldn’t fit in this place.
Officer Mike Hartung looked up from the ledger and motioned for his partner to take a look. “We got something here. I got a good feeling.” Hartung grinned. He loved his job. He really did.
And here he was, loving his job and loving life, loving the look on the face of the sleazebag proprietor of a self-storage facility inside a gray slab of a building that could have passed for a Third Reich bunker but for the gang graffiti on its walls.
The proprietor was falling over himself to be helpful, despite the fact he didn’t know guests were coming. The goons posted outside had disappeared when the first squad car pulled up.
“No problem, no problem,” the man said, waving away Hartung’s warrant. “Come right in, come right in.” Despite the morning coolness and a breeze that promised autumn at last, the proprietor was sweating like a pig. In fact, he looked ready to wet his pants. “Please,” he said, “look around, whatever you need.”
It was amazing, Hartung thought, what the sight of six cops armed with bolt cutters and semiautomatic AR–15 assault rifles could do.
He waited while the proprietor went through his files. “Here it is, a five-by-ten walk-in on the top floor. That’s a corner unit, our very best, our very best,” the proprietor said, slicing one hand through the air with a proud little flourish.
As though, Hartung thought, the biggest selling point of this place was you could stash your assault rifle for safekeeping when it was not in use.
The proprietor handed over the passkey and Hartung signaled his crew. Two men headed back outside to take up positions at the exits. Two ran up the rear stairwell, leaving Hartung and his partner to take the front.
The proprietor looked ready to throw up.
Hartung leaned in close, keeping his voice as hard and cold as the steel entrance door. “Nobody comes in, nobody leaves. I’ll let you know when we’re finished.”
The man’s head was bouncing like a bobble-head doll in a van with bad shocks. “No problem, sir, no problem at all.” He backed away from the counter, and this time Hartung was positive he smelled urine on the guy’s pants.
Hartung turned away to follow his partner, who was already taking the concrete stairs two at a time.
CHAPTER 34
The forest was awash in shifting, swirling snowflakes. The Jeep bounced onto the turn for the grass track. The Yukon followed close behind, its lumbering shape indistinct against the white snow. The Yukon could handle the rutted track easily, Ken decided. Jim Bell, however, was another story.
The guy was off balance. That fact, combined with the dealer plates, prompted Ken to formulate a Plan B. They would leave Bell’s car here and retrieve it tomorrow. The least he could do was make sure the guy didn’t wreck his new car on the way back down.
Ken took the track slow and steady. Snow changed the landscape, masking familiar landmarks. But Colorado weather was apt to change. The wind at this altitude could clear the clouds at any moment, leaving a sunny afternoon for trout fishing. Maybe.
The sky lightened as the track opened onto the mesa. Ken pulled the Jeep up close to the cabin. The lake was choppy and dull, the color of the shale that lined its shores. Clouds hung low. The only sound was wind.
Ken took it all in. If the Rockies were close to heaven on earth, this place was its cathedral.
The Yukon rumbled to a stop behind him and Bell climbed out, clutching his leather briefcase.
Bell was, Ken thought, every inch the businessman who goes on vacation and spends his time in search of wireless access.
Bell zipped his parka as high as it would go. “Does it always snow like this?”
Ken grinned. “Sometimes.” Bell seemed even more jittery after the drive. Ken already regretted his decision to bring him. The snow was really coming down. He did a quick inventory. The first aid kit was inside. The shortwave radio was in the Jeep. His cell phone would be o
f no use here.
The first rule of wilderness survival was to avoid dangerous situations, and Ken knew he’d broken it.
One look at Bell’s face told him he couldn’t afford to narrow his margin of error any further.
Bell removed his glasses to rub at his eyes.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“So, this is what you like?” Bell said.
“Yeah.”
Bell hunched deeper into his jacket. When he spoke, his voice had a dreamy quality, soft and weak. “This is the edge of everything. One small move and you’ve crossed over. It’s perfect.” He laughed at some private joke.
Ken did not join in. He’d expected Bell to make the usual comments about the beauty of the landscape, or ask what sort of animals lived here or, like the group of commercial Realtors he’d hosted back in June, ask how much he’d paid. Ken ignored the remark and set to work. The sooner they got out of here, the better.
