Burn Out (20 page)
So she’d worn her best clothing and made drinks for an important meeting that could change her life. All dressed up for whoever it was. And the man had put a bullet through her finery and into her heart.
Life-changing meeting. Certainly was.
Boz Sheppard was still holding something back, but he’d given me a few ideas. I could tackle him again if those didn’t work out.
I flew north, but instead of landing at Tufa Tower I kept going to the northeast, studying my sectional, until I found the Devil’s Gate entrance to Toiyabe National Forest. I spiraled down low and slowed the plane. There was something unusual—although not alarming—about the way the engine was running, and I remembered the plane was due for its hundred-hour inspection next week. Our mechanic would diagnose the problem then.
The entry road ended in a parking area. No cars on a weekday this late in the year. I glimpsed a trail leading through browned grass to the northeast, but it soon disappeared under a stand of scrub pine. I crested them, found a mountain meadow ringed by sunbaked hills, and flew in a circular pattern, hoping to pick up the trail again. No luck. Only a dark wood structure with a tumbledown roof—not one of the buildings indicated on the sectional.
Something hidden out there, I thought. Something that made Cammie Charles leave her lover.
The sun was waning when I drove up to Sara and Ramon’s cabin. Their truck was there; I went to the door and knocked.
Ramon greeted me, his face heavy with sorrow. “Thanks for coming, Sharon,” he said. “Did somebody tell you?”
“Tell me . . . ?”
His shoulders slumped. An old man before his time.
I said, “I came to see how you and Sara are doing,” I said.
“That’s more than anybody else has.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re scattering Miri’s ashes on the lake in half an hour. I put out the word in town, said folks should come here first for a drink or some coffee. You’re the only one.”
Sad. So sad. “Well, I’d love some of that coffee.”
We went into the living room, where a fire blazed on the stone hearth. Sara came out of the kitchen, moving slowly; the past weeks had aged her, too. She hugged me and then sagged onto the sofa.
“Have you heard from Amy?” I asked.
“No. I doubt we’ll ever see that girl again.”
“Don’t give up; I’m still looking for her.”
“Thank you, Sharon.” Sara put her hand on my arm.
Ramon looked at his watch. “You really want coffee, Sharon?”
“Not if you’d rather get going. Whose boat are you using?”
“Bob Zelda’s. We’re casting off from his pier.”
“Then let’s go.”
Ramon and Sara exchanged surprised looks. He said, “You want to go with us?”
“I’d like to, unless you’d rather keep it private.”
“No, no . . .” He looked away. “But why?”
Because I don’t want you and Sara to be alone out there.
“I didn’t know Miri, but I feel as if I had. I want to pay my respects.”
Because I was the one who found her and left her body all alone till the police could come. Because I owe her.
Tufa Lake: deserted, its waters catching faint fire from the sun disappearing behind the mountains. Silent, too, once Ramon shut off the outboard motor. The birds were tucked into their nests, or had migrated along the Pacific Flyway to their winter homes. Wavelets rocked the boat gently as the three of us sat there, not speaking.
After a moment Ramon cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to do this.”
I thought of when my brother John and I had scattered my father’s and grandfather’s ashes from a rented plane—my grandfather’s also, because our family has an unfortunate tendency to avoid dealing with its dead. I didn’t remember if John and I had said any words.
Sara said, “Tell her what’s in your heart, Ramon.”
“Do I have to say it out loud?”
“No.”
He bowed his head for a few moments. Then he took the box that lay on the seat next to him, opened it, and emptied it downwind.
I thought I heard him say, “Goodbye, Miri,” before he started the motor and headed for shore.
I was out of bed before dawn and in the Rover by first light, heading for the Devil’s Gate entrance to Toiyabe National Forest.
I’d spoken with Lark the night before, reporting on my interview with Boz Sheppard, and telling her the scenario of Cammie Charles and Rich Three Wings’ camping trip. Lark had allowed as it wasn’t enough of a lead for their overworked department to pursue, but said I was welcome to go ahead myself. So here I was, off on another fool’s errand.
