Nest in the Ashes (12 page)

Funerals are the living’s
tribute to the dead. Lark had attended three—Will Tanager’s, for Miriam; Esther Mills’s, because she had to; and this one, because Eric had asked her to come. She’d hated them all.

“Are you okay?” Eric asked, ushering her up the front walk of the Devlin’s home.

“Fine.” In truth, she was more worried about him. He looked uncomfortable in his black suit, and, like a kid in a school uniform, he kept tugging at the collar of his starched white shirt.

The morning had been hard on him. Jackie had asked him to give the eulogy, then sit with her at the cemetery. The strain had taken its toll. Sorrow cut lines deep into his face, making him look drawn and tired. Lark wished they could just go home. Instead, they trailed behind the steady stream of people that poured through the front door of the Devlin’s house. Stepping across the threshold, Lark braced herself for another exchange of murmured condolences.

Jackie greeted them in the hall. Dressed Jackie Kennedy-style in a tailored black suit with a veiled pill-box hat, she looked the part of the grieving widow. Her pale blond hair cupped her jaw, softening the lines of her chin. Clear, bright eyes peered out through the black gauze of her designer hat.

“Lark, I’m so glad you came.” Jackie kissed air at the side of Lark’s cheeks, then latched onto Eric’s arm and pulled him toward the kitchen. “You don’t mind if I borrow him for a minute, do you?”

“Of course… not,” Lark said. Was that a smile she detected out of Eric?

“I’ll come find you in a minute,” he said.

“Take your time.” Lark waved him off, then wandered toward the living room. Everywhere in the house, flower arrangements in riotous colors edged out the people. Tiger lilies from Wayne’s sister Beatrice guarded the doorway; irises from a cousin in Louisiana graced the hall; a vase full of chrysanthemums adorned a pedestal near the stairs. The only live plant—condolences from the Rocky Mountain National Park Service staff—drooped in a corner near the door like an errant child in time-out.

A large number of NPS employees had shown up for the funeral, but neither Nora Frank nor Pacey Trent were in attendance. Understandable, considering their stance on Wayne’s culpability for the Eagle Cliff Fire. Showing up would have been in poor taste.

Cards tagged the flower displays, and Lark took her time browsing the messages.

“So sorry for your loss, Gil Arquette, Esq.”

“He will be missed, The Friends of the Library.”

“In Fond Remembrance, Dr. Semper.”

The largest arrangement was a mixture of greens and daisies marked, “I love you, Daddy.”

Tears flooded Lark’s eyes.

“Need a Kleenex?”

Lark reached for a tissue and looked up to see Tamara Devlin holding the box.

“Thanks,” Lark said.

“No problem.” Tamara shrugged a thin shoulder. Barely eighteen, she had the same petite frame and pale blond hair as her mother. She wore no makeup, and her red-rimmed eyes made it clear she’d been crying. At the moment, however, she appeared very calm.

“How are you holding up?” Lark asked.

“Fine.” Tamara dropped the tissue box on the coffee table. Plopping down on the white leather couch, she crossed bare legs, her skin sallow against the hem of her black skirt. “The drugs help. I just wish all these people would get out of our house.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

Lark wondered whether the drugs Tamara referred to had been prescribed or were more of the garden variety. “These things don’t usually last very long,” she offered. “People come to pay their respects, then they leave.”

“People come to eat, drink, and tell stupid jokes,” Tamara said. She folded her arms across her chest and wet the inside of her upper lip with her tongue.

Cotton mouth
.

“The worst is the stupid media.” Tamara reached for a can of Coke sitting on the end table. “That Linda Verbiscar person is a viper. Thank God Mama finally had Sheriff Garcia throw her out.”

Lark grinned. “I would have paid to see that.”

“The witch made a real scene. Man, was she hot.” Tamara rolled her eyes. “They ought to run a tape of that on the five o’clock news.” She took a swig of the Coke, then banged down the can, sloshing sticky liquid across a
Martha Stewart Living
magazine. “Crap, look who’s here.”