Bell chuckled, and the sound had a brittle quality. “What I meant was, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Balancing his gear in one hand, Ken slammed the trunk shut. He eyed Bell’s expensive parka and leather gloves. They were smooth dress gloves, not suitable for outdoor use. The getup was as conspicuous as Bell’s lowland style of driving. Ken’s eyes narrowed. “Come on inside. You can wait in the cabin while I do a few things.” He did not add the fact that they’d be departing again within minutes.
Bell followed, still clutching the leather briefcase. The silence inside was eerie.
Ken filled two large glasses with spring water from a container and handed one to Bell. “Take a seat and drink this. It’s important to keep your fluids up at this altitude.”
Bell pulled off his ski cap and raked one thin hand across his scalp. The gesture had the look of a ritual that was compulsive. Bell caught Ken watching. “I lost every bit of pigmentation in my hair and skin when I was fourteen.”
Ken shrugged. Bringing Bell up here had been a mistake. The man was unbalanced. “Sit down,” he said again. “I’m going to turn off the propane at the tanks outside, take care of a few things, then we’ll head back. This weather’s no good for fishing.”
Bell’s mouth twisted, his eyes glinting in a sudden flash of anger. He opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind and snapped it shut. He rubbed his jaw and looked away. “Please,” he said in a pleading tone. “Can you just show me around? My son will want to hear all about it and I…” Bell’s voice faltered. “I’m not feeling well.”
The man’s simple acknowledgment of his own fragile mental state softened Ken. The drive had taken its toll. Bell’s eyes were shot through with red, and had dark hollows underneath. Putting something in his stomach might settle him. “Have a seat,” Ken repeated.
Bell sat at last, keeping his briefcase on his lap. He took a tiny sip, then wiped his upper lip on his sleeve.
It was out of character for a man with manicured nails. “You okay?” Ken asked.
Blinking rapidly, Bell nodded.
The man’s face had regained a tiny bit of color.
Ken drained his own glass, keeping an eye on Bell. By the look of it, the guy hadn’t eaten in days.
He was toying nervously with the leather bag in his lap, his pale blue eyes flickering with something Ken had learned to recognize at an early age.
Resentment.
Bell tried to hide it, out of politeness, perhaps, and averted his gaze.
Ken sat, crossing one ankle over his knee, keeping his posture relaxed. But he never let Bell out of his line of sight. He wondered if the guy was addicted to drugs. One look at his pocked face told Ken it was a distinct possibility. His goal was to calm Bell enough to get him back to Storm Pass and from there, get him some help. When Ken spoke, he kept his tone steady and firm. “Does your son enjoy all sports, or just football?”
The room was silent as Bell considered this. “Just football.”
Ken nodded. “He lives with his mother?”
“My wife? I suppose I should say, the woman who was my wife.” Bell gave a short laugh that held no merriment. “She was something. Smart. Fun to be with. Beautiful. You would have liked her.” Bell looked at Ken, his eyes narrowing as a small smile curved his thin lips. “She’s your type. Definitely.”
Ken became aware that the hairs on the back of his neck were rising. He uncrossed his leg and crossed the other again, disliking the intensity in Bell’s gaze.
“But I suppose I shouldn’t say that, knowing as little about you as I do. Being a big football star and all, any woman would be your type, I’d imagine.” Bell leaned forward, warming to the subject.
If he wanted to, Ken could lift Bell off the couch with one hand and choke the air from his lungs. Ken pushed away the impulse that had risen, unbidden, to his mind. He stood. “Drink the rest of your water. I’ll get you something to eat.” There were PowerBars in one of the cabinets. He got one now and set it down in front of Bell with a napkin.
Bell stared out the window, light glinting off his glasses.
“You need to eat,” Ken said.
Bell roused himself from his reverie, tore the wrapper from the PowerBar, broke off a small piece, and chewed it.
Ken glanced outside. Snow continued to fall, thick and fast.