The Toiyabe is a huge forest with eight designated wilderness areas, some of whose ranger stations are as far as five hundred miles apart. It stretches over the Great Basin from the Sierra Nevada to the Wasatch Mountains of Utah, and encompasses snowcapped peaks, prairies, and granite canyons. The changes in elevation are sudden and extreme, making for a tremendous variation in climate, wildlife, and scenery. The Bridgeport Ranger District, where I was headed, is one of the largest in the forest—an area formed by millions of years of glacial, earthquake, and volcanic activity.
I easily found the turnoff I’d seen from the air and drove to the parking area. No cars today, either. I got out of the Rover, shouldered my backpack. The pack was light—a couple of bottles of water, a sandwich and an apple, and a pair of binoculars. After a moment’s hesitation I reached back into the vehicle and took out Hy’s .45, which I’d stowed in the side pocket.
Rattlesnakes, I’d told myself at the time.
Snakes of any kind—particularly human, I told myself now.
I tucked the gun into my belt and set off toward the trailhead.
Cold under the trees, piney smell strong. The trail was good, frequently traveled. It was quiet here too: only an occasional birdcall. I looked for evidence of where Cammie and Rich might’ve camped, but found nothing.
Finally I reached the brushy meadow. At its far side was the tumbledown log building that I’d seen from the air and more trees, beyond which the sand-colored hills rose into the clear blue sky. I crossed the meadow toward the building—once a barn, from its appearance. Probably a leftover from the days when this was private ranchland. The roof had partially caved in, but the near wall was intact. I slipped up to it, feeling foolishly dramatic in the bright light of day, and peered around the side. Boards were missing there; I moved along and did some more peering through the openings.
Nothing but the play of light and shadow inside an empty structure.
I kept going to the other side. Most of the wall there was gone, ravaged by time and the elements. Cautiously I stepped inside.
And stopped, sniffing the air. Something had burned here recently. When I moved forward I located the source of the odor—a doused campfire near the far, mostly intact, wall.
Rich and Cammie had camped at a favorite place. What better than a falling-down barn? Shelter from the night cold, a cozy nest at this time of year. The park service had probably left the barn to collapse rather than demolishing it, not thinking it could serve as a haven for unauthorized campers—and be a potential fire hazard.
Okay, then, whatever Rich and Cammie had found here must be reasonably close by. I headed for the stand of trees along the hill’s base.
Cold. Dark. You wouldn’t think the pines could grow so thickly at this elevation. I batted back branches, avoided exposed tree roots. No trail, just acres of forest.
Would Rich and Cammie have come here? I doubted it. There was no sign of human visitation. I turned back, went the wrong way, and came to a place where a large section of branches had been broken away, so large that through it I could see the meadow and the barn. There were tire tracks in the damp earth here. I followed them, ducking under the fractured branches.
There it was: an SUV, tucked way back under the trees. Filthy white, with a trailer hitch. As I moved forward, I identified it as a Subaru Forester. It was dusty and stained with pine sap and the right rear tire had gone flat. Branches cascaded over its roof.
Christ, not another body?
I peered through the Forester’s dirty rear window.
Empty.
I circled it, peering through the side windows.
Empty.
The passenger door was unlocked. I leaned inside it to open the glove box. Maps and some utensil-and-napkin packages from Kentucky Fried Chicken. A pencil flashlight and a bottle opener. Small pack of Kleenex. And, under it all, the Subaru’s registration and insurance card.
Herbert Smith, Vernon, California.
I was standing outside the convenience store by the highway when Lark pulled up in her cruiser. She waved at me and yelled, “Come on, McCone!”
I’d driven to the store where Cammie and Rich had stopped for beer on Friday, to use the pay phone because my cell wouldn’t work in the area. While I waited for Lark I asked the clerk if he remembered the couple. Yes, he said, they’d come in around three. The woman had made a call, the man had bought beer and beef jerky.
Now I slid into the cruiser next to Lark. “Are your technicians on the way?” I asked her.
“By chopper. You got some kind of divining rod?”
“What?”
“You know, like what they used to use to find water—only
you
find dead people.”
“There was no dead person in the SUV.”
“You want to bet that we won’t find one within a few hundred yards of it?”