Lark followed the direction of Tamara’s gaze and spotted Gene Paxton and Forest Nettleman entering the room.

Before Lark realized what was happening, Tamara stood up and pointed a bony finger at the two men. “You,” she intoned in a frosty voice. “Both of you. Get out.”

The room fell silent.

“Don’t pretend you don’t hear me. You know I’m talking to you,” Tamara shrieked. “I want you to leave. Get out. Now!”

Someone coughed.

Lark placed a hand on Tamara’s arm. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“No.”

“Tamara!” Jackie Devlin stepped into the doorway behind the two men. She waggled a finger at her daughter, pasting on a thin smile. “Where are your manners, young lady? These two gentlemen came here to pay their respects to your father. Surely you can show some courtesy.”

“Gentlemen?” Tamara snorted. “How about bloodsuckers? Have you forgotten about the lawsuits already, Mother? But then, maybe they don’t matter to you. It’s not your college tuition being siphoned away.” Tamara shrugged off Lark’s hand. “All I can say is, maybe you’re willing to hang out with scum, but I’m not.”

“Tamara, please. Stop making a scene.” Jackie’s tone forbade defiance. Tamara glared at her mother, then flounced out of the room.

“Honey, please.” Jackie reached for her daughter, but Tamara brushed past and disappeared into the hall. Jackie pursed her lips, smoothed her dress, then said, “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s had a difficult time.”

Murmurs of understanding filtered through the room.

“You’re all so kind,” Jackie said, wringing her hands.

Suddenly Eric appeared, resting his hand on the widow’s shoulders. “Did I miss something?”

Jackie shook her head.

“Well then, dinner is served.”

The mourners closed ranks and filed toward the dining room. Lark hung back and joined the other EPOCH members, who brought up the rear.

Dorothy stood behind Lark, making a
tsking
sound and shaking her head. “Can you believe the way Tamara behaved? If that were my daughter—”

“Well she’s not,” interrupted Cecilia, glaring at her sister. “For Heaven’s sake, Dottie, the girl just lost her father.”

“Still, she had no business yelling at Forest.”

Lark inched along, watching Forest Nettleman work the room, the sisters bickering absently in the background. He was always the politician, thought Lark. Always on, pumping a hand here, clapping a shoulder there. Too bad there weren’t any babies around to kiss.

Gene Paxton, on the other hand, hung back, skirting the edges of the room. He flirted with the corners, like a wallflower afraid of being noticed. Was he embarrassed to be there or simply trying to maintain a low profile?

It was odd the two men had come. Odder still that Jackie didn’t seem to mind.

In front of Lark, the buffet table stretched the length of the dining room, sagging under the weight of the potluck. Platters heaped with ham, turkey, and roast beef ladened one end, followed by bowls filled with rolls and a variety of salads. Casserole dishes heaped with all sorts of pasta and potatoes came next, then beverages. Against the far wall, a sidebar was buried under a mound of high-calorie desserts.

Lark groaned in sympathy with the furniture, then did her part to relieve their burden. Picking up a paper plate, some plastic flatware, and a napkin, she generously sampled the offerings.

Somewhere between the bean salad and marshmallowed fruit, Eric caught up to her in line.

“There you are” he said, his hands cupping her waist, his deep voice stirring a flood of warm pleasure that welled up from her belly.

“Hey, no butting,” Gertie Tanager said.

“Sshhh!” Cecilia said, poking Gertie in the ribs. “Can’t you see he wants to be beside Lark?”

Eric ducked his head, keeping his voice low. “I’ve got some good news.”

“What?” Lark asked, heaping a spoonful of mustard potato salad onto her plate. His breath stirred her hair, making her shiver.

“Nora just paged me. They found Wayne’s missing pickup.”

Lark’s head snapped up, bashing Eric in the nose.

“Oh dear,” Cecilia said. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Eric nodded, covering his nose with a napkin. A spot of red blood seeped between his fingers.

