Angels Fall

by Nora Roberts

  started a list of what she considered essential items for any kitchen.

  Five-star restaurant, small-town diner, personal kitchen. What the hell did it matter? Food was food, and why the hell shouldn't it be perfectly prepared?

  She handled a few orders for people who, for reasons that escaped her, wanted a buffalo burger before noon. Between orders, she set to work scrubbing down the kitchen, from the inside of the cabinets out.

  She was on her knees washing out the area under the sink when Linda-gail crouched beside her. "Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?"

  "No. I'm keeping busy."

  "When you're done keeping busy here, you can go over to my house and keep busy there. Are you mad at Joanie?"

  "No. I'm mad at the world. The whole stinking, fucked-up world."

  Linda-gail glanced over her shoulder, lowered her voice. "Got your period?"

  "No."

  "It's just that one or two days a month, I usually get mad at the whole stinking, fucked-up world. Anything I can do?"

  "Can you wipe out the last twenty-four hours with the power of your mind?"

  "Probably not." She laid a hand on the small of Reece's back, gave it a rub. "But I've got chocolate in my purse."

  Reece let out a sigh, dropped her rag back in the bucket of soapy water. "What kind of chocolate?"

  "The little pads in the gold foil the hotel puts on pillows at night. Maria in housekeeping's my pusher."

  The smile felt so foreign on Reec'es face it almost hurt."They're not bad. Thanks, maybe—

  "Reece." Joanie's voice, clipped and cool, brought Reeces head out from under the sink. "'My office a minute."

  Reecc and Linda-gail exchanged a look—and Linda-gail's was ripe with pity—before Reece got tip and followed Joanie into the little office.

  "Close that door. I just got a call from my boy. Seems the sheriff's been out to the ranch asking questions. Appears he's looking for some people, most especially a woman who might've gone missing. Lo didn't get much out of him, but I didn't raise any fools, so he got enough."

  Turning to her tiny office window, she shoved it open before yanking her cigarettes out of her pocket. "Rick says maybe somebody saw something happen to this woman, maybe that person was up on Little Angel and thought something happened across the river. Not being a fool, either, I figure somebody who maybe saw something would be you."

  "The sheriff asked me not to say anything until he'd investigated, but since he's not finding anything… I saw a man kill a woman. I saw him strangle her, and I was too far away to help. I was too far away to do anything. And now they can't find anything. It's like it never happened."

  Joanie blew out a quick stream of smoke. "What woman?"

  "I don't know. I didn't recognize her; I didn't see her that well. Her face. Or his. But I saw… I saw…"

  ""Don't you go hysterical on me." Joanie kept her voice cool and firm. "You sit down it you need to, but you don't get hysterical."

  "Okay. All right." Reece didn't sit, but rubbed away the tears with the heels of her hands. "I saw them. I saw what he did to her. I was the only one who saw anything."

  Her boots drumming into the ground.

  High-topped black Nikes with silver swatches outside the storeroom door.

  His black jacket and orange hunter's cap.

  Dark gray hoodie, big, black gun.

  "I was the only one who saw anything." she repeated. "And I didn't see enough."

  "You said you and Brody were on the trail."

  "He was farther down. He didn't see. He went back up with me. but there was nothing to see." Because she couldn't get enough air in the room, the tiny box of a room, Reece moved to the window. "I didn't imagine it."

  "Why would I think you had? If you were upset about this, you could've had today off."

  "I had yesterday off, and look what happened. Did Lo say… was there a woman staying at the ranch?"

  "Everyone booked there, working there, is accounted for."

  "Of course." Unsure it she should be relieved or terrified. Reece closed her eyes. "Of course they are."

  After a brief knock. Linda-gail snick her head in. "Sorry. But we're starting to back up out here."

  " Tell them to hold their water," Joanie ordered, then waited for the door to close again. "You okay to finish out your shift?"

  "Yes. I'd rather have something to do."

  "Then go cook. Meanwhile, if you've got something eating at your belly, screw what Rick Mardson tells you. You can come to me."

  "Thanks. My insides feel like they've been wrung out like a dishrag."

  "I'm not surprised. It should feel better, spitting it out."

  "It does. If I were to ask you—I asked Brody, but he and Sheriff Mardson are friends—so it I asked you, would you tell me what you think of him? As the sheriff."

  "Highly enough to have voted for him both times he's run. I've known him and Debbie a dozen years, since they moved here from Cheyenne."

