“I wouldn’t dream of asking,” Villatoro said, flashing a smile. “It is just that I see this place as, I don’t know, a million trees with a few people walking around in them. I can’t see the whole picture, it is too strange. It would be like if you were dropped in the middle of East L.A. with no one to help you out. You wouldn’t know what to do, where to go, what was proper. There are predators there, too,” he said, gesturing toward the bear, “but they wear colors and carry guns. It’s so different.”
Jess said nothing. He had always thought it was easier for rural people to live in a city than lifelong city dwellers to move to the country.
“For example,” Villatoro said, gesturing to the eastern range, “when I look at that mountain there, all I see is a mountain with trees all over it. There is probably more to it, but that’s all I can see.”
Jess turned to see where Villatoro was pointing. “That’s Webb Mountain,” Jess said. “See where there’s that big sweep of green on it that’s lighter than the rest? Kind of a mosaic? Those are aspens. There was a forest fire up there twenty years ago, and aspens grow back first. Eventually, the pines will overtake the aspens, but it’ll take centuries. There was some talk about putting in a ski resort on Webb Mountain, but the developers got chased away by the environmentalists. It’s good bear habitat. I’d guess that’s where our hunter here got his bear this morning.”
He looked around to see Villatoro smiling. “That’s what I mean,” the ex-detective said. “I see a mountain that looks like every other mountain of a hundred in every direction. You see history and a story.”
Jess reached for his door handle, then thought better of it. He could walk where he needed to go.
“This is why this is such an amazing country,” Villatoro said. “It is so big, and so different. One will never know all of it.”
Jess suppressed a grin of his own. “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Villatoro.”
“I’m a fish out of water, is what I am. But I’m a determined fish.”
“That you are,” Jess said. “I kinda feel the same way myself.”
They shook hands.
BECAUSE THE county building was only two blocks away, Jess decided to walk. He needed a few minutes to think, to put his plan together. He was overwhelmed and confused. Things seemed to be swirling around him, keeping him off-balance. It had begun when Herbert, his ranch foreman, left and disrupted a routine he had gotten used to. With all of the problems a rancher had to face-weather, prices, natural disasters, regulations, trespassers, bad employees-any kind of routine was a necessity. Tasks needed to be done at certain times. A ranch couldn’t be run by the seat of one’s pants. But with Herbert gone and the appearance of the children-and their dangerous story-he felt cut loose from his moorings. He was adrift and unsure of himself.
Whether or not the murder had been reported-or whether it had even happened-everything else he had learned that morning seemed to lean toward Annie and William’s version of events. The thought that the murderers were ex-cops who had moved in quickly to shape and control events would fit. Placing a man with the mother to guard her would fit, too. But without a body, what the children had told him could be dismissed as the result of overactive imaginations. It all hinged on a murder that apparently hadn’t happened, on a dead man who wasn’t missed by anyone.
Jess thought of the implications of his situation and felt a stab in his chest. If what Annie and William had told him turned out not to be true, he was guilty of a great fraud on the community, and possibly even a crime. Every hour that went by that he kept his secret was another cruel hour for the mother.
And what was on the videotape Newkirk had whispered about to the sheriff?
What held him back from walking into the sheriff’s office and telling them he knew where the missing children were and leading them to his ranch? It was simple, he realized. He believed Annie.
But he still wasn’t sure. He needed more information. What was on the videotape? He had to find out. Then, he would make his decision.
AS HE PASSED by the realty office, Jess quickened his pace, but she saw him.
“Jess?”
He slowed, debated whether to stop or resume his march. He wished he would have taken his pickup to the sheriff’s office and avoided this possibility.
“Jess?”
He stopped on the sidewalk and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at her under the brim of his hat. God, she looked good. Trim, fit, wearing black slacks, a white shirt and blazer. Her lipstick was a smoky shade he had never seen before, and her dark hair was pulled back. No gray; she must have dyed it. She had never looked that good on the ranch.
“Hello, Karen.”
“I was surprised to look out and see you walk by.”
“Working on Sunday, huh?”
“We’ve got a closing at eleven. I’m waiting for the buyers. Hey-what did you do to your hand?”
“Accident with a hay hook,” he said, hoping that would suffice.
She stopped on the sidewalk and awkwardly crossed her arms in front of her. He didn’t expect a hug, but it seemed odd to talk with her from five feet away. It felt like a mile.
“What are you doing in town?” she asked.
“Going to the county building.”
She pursed her lips. “They’re closed today.”
“Not the Sheriff’s Office.”
“Oh,” she said, looking him over, obviously wondering what would come next.
“I wanted to see if there was any news on the Taylor kids.” Not a lie at all.
“Isn’t that terrible?” she said, shaking her head. “Nobody I’ve talked to can remember such a thing happening here before. I hope they find them, and they’re okay. It’s awful.”
Jess said, “Yup.”
“You came all of the way into town to ask about them?” She was eyeing him closely.
He sputtered, “Had breakfast at the Panhandle, and thought I’d check while I was here.”
“Is that the only reason you’re going there?”
He knew what she was asking and looked away. He hadn’t thought of that. A familiar brand of guilt crept in. He didn’t know what to say. The silence went on a beat too long.
“Talking has always been a problem for you, hasn’t it?”
He felt his palms begin to sweat in his pockets. Thankfully, she changed the subject back.
“Monica Taylor,” she said. “I heard some things about her.”
He looked back.
“I heard she gets around,” she said. “Her ex-husband was in prison, you know. She’s got a little bit of a reputation.”
“Reputations come and go,” Jess said, too quickly.
Her face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Can’t you let this thing go? It’s been three years now.”
He looked at his boots, then at the sky. No, he thought, I can’t. It wasn’t that he wanted her back, not now. It was the years of deception before the betrayal. The secret letters, the calls, the liaisons, the men. How could he just move on? How did other people do it? In retrospect, Karen’s darkness was simply stronger than his thin strand of generational hope, and she’d overpowered him.
The door to the office opened, and Karen’s new husband, Brian Ballard, stepped out. He was dressed as he had been Friday: open shirt, jacket, creased Dockers, tasseled loafers.
“Everything okay out here?” he asked, too cheerfully. “Are you asking Jess about the property?”
“We hadn’t gotten to that yet,” Karen said, not taking her eyes off Jess.
“I’m not selling unless I have to,” Jess said. “Nothing’s changed.”
Brian put his arm around Karen, pulling her into him as if to say, mine. “You know, this doesn’t have to be an adversarial thing. We would work with you.”