“I’m sorry. And you’re not all right. You’re bleeding,” cried Lark, mortified. Grace was not her middle name, hence two broken ankles in one year and now Eric’s nose.

“Here, let me help,” Dorothy said, reaching into her glass of lemonade and pulling out an ice cube. “Tip your head back.”

Eric blocked Dorothy’s hand. “I’m fine.”

Everyone around the table stared.

“Hold on,” said Gertie, bubbling with excitement. “Back up the truck. Didn’t he just say they found the missing boys?”

“No,” Dorothy said. “He said they found Wayne’s pickup. There’s a difference.”

“They found Wayne’s truck? Where?” demanded Gene Paxton.

“They found the truck,” someone whispered, spreading the word.

Lark could tell by Eric’s expression that he didn’t like being grilled.

“Okay, everyone,” she said. “Back off. Can’t you see the man’s bleeding?” Setting down her plate, she steered him out of the dining room. Several people followed.

“Give him some space,” she ordered.

Lark pushed Eric ahead of her, then into the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall. Slamming the door in Gertie’s face, she turned on the cold water. “Here, let me help. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine.” Eric tipped his head back and shoved a wad of toilet paper into his nose.

The sight of blood made Lark feel queasy, and she moved away from the sink, sitting down on the closed toilet seat. “So, where’d they find it?”

Eric removed the bloody wad of toilet paper from his nose and pitched it into the trash. “Parked in a student lot on the Colorado State University campus,” he said, craning his neck in order to check the bleeding in the mirror. “Nora didn’t give me any more details, but she wants me to ride down to Fort Collins with Vic and drive it back.”

“When?”

“Now.” Eric splashed water on his face, then used the hand towel to dry off. “I told him to pick me up at home in half an hour.”

“Do they think those boys took it?”

“Vic didn’t say, and neither did Nora.” Eric rehung the hand towel on the holder and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Do you think you could get a ride back to the Drummond? I need to get home and change, and make a phone call before I leave.”

“You can drop me off.” Lark hoped she didn’t sound too eager. The truth was, she wanted out of there.

“But you haven’t eaten yet.”

“That’s okay. I’ll grab something at home.”

“Okay, then.” He opened the door and gestured for her to go first, but they were blocked by a mob standing outside the door.

Lark grimaced. Since when was a bloody nose or two people in a bathroom a spectator sport?

“They’re saying the sheriff found Wayne’s truck,” Jackie said. “Is it true?”

Lark slipped to the side. Eric’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he ran his hand through his hair. “They found it.”

Jackie’s face crumpled. For a moment, Lark thought she would cry, but no tears came.

“Nobody knows anything yet,” Eric said. “I’m going with Vic to pick it up. I’ll let you know what we find out.” He reached for Lark’s hand, but Jackie stepped between them.

“Do you promise you’ll call?” she said.

Eric gripped her shoulders. “I promise. Now, do me a favor?”

Jackie nodded.

“Try not to worry.”

Linda Verbiscar had been
ejected from the funeral reception, but she hadn’t gone home.

Eric dialed her room number for the third time and listened to the phone ring. He’d left her an earlier message, apologizing for not being able to be there as planned and promising to stop by on his way up from Fort Collins. But he wanted to talk to her personally. He wanted some reassurance that she wouldn’t deny him access to the film.

The crunch of tires on gravel signaled Vic Garcia’s arrival, and Eric hung up the phone.

Vic laid on the horn. “Hey there, son,” he shouted. “Are you ready to go?”

Eric nodded, wondering if Vic called men “son” like some waitresses called people “honey.” Eric would lay odds the tag wasn’t exclusive to him.

Jumping into the passenger seat, he belted himself in and took stock of his surroundings. There was no doubt that the orange and black cruiser had seen better days. A 1996 Chevy Caprice, the cloth seats were worn, the carpets matted and thin. A vintage radio spewed country western music from the console while a state band radio hissed accompaniment from the center floorboard.