“I’m not a betting woman.”
“You’re lucky. I am.”
I sat in the cruiser after I’d shown Lark where the Forester was hidden and watched her technicians arrive by a sheriff’s department helicopter. Then I got out and went to the far side of the barn, where I sat on the dusty ground and ate my sandwich and apple and sipped bottled water. Contemplated the mountains and the pines.
I was feeling at peace again, taking pleasure in the natural world in spite of my discovery in the forest. I’d taken steps toward my future; I’d taken steps to find out what had happened here, however grim. I thought of Amy. A certainty stole over me: I would find her, dead or alive, and set Ramon’s and Sara’s minds at rest.
About an hour later, Lark found me there. She sat on the ground too, took out her own water bottle, and drank deeply.
“My people’ve gone over the vehicle and the surrounding scene. We’ll have it towed to the garage so the techs can go over it again. I’ve got deputies on the way to conduct a search.”
I looked at my watch, was surprised to find it was only a little after two. Still, the light couldn’t be good under those tall trees, and dusk would fall early in the shadow of the mountains.
Lark sensed what I was thinking. “They’ll search as long as they can, then come back tomorrow.”
I nodded. “You have time to run me back to the convenience store? There’s nothing more I can do for you here.”
“Sure.” She stood up, dusted off her pants. “Just let me tell them I’m going.”
On the drive back to Vernon, I thought some more about Amy.
Waiflike woman, standing outside the Food Mart in the dark, pulling her flimsy clothing around her against the cold. Big eyes, and somehow I’d sensed her fear.
Tossed-away woman by the roadside, too proud to accept my offer of help.
The derelict cabin at Willow Grove Lodge, her meager possessions scattered around. The blood.
Dana Ivins had been a mentor to her. Bud Smith had tutored her. But somehow she’d fallen through the cracks.
The miles slipped by and soon I was in Vernon. I pulled to the curb across from the Food Mart, intending to walk over there and buy something microwavable for dinner. Sat there instead, my hands on the wheel, listening to what my subconscious had been trying to tell me while I sat on the dusty ground in the mountain meadow. Recalled the phone conversation Bud Smith had been finishing in his office when I went to see him. And got the message—loud and clear.
I’d have to move fast, before the sheriff’s deputies found Smith’s body.
Aspen Lane was deep in shadow when I reached it. I thought I saw a light shining faintly through the trees from Bud Smith’s double-wide, but when I turned into his driveway all was dark. I parked the Rover next to the boat that was up on davits and got out, my feet crunching loudly on the gravel. No other vehicle in the yard, yet I could smell the aroma of cooking food coming from inside the mobile home.
None of which was unexpected.
I moved up onto the deck under the awning. Knocked.
No response, but there was a soft scurrying noise. I sensed someone on the other side of the door, breathing shallowly.
I knocked again. Called out, “Amy, open up!”
The breathing stopped, then resumed at an accelerated pace. I tried the doorknob. Locked.
“Amy, I’m a friend of your Uncle Ramon. Please open the door.”
Gasping now; she’d begun hyperventilating.
“Please, Amy!”
A click as the lock turned. When I pushed inside, I found her crouching on the floor to the right of the door, her arms clasped across her breasts. Her shoulders heaved; she looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Stay there.”
In the kitchen I found a drawer full of folded grocery bags, took the smallest back to her. “Breathe into this.”
She stared, not understanding. I put the bag over her nose and mouth and repeated, “Breathe.”
The bag helped her get herself under control. Then she was able to stand, lean on me as I led her to one of the chairs.
“I know you. . . .”
“Yes. I saw you outside the Food Mart, and then again on the highway when Boz Sheppard threw you out of his truck.”
“. . . You asked me if you could help.”
“And you walked away.”
Silence.
“I don’t think you want to walk away again.” Dusk was gathering outside, so I turned on a lamp. Amy was pale and much too thin; I could see her ribs outlined by her tube top.
A burning smell from the kitchen. I went in there and took a saucepan I hadn’t noticed before from the stove. Turned a control knob off. Ravioli, courtesy of Chef Boyardee. The empty can sat on the counter.