  "Yes, but…" Reece moistened her lips. "As far as police work."

  "As far as that, he does what needs doing, and doesn't make a fuss about it. You may not think there's much needs doing in a town this size. But I guarantee you, every mother's son, and daughter, in Angel's Fist has a gun. Most more than one. Rick makes sure people use them for hunting and target practice. He keeps things as peaceable as you can exect when this town bulges at the seams with tourists. He does his job."

  It didn't take a hawk eye to see Reece wasn't convinced. "Let me ask you this." Joanie continued. "Anything else you can do about this business but what you did?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then leave it to Rick, and go on back in the kitchen and do your job."

  "All right. I guess you're right. Um, Joanie? I'm making that list, and I just wanted to mention that buying bulbs of garlic would be cheaper and more practical in the long run than buying garlic powder."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  The soup was a hit, so there was no point thinking it would've been better it she'd had everything she wanted at hand.

  That was past—that constant striving for better, for best, for perfection. Hadn't she learned by now it was fine to get by? Nobody here cared if the oregano was fresh or had been sitting in plastic jars for six months.

  Why should she?

  She only had to cook, serve and pick up her check.

  She had no investment here. In fact, she'd probably made a mistake taking the apartment upstairs. It was too close to settling in. She should move back to the hotel.

  Better, she should just toss her things into her car and move on.

  Nothing to keep her here. Nothing to keep her anywhere.

  "Brody's here," Linda-gail called out. "Ticket up, he and the doc are going for the soup."

  "Brody and the doctor," Reece mumbled. "Isn't that perfect?"

  She'd fix them soup, all right. No problem at all.

  With rage just beginning to bubble, she ladled up two bowls, plated them with rolls and butter. And as the bubbling went to steam, she personally carried them out to the booth where the men sat.

  "Here's your soup. And for a side dish, let me make this clear. I don't need or want a medical examination. I'm not sick. There's nothing wrong with my eyesight. I didn't fall asleep on the trail and dream I saw a woman being strangled to death."

  She spoke clearly enough, and with the outrage of her words stinging the air, conversations stopped at the tables near the booth. For a moment, the only sound was Garth Brooks on the juke.

  "Enjoy your lunch," Reece finished and strode back to the kitchen.

  She yanked off her apron, grabbed her jacket. "My shift's over. I'm going upstairs."

  "Go right ahead." Joanie placidly flipped a burger on the grill. "You're on eleven to eight tomorrow."

  "I know my schedule." She walked out the back, round the side, and stomped up the steps.

  Inside the apartment, she went directly to her maps and guides and took out
the ones that applied. She'd find her way to the spot by herself. She didn't need an escort; she didn't need some man tagging along to placate and patronize her.

  She pulled open the map, then watched it flutter to the floor from her limp fingers.

  It was covered with jagged red lines and loops and splotches. The area across from the trail where she'd stood the day before was heavily circled, dozens of times.

  She hadn't done that, she hadn't. Still, she looked at her fingers as if expecting to see red smears on the tips. The map had been pristine only the day before, and now it looked as if it had been folded and refolded again and again, drawn and scribbled on in some crazy code.

  She hadn't done it. She couldn't have done it.

  Breath wheezing, she dashed to the kitchen drawer, dragged it open. There, just where she'd put it, was her red marker. With trembling fingers, she pulled off the top, and saw the tip was dull and flattened.

  But it hadn't been. She'd bought it only a few days before from Mr. Drubber.

  With great care she replaced the top, laid the marker back in the drawer. Closed the drawer. Then she turned, keeping her back to the wall, and scanned the apartment.

  There was nothing out of place. She'd know. She'd know it a book had been moved an inch out of position. But everything was precisely how she'd left it that morning. When she'd locked the door behind her.

  Checked the lock twice. Maybe three times.

  She looked down at the map on the floor again. Had she done that? Sometime during the night, between the bad dreams and the shakes, had she gotten up and taken the marker out of the drawer?

  Then why couldn't she remember

  It didn't matter, she told herself, and walked back to pick up the map. She'd been upset, that was natural. She'd been very upset and she'd gotten the marker to be certain she didn't forget the exact spot where she'd seen the murder.

  It didn't make her crazy.

  She refolded the map. She'd buy a new one, she decided. She'd throw this one away—bury it in Joanie's trash—and buy a new one. It was only a map. Nothing to worry about.

