Graeme finished his brandy and poured himself another from the bottle. "But you assured me we do have alternatives."
Gale nodded. "I think so."
In fact, Gale was unusually suspicious that either of the persons he planned to paint as a culprit might actually be guilty. But there was something in Graeme's cool smile that disturbed him. He didn't like the man.
"You won't tell me what you've found, though," Graeme continued. "That doesn't seem fair."
"Sometimes the less you know, and the less you tell me, the better," Gale said.
"Well, then, give it to me straight. Do you think I'll be free to move to Colorado in a few weeks, or will I be checking into a less comfortable hotel for the rest of my life?"
Gale eyed his client. "I'm not a betting man, Graeme. I don't know if you're innocent or not, and I don't really care. But the fact is, it's hard to prove a murder without a body, and in this case, I don't think the circumstantial evidence will be enough. I think you'll walk."
"Even though the jury thinks I'm a perverted son of a bitch?" Graeme replied, smiling.
"We can get past that," Gale said.
Graeme nodded, satisfied. "I'm delighted to hear it. But I can think of at least one person who will be bitterly disappointed."
Gale could think of many people. "Who?"
"Rachel."
Gale stared at Graeme. "So you think she's alive."
"I'm sure of it."
"And the evidence in the van? The barn?"
"Planted," Graeme said.
"To frame you?"
"Exactly."
Gale's eyes narrowed. "And why would Rachel want to do that?"
"She's a complicated girl."
Gale realized again how much he disliked that smile. Every time he began to convince himself his client was really innocent, that smirk slid onto his face, and the evil twinkle came and went in his eyes. "Why are you so sure? Couldn't someone else have killed her and then framed you?"
"That sounds like reasonable doubt, so I'll say yes."
"But you don't think so," Gale said.
Graeme shook his head.
"This was all an elaborate plot by Rachel?" Gale asked. "She faked all this evidence?"
"That's what I think," Graeme said.
"You know, there's one thing that could sink our case and put you in prison."
"Oh? And what's that, counselor?"
"If Daniel can make the jury believe you were really fucking that girl."
"It's hard to prove something that never happened," Graeme said.
Graeme's face was darkened by the shadows in the hotel room. Gale could see only the man's eyes, not blinking. Graeme's voice conveyed the same smooth sincerity it always did, and his body language was perfect. There were no telltale signs of dishonesty, none of the usual symptoms the lawyer had learned to spot and exploit. But Gale realized that this time he didn't believe a word. Not any of it.
His client was guilty.
It was almost a relief. Now he could defend him.
"I hope that's true," Gale said. "If you had sex with her and Daniel can prove it, you're in big trouble."
Graeme smiled.
20
The port at Two Harbors was barely visible, just a long, narrow smudge that interrupted the line of trees. Behind them and overhead, the sky was blue and clear, but Stride could see dark clouds massing at the horizon, growing like a cancer in the sky and creeping closer to the boat. The wind whipped the lake into foamy white swells and tipped the boat from side to side like a bathtub toy. He pushed the throttle forward, and the engine churned against the waves, but the speed barely inched faster. The squall would reach them long before they made it home.
He felt like a fool, allowing them to be trapped. The beautiful Sunday weather had been too tempting, and Guppo had offered him the use of his twenty-six-foot sport cruiser, a beauty he had inherited from his uncle. Stride had urged Andrea to join him. They usually did city things together, going to plays and concerts, or having dinner with teachers from the high school. Andrea liked to show Stride off to the women who had been so sympathetic when she divorced. They didn't do the quiet things closest to Stride's heart, like sailing on the lake. He wanted those things back in his life.
But the afternoon had been a disaster. Even under the warm spring sun, the lake was freezing, wind ripping through their middleweight coats. Stride had cast a line, only to have a gust of wind snap his pole. Andrea threw up, sickened by the endless up-and-down motion as they rode the troughs. They spent two hours down below in the cabin, huddled under blankets, barely talking except for Stride's occasional apology and Andrea's murmured response, accompanied by a weak smile. They had an unopened bottle of wine in the refrigerator and an elaborate picnic lunch, scarcely touched.
He offered to take her home. It was the only time that day he saw enthusiasm brighten her face.
Now he was going to steer them right into a storm. It couldn't get much worse. He hoped she would stay below and not see the ugly blackness sliding toward them across the sky.
Stride tried to coax more speed out of the engine, but it was already doing its best to fight the lake. As it was, he would need to slow down soon simply to keep control. He angled the boat toward the waves and the wind, but the gusts kept shifting direction. He frowned as the clouds caught up with the sinking sun in the west, sending shadows across the blue water. The air seemed immediately colder. He wore gloves and a leather jacket and had a Twins baseball cap pulled down low on his brow, but his ears were raw, and his cheeks were pink and numb.
He felt hands slip around his waist and then felt Andrea's head lean against his back. She sidled up beside him, and he leaned down to kiss her. She smiled at him, but her skin was pale, and her lips were cold. When she looked toward land and saw the approaching storm, her eyes widened. She glanced up at him, and he pretended everything was fine.
"How long until we make it back?"
He shrugged. "Maybe an hour."
Andrea cast a wary eye at the storm. "That doesn't look good," she said.
"Don't worry, we're just going to get a little wet. Why don't you wait below?"
Andrea didn't want the truth. She wanted comfort and reassurance. Cindy would have taken a look at his eyes and seen right through him, and then prodded him until he revealed what was in his heart.
The truth was, he was nervous. He had a coiled ball of worry lodged in his gut. He was worried about the storm, because he hadn't sailed in a year, and his skills were rusty. And he was anxious about the trial, which would begin tomorrow in earnest now that the jury had been impaneled after two weeks of extensive voir dire.
He was worried about Andrea, too.
He didn't know if they were groping their way toward love or just covering up each other's pain.
Their sex life had cooled. In the early weeks, they had been adventurous, working through months of pent-up passion. Andrea told him what a wonderful, caring lover he was, and how good he felt inside her. Now they made love only infrequently. Andrea let him take the lead, and she was strangely detached, kissing him, letting him love her, even reaching orgasm, but not letting herself go as she had before. Stride began to understand, although he would never breathe it out loud, why Robin had called her cold in bed. She seemed afraid to release herself. Or just afraid.
He kept asking himself if he was feeling the right things, if he was feeling the way he was supposed to feel. Stupid questions. What really mattered was that the hurt had now become something he could manage, and there was something much better in his life now. He liked the feel of Andrea's body next to him. He enjoyed how good she made him feel. He wanted to be with her.
He looked down at her, watching the nervousness in her eyes, but seeing, too, the emotional hunger she felt for him. It was there whenever she saw him. He wanted to wrap himself up in it.