Eric gestured toward a cracked shotgun holder on the floor, and Vic answered before the question was formed.

“I quit carrying it about a year ago,” he announced. He didn’t expound, and Eric decided not to probe.

Traffic was stop-and-go through town, signaling the onset of summer. It was a relief when Vic veered left onto U.S. 34, leaving behind the steady stream of cars headed for Denver on U.S. 36.

Eric watched for the Inn on 34. Verbiscar had said it was on the left on Big Thompson Avenue. Sure enough, within a quarter mile, he spotted the two-story motel. It clung to a flat piece of ground high above the river, horseshoed around a square pool and surrounded on all sides by miniature cabins. Two cars were parked in front of the motel office, but there were no cars in front of any of the cabins and no people in sight. His hunch had been right. She hadn’t gone home.

“Don’t see her?” Vic asked.

Eric tilted his head. “How did you know I was looking for someone?”

“Just a hunch.” Vic goosed the 5.7-liter V-8 engine, and the Caprice hurtled into the canyon. “If you want my guess, she got wind of the truck’s recovery. Hell, she’s probably halfway to Fort Collins by now.”

If he was right, she would beat them there, no matter how fast Vic chose to drive.

Eric glanced out at the canyon walls rising on either side of them. For the next thirty miles, there was only enough room between them for a river, a two-lane highway, and an occasional building. He felt squeezed in.

“Who do you think took the truck?” he asked.

“It was the boys,” Vic admitted. Regret hollowed his voice. “The policeman who called in the vehicle report said there appeared to be two backpacks on the floor of the cab, along with an opened box of fusees.”

That puzzled Eric. “Why leave their stuff behind?”

“Good question. Unless they’re planning to come back.”

Eric reached for the dashboard. “Why not stake it out, then? Catch the boys?”

Vic hands tightened on the wheel. “We did. The Fort Collins police officer kept an eye out until Deputy Brill was in place, but your boss kiboshed the whole thing. She wants the vehicle recovered. I tried convincing her, but she insists. At this point, my hands are tied.”

Eric wondered why Nora wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe she was afraid catching the boys would cast doubt on the NPS hard line accusing Wayne of starting the fire. Considering her desire to have Wayne’s job that would make sense. Her aspirations for permanent placement in his vacated position might be thwarted if it was discovered she’d helped fabricate Wayne’s culpability in the Eagle Cliff Fire.

“Did you ever learn anything about the missing boys?” Eric asked.

Vic tugged his seat belt tighter and settled himself deeper in his seat. “A little. I was right about Suett.”

“Which one was he?” Eric tried remembering the photograph of the two boys. One was fair-haired, the other dark. If Eric remembered correctly, the blond was the scruffier looking of the two.

“Suett’s the dark-haired one. Your clean-cut, all-American, typical kid-next-door-who-cuts-the-grass type.”

“He’s the one you pegged as trouble,” recalled Eric.

“That’s the one.” Vic swung the car around a sharp corner, and Eric braced himself against the door.

“Tres looks more like a felon,” continued Vic. “But he’s the quiet type. A follower. Suett’s the one with problems. Big problems.” Vic turned the car in the other direction. “He’s a fire starter.”

“An arsonist?” Eric shifted his weight, watching the road and anticipating the curves.

“Yep.”

Their conversation stopped while Vic negotiated a series of hairpin turns. The car hugged the turns, snaking through the canyon carved by years of river wash. On all sides, steep slopes jutted toward the sky in craggy ridges, and high on the right, a herd of bighorn sheep graced the rock outcroppings.

The road straightened out, and the canyon widened. A few houses sprung up along the river’s edge, and Eric reinitiated the conversation. “Is that why Suett was at the Youth Camp? Because he’d been caught lighting fires?”

“He was there on the recommendation of a police officer. Every kid there has to be referred. Usually, and definitely in Suett’s case, it is a last-ditch effort to save the kid. The boy has quite a history.” Vic shook his head and downshifted the Caprice as the canyon narrowed again.

