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!”