  But when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she stuffed it hastily— guiltily—in her back pocket.

  The knock was brisk and, if she could interpret the sound of knuckles on wood—irritated. It made her certain it was Brody on the other side of the door.

  She took a moment to be sure she was calm enough, then walked to the door to unlock and open it.

  "You ready?"

  "I changed my mind. I'll go by myself."

  "Fine. Do that." But he nudged her back a step, then slammed the door behind him. "I don't know why I bother. I didn't drag Doc downstairs to take a look at you. Why the hell would I? It happens he comes in for lunch a few times a week—which, unless you're blind and stupid, you've seen for yourself by now. It also happens that if we happen to be in there at the same time, we sometimes sit down together. It's called being sociable. Happy now?"

  "No. Not especially."

  "Good because this is bound to get you going again anyway. Rick's made some inquiries—which would be his job, by my description of it—so word's getting around. Doc asked me it I knew anything about it. Whether I'd have told him or not was up for debate until you served the soup. Damn good soup, by the way. You maniac."

  "I was in a psych ward for three months. Being called a maniac doesn't hurt my feelings."

  "Maybe you should've given it a few more weeks."

  She opened her mouth, shut it. Then walked to the daybed, sat. And laughed. Kept laughing as she pulled the tie out of her hair so if fell free down her back. "Why is that comforting? Why the hell is that sort of rude, inappropriate response easier to hear than all the 'you poor things.' the 'there, there, it's all right nows.' Maybe I am a maniac. Maybe I am just out of my mind."

  "Maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself."

  "I thought I had. I guess not. Well-meaning people, people who care about me, lined up doctors or therapists every time I blinked."

  "I'm not well meaning. I don't love you."

  "I'll remember that next time." She set the tie on the little table by the daybed. "Are you still willing to take me out there?"

  "My day is shot to hell anyway."

  "Okay then." She rose to retrieve her pack.

  He stood by the door and watched her check the contents. Zip the pack. Unzip it, check inside again. Unless he missed his guess, when she zipped it shut a second time, she struggled for a moment not to open it yet again.

  When he opened the door, she went out, locked it. Then simply stood for a moment staring at the door.

  "Go ahead. Check the lock. No point worrying and obsessing over it after we leave."

  "Thanks." She checked it, sent him a brief, apologetic look, then checked it again before she made herself start down the stairs.

  "It's an improvement," she told him. "It used to take me twenty minutes to get out of a room. And that was with a Xanax to take the edge off."

  "Better living through chemistry."

  "Not so much. Pills make me… off. More off than I might seem to be to you." Before she got into his car, she checked the backseat. "I didn't care about feeling off for a while, but I'd rather just take the time to make sure about things than take a pill and not care about them."

  She secured her seat belt, tested it. "Don't you care why I was in a psych ward?"

  "Are you going to tell me your life story now?"

  "No. But I figure since I've pulled you in this far, you should know part of it."

  He pulled away from the curve to start the drive around the lake and out of town. "I already know part of it. The sheriff did a background check on you."

  "He—" She broke off, made herself think it through. "I guess that would be a logical step. Nobody knows me, and suddenly I'm yelling murder."

  "Did they ever catch the guy who shot you?"

  "No." Automatically her hand came up to rub absently on her chest. "At least, they think they identified one of them, but he OD'd before they could bring him in and question him. There was more than one. I don't know how many, but more than one. There had to be."

  "Okay."

  "Twelve people. People I worked with or cooked for and cared about. All dead. I should've been dead, too. It's one of the things I think about. Why I lived and they didn't. What's the meaning of that?"

  "Luck of the draw."

  "Maybe. Maybe it's just that cold." Was there comfort in the cold? she wondered. "They didn't get but a couple thousand. Most people use credit cards when they go out to dinner. A couple thousand, and whatever was in wallets, purses. Some jewelry—nothing special. Wine and beer. We kept a good wine cellar. But that wasn't why they died. Nobody would have stopped them, nobody would have put up a fight. Not over some money, some wine, some watches." "Why did they die?"

  She stared at the mountains, so powerful, so wild against the milky blue of the sky. "Because the people who came in wanted it that way. For the fun of it. Thrill kills. I heard the cops say that. I'd worked there since I was sixteen. I grew up in Maneo's."

  "You worked at sixteen. You must've been a wild child."

  "I had my moments. But I wanted to work. I wanted restaurant