“At age five,” Vic said, “he was caught torturing the family cat, a long-haired Persian named Prudence. He’d set it on fire with his dad’s butane lighter.”

Eric scowled. “Did the cat live?”

Vic shrugged. “I don’t know, but six years later, a week before Christmas, the family home burned down. Seems he and his cousin Leon were playing with matches. They set the tree on fire. Leon suffered third-degree burns over most of his body. He died two weeks later.”

Eric calculated the years. “Suett was eleven at the time.”

“Right. And he’s fifteen now.” Vic’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “Leon, the cousin, lived to be nine.”

“Anything else happen?”

“Not that anyone knows of. Suett’s been in and out of juvenile detention and foster care ever since. He’s sort of an Eddie Haskell-type, a real charmer. From the report, I gathered he’d just recently moved back into his parents’home in Castle Pines.”

Eric whistled. “That’s a pretty upscale community.”

“Nobody ever claimed crime rested solely with the underprivileged class,” snapped Vic.

Eric figured he deserved the rebuff, if only because the comment sounded classist. “I didn’t mean—”

His statement was cut short as Vic yanked the steering wheel and the car lurched toward the river.

A huge rock lay in the middle of the road, forcing Vic to swerve the car hard to the right. The tires squealed on the asphalt, and the front bumper clipped the boulder, sending the car into a slide.

Vic overcorrected, and the tires spun on the soft shoulder, causing gravel to skitter onto the road.

Eric felt the car sway from side to side. The motion reminded him of schussing through a slalom course, the shifting of weight from one side to the other. A symphony of rhythm, until you caught an edge.

The tires finally grabbed on the road, and the rocking motion ceased. Vic braked, and the car slowed. Eric loosened his grip on the chicken bar. “Just a whiffle,” he said. “It could have been worse.”

“How so?” Vic asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We could have crashed.”

They drove in silence after that, each watching the rock walls for signs of rockfall. It was an annual problem in most of the Colorado canyons. During the winter months, snow crept into cracks in the granite and froze, fracturing the rock faces. During spring thaw, the rocks broke free and tumbled into the depths of the canyons.

In summer, the monsoons brought the added danger of flooding. Up and down the road in Big Thompson Canyon, signs warned drivers to abandon their vehicles in case of flash floods and climb to safety. Good advice, offered for good reason. In 1976, a Big Thompson Canyon flood had killed 139 people and injured scores more when a late-afternoon rain shower had dumped 8 inches of rain at the headwaters of the Big Thompson River. Unable to absorb the water, the canyon walls funneled the rain into the river, causing the Big Thompson River to overflow its banks and sending a wall of water tumbling toward Loveland. In all, 361 homes and 52 businesses were destroyed in its wake.

Eric glanced up at the sky. Sunshine warmed the canyon rims, and the sun’s rays reached down to kiss the canyon floor. There wasn’t a cloud in sight.

“You know, for what it’s worth, both of those boys came from money backgrounds,” Vic said, picking up the thread of conversation where they’d left off. “Their parents doled out the cash, then loosed the boys on the world. Hell, it’s no wonder they got into trouble.”

“Did they know each other before camp?”

Vic looked surprised and stroked his mustache. “Not that I know of. They were sponsored by different officers. A Cherry Creek officer recommended Tres. He thought it would do the boy good to get out of the city. Douglas County referred Suett. According to the sheriff’s department, the boy had been keeping his nose clean and just needed a break. Looks like he may get one.”

Is he referring to Nora’s edict that we recover the truck? wondered Eric. But that didn’t make sense. The backpacks inside the vehicle were enough to incriminate the boys.

A few minutes later, they squeezed through “the narrows,” a spot where the canyon walls closed in, rising sheer on both sides. Then the mouth of the canyon opened, spitting them onto the plains.

