Blood Loss

21

Ren left the Sheriff’s Office and dialed Ben Rader’s number when she got into the Jeep.

‘Talk to me about my girl,’ she said.

‘Well, Misty’s a wonderful girl,’ said Ben. ‘And what about “how are you, Ben”?’

‘Aw, you’re a big boy,’ said Ren.

‘That’s what you said last night.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I really like your friend, Janine, I wanted to say.’

‘Thank you, I like her too.’

‘She’s kind of got that dry wit going on …’

‘Is that code for she insulted you?’ said Ren.

‘No, not at all, she was really sweet,’ said Ben.

‘She is.’

‘Your house is unbelievable,’ said Ben.

‘Do you really think that is my house? Isn’t your pay check not too dissimilar to mine?’ said Ren.

‘I thought you might be, like, a secret heiress,’ said Ben.

‘Yes. And it turns out that Paris Hilton is actually an agent.’

‘The place must be a hundred years old …’ said Ben.

‘Even more than that — it’s a Gold Rush house,’ said Ren. ‘And the lucky lady who owns it is sadly not me. It’s Annie Lowell, a dear family friend: an adorable, warm-hearted, white-haired angel who foolishly asked me to house-sit.’

‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘I saw the kitchen …’

‘I was running late …’ Three mornings in a row. ‘We used to stay with Annie in the summer when we were kids.’

‘I saw the family photo,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t being nosy — I had to follow Misty into the living room. You were so cute.’

‘Where did it all go wrong?’ said Ren.

‘Very right,’ said Ben.

‘You’re not supposed to reply to those statements,’ said Ren.

‘And where is this Annie?’

‘Traveling around Europe,’ said Ren. ‘Seriously. At eighty years old.’

‘I want to do that when I’m eighty,’ said Ben.

‘You’ll probably still be getting ID’d,’ said Ren.

‘And you’ll be like, “no, I am not his mother”.’

Hello? ‘You are nuts.’

‘It’s very boring here without you.’

Ren smiled. ‘Aw.’

‘I miss you,’ said Ben.

‘Don’t be a loser. OK — gotta go — I’m supposed to be in bed.’

‘Yes — mine.’

Ren drove down Main Street, ignoring the turn for The Firelight Inn and going to The Crown cafe. She ordered a coffee with two espresso shots and took out the copies she had made of the victim/family questionnaires. She started reading through Mark Whaley’s.

‘Hello, there.’

The voice of Paul Louderback. Ren looked up. ‘Well, hello there, yourself.’

He was standing with a coffee in his hand. ‘I walked right by you.’

‘So, did you send yourself off to rest?’ said Ren.

‘Yes. I didn’t take it well, though. In fact, I’m quite resentful of myself.’

‘My resentment, I can at least direct at Gary,’ said Ren.

‘Yup,’ said Paul. ‘Rest is for … other people.’

‘Not pussies, then?’ said Ren.

He smiled. ‘Can I join you?’

‘Of course you can,’ said Ren. Whose bed am I supposed to be in?

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘The least you could do for beating me to the suite at The Firelight?’ said Ren. ‘I’m presuming it was you.’

‘Guilty.’

‘Damn you.’

‘Did you get a room there at least?’ said Paul.

‘Yes,’ said Ren.

‘Well, that’s something …’

Something … what? ‘I’m still working on this,’ she said, pointing to her coffee. ‘Take a seat. Where are the other CARD shufflers?’

‘Shuffling in a less cozy setting. Two of them will be with the Merritts at their hotel in case anyone calls.’ He paused. ‘I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad you’re here.’

Stop. Stop. Stop. ‘Me too.’

Four hours, six espressos, and twenty-five pages of notes later, Ren laid down her pen. Opposite her, Paul had his head buried in a file folder. She looked around and realized that The Crown had really filled up since they had arrived. She watched parents watching their children. By the counter, a stack of newspapers showed the faces of two girls whose parents cared for them no less, but who, through an unknown series of events, for reasons Ren was trying to uncover, had vanished.

Families came to Breckenridge for fresh air, for powdery snow, for warm drinks and hot fires. They came for their breath to be taken by the stark outline of four Rocky Mountain Peaks against the night sky, not by the stark truth of the fragility of happiness, or security, or life.

‘Out of curiosity,’ said Ren, ‘why didn’t you let me know you were in Denver?’

Paul looked up at her. ‘Abject fear.’

‘Thought as much …’ said Ren.

‘OK, honestly?’ said Paul. ‘You’re terrible company. And very hard on the eye.’

‘True,’ said Ren.

After a long silence, Paul spoke. ‘The fear part is true …’ he said. ‘I was afraid that you’d drawn a line under us the last time.’

Yes — a lasting line, like a line drawn on a steamed-up mirror. She had a flash of Ben Rader in her shower.

‘Whatever “us” means,’ said Paul.

Us means you and your wife and me and … deep breath … Ben Rader … maybe … I don’t know. Or you and me. And never to be.