At one point, as distraction, I clicked through photos on my iPhone, knowing it was foolish, but doing so anyway. Screw it. There was no signal. If my battery died, I could use the radio.
I looked at faces I hadn’t seen in far too long. At smiles I’d once shared. At happiness I’d once enjoyed.
Mama, all done up in Gucci. My sister, Harry, with her big Texas hair and even bigger heart. My daughter, Katy, in head-to-toe army combat gear.
Ryan, arm draped around my shoulder in Montreal. A selfie. I knew his pilly green sweater so well I could smell the wool.
That photo hit me straight in the gut. Why the sudden stab of pain? The sense of loss? Or was it elation? Jesus, what was it I was feeling?
Resolved. When back in civilization I’d book a flight to Montreal. Surely I could eke out a few days. And even a short visit would make Ryan happy. Hell, it would make me happy. Unless the pressure was too great. Or the friction too stressful.
Unless. Unless. The more I thought about marriage the more I felt my head would explode.
Around four, clouds drifted in, harmless white cotton-candy wisps streaking the blue. Over the next two hours, the wisps bloated, darkened, and gathered into ominous thunderheads.
By seven the sky was spitting and night was closing in fast. The team called it quits.
The searchers had done the best they could. Found more of the bucket and a handful of cranial fragments. Gunner had made the big score—the missing half of the concrete mold.
As the rescue squad disengaged from their copious gear, the techs took photos of the paltry assemblage I’d spread out on a tarp. They clicked, I bagged and tagged. A promise of notes and additional photos; then, still aggrieved by the injustice of missing their hoops, everyone split.
Rain was falling in earnest by the time Ramsey, Gunner, and I climbed into the SUV. Not pounding, but cold and steady.
I braced myself as we lurched and rocked back up the access road toward Wiseman’s View. Several minutes passed before Ramsey spoke.
“Long day.”
“It was,” I agreed.
“Could be a tough drive back to Charlotte.”
“I’m not looking forward to it.”
No response.
Exhausted, I closed my eyes. No. Better to stay awake. I opened them. Watched drops sparkle in the headlights then disappear into blackness.
After some time, Ramsey broke the silence. “Here’s my thought. Tomorrow’s Sunday. No one’s going to look at anything before Monday.”
He cut the wheel to avoid a pothole, maybe a small night creature. I turned toward him. His gaze was pointed straight at the windshield. I waited.
“There’s a nice B and B not far from headquarters. How about you stay up here tonight? Tomorrow we have a good mountain breakfast, then we surprise Mama and Daddy Teague after Sunday service?”
While I was considering, my iPhone snatched a sliver of signal and beeped. I checked my voice mail. Hazel Strike really needed to talk to me. Though her voice sounded urgent, I ignored the message.
I’d left extra cat food. Could tag a neighbor for breakfast duty.
I made a call to Joe Hawkins on his private number. Apologized for phoning on Saturday evening. Explained what I wanted from him.
Taxes? Screw it.
I stayed.
I woke suddenly, clueless where I was. Then recall.
Turned out the “nice” B&B belonged to Ramsey’s aunt, a lady in her seventies with nurturing instincts to give Clara Barton a run for her cap. And, despite snowy hair, a lime-green bathrobe, and crocodile slippers, a demeanor that suggested she was not to be crossed.
We’d arrived at eight, damp and muddy and shivering. While I showered and Ramsey washed up and changed shirts, Aunt Ruby had prepared her version of a light snack. Leftover meat loaf, ham hocks and beans, pickled beets, mac and cheese, peach cobbler and ice cream. I was unconscious before my head hit the pillow.
Now I lay a moment, listening to birdsong and watching dawn bring details of the room into focus. Rosebud wallpaper. Acres of gingham. Pine pieces so thickly lacquered they looked like plastic.
Outside, a rooster resolutely announced daybreak. Somewhere in the house a door closed. A soft squeak, then water trickled through old piping.
I turned on my pillow to check the bedside clock, a round affair topped by double bells with a tiny hammer between. Both scrolly hands were pointed straight down.
I threw back the quilt, swung my feet to the floor, and, wearing the panties and tee I’d slept in, tiptoe-hurried to an upholstered rocker I’d scooched in front of a heat vent. My jeans had dried where I’d scrubbed the knees and rear. I pulled them on, added the same bra, sweater, socks, and boots in which I’d left home twenty-four hours earlier.
The bath, two doors down a flowery hall, was mercifully empty. Pedestal sink. Black and white tile floor. Freestanding tub with a plastic curtain featuring dolphins and crabs.
On the sink were a cellophane-sealed toothbrush and a tube of Crest. I brushed, yanked my hair into a pony, and headed downstairs.
The dining room was through a parlor that stayed true to the theme upstairs. Centered in it was a long wooden table flanked by benches. Along the walls were two-tops. Ramsey was at one, already working on waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs.
When I drew near, the deputy did that half-standing thing men do when joined by members of the opposite sex. My bum had barely hit the seat when Aunt Ruby appeared carrying a stainless-steel pot. The robe and slippers had been replaced by a floral dress, pink cardigan, and sensible shoes.
“Good morning, missy.” Raising the pot.
“Thanks.” I held out my mug.
“Did you have a good sleep?”
“I did.”
“Pancakes or waffles?”
“I’m not really a breakfast—”
“Can’t start the day without food in your belly.”
“Pancakes.”
“Sausage, bacon, or both?”
“Sausage.”
“Coming right up.”
“There’s no point arguing,” Ramsey said when she’d gone.
“Oh, I definitely get that.”
Ramsey raised interested brows. No way was I explaining Mama at seven in the morning.
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“The early service kicks off at eight. We’ll be waiting outside when it ends.”
“You’re sure the Teagues will attend?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t we just go to their home?”
“I’m fond of surprises.”
“You want to catch them off guard.”
“Something like that.”
Ramsey ate and I sipped for a while. I was about to ask if he’d learned more about the church when Aunt Ruby returned bearing sufficient food to feed a small nation.
Despite myself, I downed all three pancakes, the unrequested eggs, and two of the five sausages. One pumpkin scone.
I was working on my second coffee when a couple appeared in the doorway. The man had a long gray braid snaking down his back. The woman, at least a decade his junior, was tall and slim with very short hair. Both wore boots and cargo pants, and had bandannas tied around their necks. I guessed they were hikers.
The two were talking quietly. On seeing Ramsey’s uniform, their conversation slammed down in mid-word. A quick scan, then they settled at a corner table, the farthest from ours.
I glanced at Ramsey to see if he’d noticed. A subtle nod said he had.
Aunt Ruby again intercepted the question I was about to pose. She beamed at us through spotted lenses and waggled the pot.
“No more coffee, thanks,” I said.
“Just a check,” Ramsey said.
The wrinkled lips made a sound like air exploding from a piston. Then, to me. “Zeb tells me you’re a doc up from Charlotte.”
“I am.”
“Says it’s strictly professional.”
“It is.”
Ramsey pulled two tens from his wallet and placed them on the table. Aunt Ruby ignored him.