Bell sipped his water and swallowed with difficulty. “I get overwhelmed. She left me. I tried to make it work. Tried to make her see. And now she’s with someone else.” He shook his head as his face twisted with sorrow.
Ken was well acquainted with the kind of pain Bell described, but it was clear the guy was at his wit’s end. The saddest fact was that he seemed to know it in his lucid moments. Like now.
“I never wanted it to end,” he continued. “And then one day she was gone. Not even a good-bye note. All I really want is to bring her home again.”
Ken flashed back to the first weeks after Suzie moved out. He ate in restaurants every night. He slept on the couch with the TV on, so if he woke he wouldn’t hear the silence. He finally rented a suite at the Fairmont at Country Club Plaza, one of the best hotels in Kansas.
Ken knew better than to share his own story, however. Bell had more problems than the fact that his wife had walked out on him. “It’s rough, I know. But you need to stay strong, Jim. You’ll get through this. You are getting through it. Think of your son. He needs you now more than ever.”
Bell stared at Ken. “Yeah. But I wish things could be different. You’ve got to believe that, Ken.”
The intensity in Bell’s gaze was unsettling.
“Things will work out.”
Bell smiled. “Yes, Ken, they will. It was her call all along. She’s the one holding all the cards. She knows that, and now she has to deal with the mess she’s made.” His voice broke. His face crumpled, and he covered it with his hands.
Wherever Mrs. Jim Bell was, Ken hoped she was happy. She had earned it.
CHAPTER 35
Maebeth Burkle leaned against the flimsy white pillow and drifted off to sleep. The throbbing in her hand had lessened, thanks to the morphine and antibiotic drip in her arm.
Her husband conferred in quiet tones with the surgeon about the skin graft operation that was scheduled for later that afternoon. Hopefully, there would be no permanent nerve damage.
After checking on his wife, Ted Burkle went off in search of a pay phone. He needed to call Gus Kincaid and ask him to look after the dogs.
Ted dialed Gus’s number and got the answering machine. He kept his message brief. “Maebeth will be fine, back to her old self in no time,” he concluded. “Say, give Ken a call and tell him we need to speak with him about Jim Bell.” He paused, at a loss for words. “Though I guess with the snow, he’ll probably cancel.”
Gus’s answering machine clicked and reset itself on the kitchen counter. The sound disturbed the empty stillness of the place, waking Midnight. The black cat flicked her tail and went back to sleep.
The front door to the inn was still locked
from overnight. Gus went around back and let himself in through the kitchen, which was always open. The Burkles’ pickup was gone.
Gus stepped inside and looked around. A muffin tray lay on the floor, licked clean.
Jasper and Wyoming ambled over, tails wagging, planting themselves at his feet.
“Okay, boys, you know what’s coming,” Gus took liver treats from his pocket and fed them each in turn.
The dogs waggled and grunted happily.
“Where’s the missus?” Gus asked.
The dogs licked their jowls and watched him.
Gus picked up the muffin tray and set it on the counter before heading into the dining room. The table was set for a breakfast that had not been touched.
The place was quiet.
The dogs followed him to the front parlor. Gus stood, jangling the change in his pockets. His glance fell on the leather guest book and he opened it, fumbling for his reading glasses. He flipped through the heavy book till he came to the last entry, dated yesterday. Jim Bell from Denver, Colorado. Under the “Comments” section, Jim Bell had written, “Came for the trout.”
“Hmmph,” Gus said. It was late for trout. Even a city type should know better than to waste his time coming up here this time of year. Ken would have told him that. In fact, Ken was just saying yesterday he didn’t have any clients booked till next spring.
Gus frowned. The only sound in the place was Jasper grooming his front paws.
Where was everybody?
Gus hoped this man Bell wasn’t fool enough to head into the wilderness on his own. It made no sense, but Gus Kincaid had seen a lot of things in seventy-eight years that left him scratching his head. He did so now.
He walked around the desk and pulled out Maebeth’s registration file. The cards were in chronological order from the beginning of the year. He flipped to the back and studied the last card. The same hand, this time using tiny block letters, perfectly aligned, listed Jim Bell’s Denver address and phone number.
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