Over the years Anna had broken enough bad news to park visitors that she knew the stages of acceptance. Predictable as sunrise, she saw them flow across Les and Rory's faces. First was blank stupidity, the brain refusing to understand, then the dawning of fear as a tide of it rushed in from the darkest oceans of the mind. Third was either disintegration or coping. Both Rory and Les coped, but before the fear had been stemmed by courage-or hope- there came a moment that didn't fit the pattern.
Shock had momentarily rendered their faces free of artifice, and the look they exchanged had been naked emotion. What emotion, was the question that troubled Anna. She could make a few assumptions as to what it was not. But she had to take them separately, father and son, because though the look had come from both at the same instant, there was no conspiracy in it and no empathy, merely two different unmasked thoughts broadcast simultaneously.
Les had not turned to his son with love or with concern. Near as she could tell, he had not been seeking to give or receive comfort. The closest she could get to deciphering the sudden dark flash of energy she'd witnessed was a flare of horror turning to shame. The vision was fleeting, quickly reverting to the blank of denial. Then Les appeared, if possible, even more downtrodden and ineffectual than he had before.
Rory's glance had been even more puzzling. Maybe anger. Maybe respect. Anna was just guessing. Reading faces was an art, not a science. Sometimes the muse was on one's side. Sometimes she merely toyed with one.
Given that the first suspect in a murder case is invariably the spouse of the victim, Anna found the exchange noteworthy. It was hard to picture self-effacing Mr. Van Slyke creeping out of his tent in the dead of night- presuming the missus had been offed in the traditional dead of night-in his brand-spanking-new boots, following or luring his wife several miles from camp, then killing her and mutilating her face. Facial mutilation usually bespoke great rage, great hatred toward the victim in particular or, less often, the gender in general. Only close friends and near enemies cared enough to rip one's face off. Lester Van Slyke didn't seem capable of that kind of emotion, but looks were consistently deceiving.
In the midst of these ephemeral and possibly imaginary weirdnesses-Anna knew she was quite capable of seeing ne'er-do-wells where only solid citizens existed-was a very real anomaly. Lester Van Slyke's wife had been missing in the wilderness between twenty-four and thirty-six hours before he bothered to report it. That in and of itself was highly irregular.
If she was right about the horror and shame on Lester's face, could it be horror at what he'd done? Or horror at what he thought Rory might have done?
Rory. Anna let her mind float over the boy for a while. He was an enigma. People of his age were such cauldrons of emotion, hormones, burgeoning pride and inherited misinformation that assigning motives to their actions was nearly impossible. Half the time even they did not knew why they did a thing. From what little she knew of Rory, he was devoted to-or at least greatly admired-his stepmother. And he'd not gone out in the night intentionally; he'd fled half-dressed from the predations of a bear.
Half-dressed; something about that bothered Anna. She stretched in the sun like a lazy cat and opened her mind to pictures of Rory in dishabille.
The mysteriously missing shirt he avoided discussing was odd but not earth-shaking. That was not the pea under Anna's metaphorical mattresses that bruised her thoughts each time they turned over. The sweatpants, the slippers, the sunburn, the cut foot: these things were as they should be. Anna stopped making lists and merely let the chips of memory run movies in her head: Rory talking, sitting on his stump, laughing, drinking water.
Drinking water; he'd been drinking out of his fancy filter-it-anywhere, special-order, latest-gimmick-on-the-market water bottle.
Why would someone with diarrhea, rushing into the wood to relieve himself, bring along his water bottle? According to Rory, after the bear had come on the scene, such had been his haste to "go for help" that he'd pulled up his trousers and dashed off without slowing down enough even to take his flashlight.
The water bottle could indicate nothing. Rory might have been dehydrated and thought he'd be in the woods with his loose bowels long enough he'd need a drink. Reflex might have dictated he snatch up the bottle when he fled the bear. Or it could indicate that before he left his tent, he knew he had someplace to go a long enough hike away that he'd need to bring along water. With the grim bulk of suspicion squeezing out generous thought, it came to Anna that Rory might not have wished to discuss his missing shirt because he'd purposely left it behind, hidden it so no one would see that it was covered in blood.
"Yuck," Anna said aloud and sat up. The sun had moved two fingers toward the west. There were several hours of daylight left but they'd want to start for their camp soon. Buck, bless his long-legged energy, had volunteered to walk the six miles round-trip to Anna and Joan's camp on the far side of the mountain top and bring back boots and socks for Rory.
Despite the very real possibility that the dead woman was his stepmother, Rory had refused to ride down in the helicopter with his dad and Harry Ruick. There'd been no small effort to convince him. Anna had bowed out and left it to Ruick. Again Rory had persevered and they'd flown without him.
Given her recent unsavory thoughts about the lad, Anna was sorry Ruick hadn't been a little more heavy-handed.
Having spoiled her solitude by inviting thoughts of others there, she decided to rejoin the human race even if she did so as a half-alien interloper. Her timing was good. As she was lacing up her boots she heard Joan's voice calling her name.
"Over here," Anna hollered.
A scrambling sound, then Joan appeared around the side of a boulder. Since Rory'd been found, Joan's looks had improved. The sight of the boy unharmed had eased two days' weariness from her face and eyes.
"Hey. There you are." She sounded positively chipper. Uncharitably, Anna resented it.
"Here I am," she confirmed.
Joan plopped comfortably clown on the rock beside her. "You look a wee bit on the grouchy side," she said cheerfully.
"Grouchy doesn't even begin to touch it. I've been thinking," Anna explained.
"Oooh. Not good."
"Why did Rory have his water bottle with him?"
"What-" Joan looked baffled, then as her quick mind rapidly put together the pieces, crestfallen. Chipper good cheer burst like a birthday balloon. "Oh, Anna, no…"
"You've got to admit it's a little out of whack considering the story he gave us."
"It makes no sense," Joan said. "Surely he'd've put on his boots if he knew he was going… somewhere."
"Not if he didn't want to leave tracks. It wasn't that far." Anna remembered something then and added it to the soup. "He could cover a lot of country. He's a long-distance runner. He told me. He runs barefoot."
"I don't believe it," Joan said firmly.
"Neither do I, but you've got to admit it warrants looking at."
Joan sighed. "This is why I went into zoology," she said. "Animals have no hidden agendas." After that they were quiet for a while. So long that Anna began to suffer that uncomfortable feeling that comes when one suspects one has committed an awful social gaffe but can't figure out what it is.
"You know," Joan said finally. "You are in danger of going over to the dark side, Anna. You need a lot more of rainbows and roses and whiskers on kittens in the daily fare. I think you've been given to me for some serious lightening up. I've got you for two more weeks."