Fields of blue and sideoats grama, little bluestem, prairie sandreed, and needle-and-thread grasses spread in all directions. Before long, split-rail fences sectioned the land into small acreages. It was a landscape of short prairie grasses—home to the prairie chicken, mountain plover, long-billed curlew, burrowing owl, lark bunting, and Cassin’s sparrow.

To the north, Eric spotted a prairie falcon hunting at the base of a small butte. Above him a gull wheeled in the air. Near the road, a horned lark sunbathed on a wire.

At the junction of U.S. 287, Vic turned left. Ten minutes later, they crossed into Fort Collins, where U.S. 287 became known as College Avenue.

“Okay, start watching for the campus,” ordered Vic. “We need to find Pitkin Street.”

Eric picked out the campus road just past the visitor center.

Vic turned, and they headed west. “Now keep your eye out for Ellis Hall.”

The CSU campus looked like any of a dozen other universities Eric had seen. Nondescript brick buildings were plopped down in the middle of wide-open lawns, surrounded by sidewalks teeming with young men and women on foot or on bikes. Music blared. Laughter rang out.

Eric had taken an extension class at CSU once. Founded as an agricultural school in 1870, it was considered to be one of the top “aggie” schools in the country. The signs on the buildings reflected the school’s history. They passed the Greenhouse, the Animal Sciences Building, and the Stock Judging Pavilion before a barricade in front of the Anatomy Building blocked the roadway, forcing Vic to turn around.

“Which way now?” Vic muttered after they’d driven back to the first cross street. “Left or right?”

Eric shrugged. “Right.” It was a guess, based on the layout of the buildings.

Vic turned south onto East Drive, then west again at Lake Street. He paralleled Pitkin for several blocks, then turned back, ending up at a crossroads again in front of Newsom Hall.

“We’re looking for Ellis,” Vic said.

“Try over there.” Eric pointed to a six-story building a block down on the left. Sure enough, it was Ellis Hall. Constructed of metal and glass, the sprawling dorm sat in the middle of a huge grassy area dotted sparsely with trees and surrounded by parking areas on three sides.

“Okay, Brill said the truck was parked in the resident parking lot along Ellis Drive.”

Even squinting into the setting sun, they easily spotted the NPS truck. Painted pale green with a large white circle on the side, it stood out in the sea of black SUVs and small, brightly colored compacts.

Deputy Brill’s cruiser was parked kitty-corner across the street from where the NPS truck sat. Vic pulled the Caprice in beside him, rolled down the window on the passenger side, and shut down the car.

“Not much cover,” Vic said.

Eric glanced at the wind row of scrawny fir trees. “Any sign of the boys?” he asked.

Deputy Brill shot upright and inclined his head toward the parking lot. “There’s your answer now.”

Eric followed his nod. A hundred yards away, Justin Suett slunk between a cherry-red Volvo and a white Honda, heading for the NPS truck.

The sun had dropped low on the horizon, and it was hard to see peering into the sun. Eric shaded his eyes and squinted. “Where’s the other one?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“Beats me,” Brill said.

“Have you seen him today?” Vic asked.

“No, sir. Not even a trace,” answered Brill. He took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “Fact is, this is the first sign of life all day.”

“Damn,” Vic said. “Where is he?”

“He could be inside,” suggested Eric. The sun had dropped low on the horizon, its rays bouncing off the windows of Ellis Hall.

“Yeah, with two hundred others,” Brill said. “Wait a minute! Suett’s not just getting something, he’s fired up the truck.”

Vic cranked the starter on the cruiser. “Brill, switch your state band to channel eighteen. Suett won’t know to monitor. He’d be damn lucky to hear us talk.”

“Check,” Brill said.”

“I’m going to tail the truck. Once we leave the parking lot, head inside and see if you can figure out where our friend was holed up.”

“Double check.”

Vic put the cruiser in reverse and eased out of the parking space. Stroking his mustache, he kept his eyes on the target. “What do you say we follow Mr. Suett, just to see what he’s up to?”

Excitement energized Eric, and he strained forward against the shoulder belt. “For the record, I’ll guarantee Nora won’t like it.”