“Ready to take a break?” Christina asked.
“You won’t hear me complain.” Ben fell down on a tree stump and worked the heavy backpack off his shoulders. Christina passed him the canteen and he took a long, refreshing drink.
“Another half an hour and we’ll be at the Nordic runestone,” Christina announced.
“Glory be.”
“It’s an impressive relic, for your information. The crème de la crème of Norwegian antiquities. And proof positive that my Viking ancestors were the ones who discovered America.”
“That’ll come as a big shock to the Native Americans.”
She frowned. “You know what I mean. First Europeans. Columbus had a Norwegian map, you know.”
“Spare me the Nordic propaganda.” He stretched out under the nearest elm tree and tried to avoid the direct light of the sun.
Christina allowed a few minutes to pass quietly, listening to the hummingbirds and kingfishers and swallows. Finally, she ventured into conversation. “You’ve been very quiet this morning.”
Ben gazed across the mountaintops. “I’ve been drinking in the view.”
“You’ve been thinking, and I know what you’ve been thinking about. Him.”
“Him?”
“That kid. The bomber. The one whose father went for surgery with your father—”
“Actually, I haven’t thought about that at all,” Ben replied. “Not about him, or his father, or my father. I’ve had enough of that.” He picked up a rock and tossed it across the clearing. “I’ve been obsessed with my father, with feeling guilty, blaming myself, wondering how he could do what he did. How he could—” Ben stopped, shook his head. “I’ve let him control my life after his death more than he did when he was alive. Well, enough already. Time to grow up. The truth is, my father was no better or worse than a lot of people, including me. We all have a temper. We all experience rage. We just have to learn to control it, that’s all. Otherwise, we’re not going to survive.”
Christina plucked a nearby dandelion and blew, scattering its milky white fluff into the air. “You know,” she said, “Jones and Loving are very worried about you.”
“About me? Why?”
“ ’Cause you haven’t been by the hotel room for two weeks. And you don’t appear to be looking for new office space. They’re afraid you’re never coming back.”
“They’re right.” Ben picked up a small stone and flung it into the distance.
Christina scooted closer. “You miss Joey, don’t you?”
Ben waited a long time before answering. “Of course I do. Except maybe in the middle of the night. Don’t you?”
She grinned. “Yeah, I suppose I do. How do you think Julia will do as a full-time mommy? Think she can handle it?”
Ben’s face darkened. “I don’t know.” His eyes seemed to turn inward, and he was silent again, with no apparent intention of speaking.
“Listen, Ben,” Christina said, choosing her words carefully. “It wasn’t your fault. What happened, I mean. With the Barrett trial. You did your job. It wasn’t your fault the system didn’t work.”
“My job was to make the system work. I failed.”
“You did everything you could.”
He shook his head from side-to-side. “I was just like Whitman.”
“What?”
He looked up at her. “I could only see one color.”
A few more minutes passed. Then, abruptly, Ben jumped to his feet and began rummaging in his backpack. A moment later, he withdrew a shoebox-size wooden box. He opened it, then quietly touched the contents, the Magic 8-Ball, the marbles, the Krypto-Ray gun …
“Ben,” Christina said, “that’s your box! Your childhood treasures.”
He nodded, closed the box, and gently set it down under a tree.
“But why?”
He wasn’t listening. He was in his backpack again. This time, Christina was amazed to see him remove his briefcase, battered and scraped from so many court hearings and trials.
“Why on earth did you bring that?”
Ben didn’t answer. He gripped the handle with both hands, spun around a few times like a discus thrower, and slung the briefcase off into the distance.
“Ben, what’s come over you?”
Ben began gathering his gear. “Come on. Let’s keep moving.”
“But you’re leaving—”
“I know. Come on.”
“But, Ben!”
He threw his backpack, now much lighter than before, back over his shoulders. “Hey, less talking, more hiking, okay?”
Frowning, Christina gathered together her gear. After she had reassembled herself, she stood beside him, just at the edge of the clearing. Ben was gazing off into the distance, staring at the tall mountain before them.
“All right,” she said, “I’m ready already. Where are we going?”
Ben pointed off toward the horizon. “To see what lies ahead. Over the next mountain.”
They marched together down the trail, and within moments, both had disappeared from sight.
Three days later, a group of local children from Poteau found the wooden box and the briefcase, examined them and their contents, and took their newfound treasures home with them.
It made their day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WANT TO THANK all those who have helped me put together this installment in the ongoing Ben Kincaid chronicles: Kirsten Bernhardt and Arlene Joplin, both of whom read an early draft of this manuscript and gave me their extremely useful comments; Gail Benedict, for converting my hand-scrawled corrections into a manuscript; and Vicky Hildebrandt, a good friend and great source for material.
I also want to thank again my editor, Joe Blades, who has been with me since Book One and is still with me here on Book Eight; Kim Hovey, who has been handling publicity on my behalf for just as long; Tamu Aljuwani, Brenda Brown, Clare Ferraro, Linda Grey, and all the rest of the gang at Ballantine.
I also want to thank Scott, Dee, Howard, Kerry, Rosalba, Sharon, Jackie, and everyone else at Novel Idea for allowing me to mention their splendid bookstore, and for having such a splendid bookstore, not to mention providing my favorite place to eat lunch.
—William Bernhardt
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1997 by William Bernhardt
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-7716-4
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