The fuse on the powder keg had been lit.
PART ONE
THE POWDER KEG
1.
“BEN, STOP SPLASHING AROUND so much. You’re scaring the fish.”
“I’m trying to get this stupid hook out of the water.”
“Use the reel, Ben. That’s what it’s there for.”
After fumbling a few more moments, Ben Kincaid tightened the drag and began drawing in his line. Why, he asked himself for the millionth time, had he ever allowed Christina to talk him into a camp-out? As a legal assistant, she was first rate; as a travel agent, she had serious drawbacks.
So far, this sojourn to the Ouachitas had succeeded only as a demonstration of his incompetence as an outdoorsman. Ben didn’t know the first thing about camping. To make matters worse, Christina did.
Christina waded across the waters and stood beside Ben. “I think I understand why you haven’t caught any bass all morning.”
“The fish don’t appreciate my wit and charm?”
“No. You haven’t got any bait on your hook. Très pathétique.”
Ben checked the end of his line. Sure enough. Sharp eyes on that woman. “I thought you promised no French on this alleged vacation.”
“That was during the drive from Tulsa. Now that I’m out in the wild, I can’t be restrained. Joie de υivre!”
Ben continued reeling in his line, but it caught in a snarl. “I hate baiting the hook. Worms are so squishy and disgusting.”
“Worms?” Christina propped her rod against the bank. “I’ve got some more bad news for you, mon ami. We’re fly-fishing.”
“Fly-fishing, huh?” Ben decided to bluff his way through. “Does that mean I’m supposed to bait my hook with a dead fly?”
“Not exactly, no.” She suppressed her laughter as she untangled his line.
It hardly seemed fair that she should make fun. After all, this whole escapade had been her idea. One minute she was talking about a pleasant drive to soak up some Arkansas scenery; before he could say “Get a reality check,” he was standing in Fulton Lake, deep in the Ouachita Mountains, in green hip-high waders. “You must think I look pretty silly, huh?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Christina replied, trying to avoid eye contact. “Relatively silly, I guess. Not as silly as last night when you were trying to pitch your tent.”
“Well, excuse me. We didn’t pitch tents when I was growing up in Nichols Hills.”
“That much was clear.” Christina whirled her line in the air and delivered it expertly to the middle of the lake. “Assuming anyone from Nichols Hills ever went camping, they probably had servants follow them in RVs stocked with fine china and an assortment of exotic wines.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“I think you’ve had enough fishing for one day, Ben. Let’s get some grub.”
After a concerted effort and about half a can of lighter fluid, Ben managed to get the campfire started. In fact, it blazed. Out of control. Christina had to throw dirt on the flames just to keep them inside the ring of stones that theoretically defined the campfire.
“Thanks for the assist,” Ben said sheepishly, after the inferno was contained.
“No problem,” Christina replied. “Stay away from the matches.”
Christina had released all the fish she caught, and neither of them was particularly hungry for more canned beans, so they decided to settle for roasted marshmallows. Christina placed a white fluffy one on the end of her roasting stick and tossed the rest to Ben. “Bon appétit.”
Ben sat beside the campfire and admired the scenery. The camp area was surrounded by tall, majestic loblolly pines. It had been a lovely summer day, and now the light of the setting sun trickled through the pine needles and cast a hazy glow over the lake and the hills. Even a confirmed city boy like Ben had to admit this was not bad.
After skillfully toasting a marshmallow to a deep golden brown, Christina removed her harmonica from its velvet case. “How about a sing-along? I can play ‘Kum Bah Ya.’ ”
“Ugh,” said Ben. “No thanks.” Now that they were out of the water, he noticed how sharp Christina looked in her Banana Republic khaki shorts. If camping accomplished nothing else, it had at least distanced her from her usual dismal wardrobe.
“What’s your problem? You love music.”
“Music, yes. ‘Kum Bah Ya,’ no.” Ben lowered his marshmallow over the flames of the campfire.
Christina brushed her long strawberry-blonde hair behind her shoulders. “What would you like to hear, then? I can’t do the Ring Cycle on my harmonica.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Would you settle for some Burl Ives? I can play ‘Glow Little Glowworm.’ ”
“Thanks, no. Don’t you know any French songs?”
“Like ‘Que Sera Sera’?”
“I don’t think so. How about some Bobby Darin tunes?”
“Bobby Darin tunes? Ben, no one plays Bobby Darin anymore.”
“Of course they do. He was a genius. Ahk!” Ben yanked his stick back just after the marshmallow caught fire. “Rats. I hate it when it burns.”
“You held it too close to the fire.”
“I was distracted.”
Christina smiled. “Miss the office?”
“No. That’s all that prevents me from complaining about being impressed into this vacation. I don’t miss the office.”
“Not even Jones? Or Loving? You’re his hero, you know.”
Ben placed another marshmallow on the end of his stick. “It’s always been my dream to be worshiped by a barrel-chested, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound gumshoe who considers eyeball gouging a form of gentle persuasion.”
“What about Jones?”
“Jones and his typing and filing skills are marginal at best. On the other hand, he’s never dragged me on a fly-fishing expedition.”
Christina burrowed in the ice chest. “Giselle, then. You must miss your cat.”
“Why? Is that a requirement for sensitive-guy status? Mrs. Marmelstein is looking after Giselle. She’ll be fine.”
Christina passed Ben a carton of chocolate milk. “You seem a tad grumpy this afternoon.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to go to Silver Dollar City.” Ben plucked the sticky marshmallow from the end of his stick. It was underdone, but that was better than charred.
“Camping will be good for you,” Christina said. “You need to get out more. Relax, unwind. Get in touch with nature.”
“Aha! So this purported vacation is actually thinly disguised therapy. Part of your long-range plan to make me warm and cuddly.”
Christina shrugged. “What are friends for?”
Ben’s response was interrupted by the sound of a car backfiring. Someone was ascending the narrow dirt lane linking the main road to the campground.
“Any idea who that is?” Ben asked.
“Maybe Smokey the Bear, dropping by to lecture you on the dangers of excessive lighter fluid.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” Ben dropped his marshmallow stick. “Guess there’s one way to find out.”
Ben and Christina walked toward the edge of the campground. A red pickup stopped in front of them, a top-of-the-line number with mudgrip tires and a smoked-glass Western panorama on the rear window.
A thinnish man in blue jeans and flannel shirt stepped out of the driver’s side and extended his hand. “My name’s Harlan Payne. Are you Ben Kincaid?”