Now, Stuart had said, with Caryn's death, McAfee's ass was saved, since Caryn had been well insured on the project. But the Dryden Socket was apparently still having some problems-serious enough that Caryn had called Jedd Conley's office to look into them. Although what Jedd had had to do with it was a mystery to Stuart.
Outside it had come to dusk. Gina finished her reading and her drink at the same time and sat back in her chair to consider what she thought she now knew. Listening to Stuart's recounting of the labyrinthine convolutions of Caryn's business life, she had by now concluded that murder, and neither accident nor suicide, was going to be a good bet in this case. Add to that Devin Juhle's comment at lunch that Caryn probably wouldn't be naked in a hot tub, thinking her husband was gone for the weekend, having a glass of wine with somebody she didn't know, and the bet became a near certainty.
And-the thought brought Gina up in her chair-if Caryn had told Stuart she wanted a divorce on Friday, would she have been naked in the hot tub with him?
Or maybe she'd just been alone relaxing and he'd unexpectedly come home.
But he hadn't gotten home until this morning. He had that gas station receipt to prove it. And having talked to Stuart all afternoon, Gina didn't think that he had paid someone else to kill his wife. All of which didn't mean he still couldn't be the target of a major investigation. But at least it did not appear that her client was guilty. At this early stage, that was about the best she could hope for.
Feeling good about the way things were going, she decided what the hell, she'd pour herself another small drink. Live a little.
She was back in the game with that rara avis, the innocent client.
This was going to be fun.
Here is the fundamental irony of the wilderness experience: Its principal lesson is that we are not alone.
I am standing in the middle of a stream at the hour when the sun begins to clear the ridge out to the east. The shadow of the mountain recedes and reveals a world of vibrant color- beyond gray of rock and indigo sky, suddenly the field explodes into wildflowers-yellows and greens, reds and pinks and blues and whites. A movement out of the corner of my eye turns out to be a buff coyote stalking prey. Downstream, a deer stops for a drink. A jackrabbit breaks from its cover. Overhead, a hawk circles in a rising thermal. On the water, the hatch begins and the air above the stream fills with clouds of mayfly, or caddis, or mosquito.
I cast and a trout strikes.
There are no other humans in sight. From the direct evidence of my senses, there may be none on the planet. And yet my state of being is suffused with a sense of belonging in this place, at this time. I am in the midst of the dream of the Buddhist who, requesting a hamburger, says: "Make me one with everything."
One with everything.
It is singular that this experience of a healing solitude without any sense of loneliness occurs, for me, only in the wilderness. Perhaps it is because there are so few of the expectations of others to accommodate. Here I am responsible only to myself, only for my survival. A day or two out of the blandishments and distractions of daily life-away from the traffic and the small talk and the advertisements, away from the constant assault of vulgar and voracious media of all kinds-and I become increasingly aware of a deep sensory awareness that roots me to the here and now in a profound and fundamental way.
I am connected to the earth and always, immediately, to the present. I am an animal, both prey and predator, keenly tuned. I have no one to convince. There are no complaints. The interruptions are natural.
The fish leaps high in a flash of color, splashes back into its pool, begins a run that strips line and bends the rod. My concentration is absolute. The least slack in the line and the trout will throw the tiny barbless hook, and I will have lost my breakfast. Because make no mistake, if I manage to land it, I will eat this fish.
My appetites, out here, are simple and attainable. I don't need a raise, new clothes, gifts. Money can have no possible meaning. My music is in the stream, in the breeze, the crackle of a fire, the beat of my heart. I am empty of worry. And in this natural state, ironically enough, I get the closest to a feeling of identity with my fellow man.
This is the essence, and I am part of it.
In her reading chair by the front window, Gina put down the copy of Stuart Gorman's Healed by Water that she'd picked up at Book Passage after her dinner alone at the Ferry Building. To her surprise, she liked the book a lot. Stuart had absolutely nailed Gina's own feelings about the outdoors and the wilderness-that these things had been her salvation.
Solitude without loneliness. That was exactly what she felt when she went up to the mountains.
Her eyes covered the familiar terrain of her living room. Just after David had died, it had felt as though he had somehow imprinted himself on every object here-the books, his chair of course, the bar and its glassware, the loveseat-and his connection to these things had made her loneliness almost unbearable.
Up in the wilderness, there was nothing reaching out to snag her emotions and remind her of what was gone. Time she spent away from all of this, this stuff, lessened its painful hold upon her, until finally she realized that its ability to cause her anguish was all but gone.
She'd needed the wilderness to get to that point. She'd needed the long hiking days and the deep, empty nights for their solitude that seemed to lift the burden of the loneliness that adhered to all these familiar things in the city.
Getting up and walking over to the kitchen, she pulled a card from her purse and picked up the telephone, hoping perhaps to talk to Stuart about how he'd come to understand all of that. What had happened to him that had driven him outdoors? How, she wondered, had they sat together for most of the afternoon and had none of this even remotely come up?
But halfway through the phone number, she stopped and hung the phone back up. She recalled that he was going to be with his daughter tonight, trying to make sense of what had befallen them. Calling him now would be an imposition.
Back in the living room, settling back in her chair, she pulled the book over to her, opening it again to her place. And then the telephone rang.
"Gina Roake, please." "This is Gina."
"Devin Juhle. I hope you don't mind my calling you at home."
"I wouldn't have given you the number if I did. But you're working some long hours, Inspector. I'm gathering you got my message about Stuart Gorman."
"I did." He hesitated. "That was a pretty quick hookup, getting him on board as your client. I mean, after our lunch today."
This was gratuitous and Gina supposed she should have expected it. In any event, she wasn't going to dignify the unspoken accusation that she'd called Stuart as a result of what Juhle had told her at Lou the Greek's. She hadn't called him at all, but she'd let Juhle think what he wanted, since that's what he was going to do in any case. "Yes," she said. "The stars lined up just right on that one. I assume you're calling to set up an appointment?"
"I'm going to want to talk to him, yes. Sooner rather than later."
"Do you consider him a suspect?"
"A person of interest at this time."
"You know about his alibi?"
"I know what he's said, yes."
"And you don't believe him?"
"I'd like to go over some details he's mentioned, that's all." "Well, of course, he's still upset. If you tell me what you need to know, I'd be happy to get the information for you." "I think I'd rather get it from him directly." "You don't want to give me a little hint about what this is about?" "Just making sure I get the story straight. Plug up any holes."