Burn Out

Wednesday

I was out of bed before dawn and in the Rover by first light, heading for the Devil’s Gate entrance to Toiyabe National Forest.

I’d spoken with Lark the night before, reporting on my interview with Boz Sheppard, and telling her the scenario of Cammie Charles and Rich Three Wings’ camping trip. Lark had allowed as it wasn’t enough of a lead for their overworked department to pursue, but said I was welcome to go ahead myself. So here I was, off on another fool’s errand.

The Toiyabe is a huge forest with eight designated wilderness areas, some of whose ranger stations are as far as five hundred miles apart. It stretches over the Great Basin from the Sierra Nevada to the Wasatch Mountains of Utah, and encompasses snowcapped peaks, prairies, and granite canyons. The changes in elevation are sudden and extreme, making for a tremendous variation in climate, wildlife, and scenery. The Bridgeport Ranger District, where I was headed, is one of the largest in the forest-an area formed by millions of years of glacial, earthquake, and volcanic activity.

I easily found the turnoff I’d seen from the air and drove to the parking area. No cars today, either. I got out of the Rover, shouldered my backpack. The pack was light-a couple of bottles of water, a sandwich and an apple, and a pair of binoculars. After a moment’s hesitation I reached back into the vehicle and took out Hy’s.45, which I’d stowed in the side pocket.

Rattlesnakes, I’d told myself at the time.

Snakes of any kind-particularly human, I told myself now.

I tucked the gun into my belt and set off toward the trailhead.

Cold under the trees, piney smell strong. The trail was good, frequently traveled. It was quiet here too: only an occasional birdcall. I looked for evidence of where Cammie and Rich might’ve camped, but found nothing.

Finally I reached the brushy meadow. At its far side was the tumbledown log building that I’d seen from the air and more trees, beyond which the sand-colored hills rose into the clear blue sky. I crossed the meadow toward the building-once a barn, from its appearance. Probably a leftover from the days when this was private ranchland. The roof had partially caved in, but the near wall was intact. I slipped up to it, feeling foolishly dramatic in the bright light of day, and peered around the side. Boards were missing there; I moved along and did some more peering through the openings.

Nothing but the play of light and shadow inside an empty structure.

I kept going to the other side. Most of the wall there was gone, ravaged by time and the elements. Cautiously I stepped inside.

And stopped, sniffing the air. Something had burned here recently. When I moved forward I located the source of the odor-a doused campfire near the far, mostly intact, wall.

Rich and Cammie had camped at a favorite place. What better than a falling-down barn? Shelter from the night cold, a cozy nest at this time of year. The park service had probably left the barn to collapse rather than demolishing it, not thinking it could serve as a haven for unauthorized campers-and be a potential fire hazard.

Okay, then, whatever Rich and Cammie had found here must be reasonably close by. I headed for the stand of trees along the hill’s base.

Cold. Dark. You wouldn’t think the pines could grow so thickly at this elevation. I batted back branches, avoided exposed tree roots. No trail, just acres of forest.

Would Rich and Cammie have come here? I doubted it. There was no sign of human visitation. I turned back, went the wrong way, and came to a place where a large section of branches had been broken away, so large that through it I could see the meadow and the barn. There were tire tracks in the damp earth here. I followed them, ducking under the fractured branches.

There it was: an SUV, tucked way back under the trees. Filthy white, with a trailer hitch. As I moved forward, I identified it as a Subaru Forester. It was dusty and stained with pine sap and the right rear tire had gone flat. Branches cascaded over its roof.

Christ, not another body?

I peered through the Forester’s dirty rear window.

Empty.

I circled it, peering through the side windows.

Empty.

The passenger door was unlocked. I leaned inside it to open the glove box. Maps and some utensil-and-napkin packages from Kentucky Fried Chicken. A pencil flashlight and a bottle opener. Small pack of Kleenex. And, under it all, the Subaru’s registration and insurance card.

Herbert Smith, Vernon, California.

I was standing outside the convenience store by the highway when Lark pulled up in her cruiser. She waved at me and yelled, “Come on, McCone!”

I’d driven to the store where Cammie and Rich had stopped for beer on Friday, to use the pay phone because my cell wouldn’t work in the area. While I waited for Lark I asked the clerk if he remembered the couple. Yes, he said, they’d come in around three. The woman had made a call, the man had bought beer and beef jerky.

Now I slid into the cruiser next to Lark. “Are your technicians on the way?” I asked her.

“By chopper. You got some kind of divining rod?”

“What?”

“You know, like what they used to use to find water-only you find dead people.”

“There was no dead person in the SUV.”

“You want to bet that we won’t find one within a few hundred yards of it?”

“I’m not a betting woman.”

“You’re lucky. I am.”

I sat in the cruiser after I’d shown Lark where the Forester was hidden and watched her technicians arrive by a sheriff’s department helicopter. Then I got out and went to the far side of the barn, where I sat on the dusty ground and ate my sandwich and apple and sipped bottled water. Contemplated the mountains and the pines.

I was feeling at peace again, taking pleasure in the natural world in spite of my discovery in the forest. I’d taken steps toward my future; I’d taken steps to find out what had happened here, however grim. I thought of Amy. A certainty stole over me: I would find her, dead or alive, and set Ramon’s and Sara’s minds at rest.

About an hour later, Lark found me there. She sat on the ground too, took out her own water bottle, and drank deeply.

“My people’ve gone over the vehicle and the surrounding scene. We’ll have it towed to the garage so the techs can go over it again. I’ve got deputies on the way to conduct a search.”

I looked at my watch, was surprised to find it was only a little after two. Still, the light couldn’t be good under those tall trees, and dusk would fall early in the shadow of the mountains.

Lark sensed what I was thinking. “They’ll search as long as they can, then come back tomorrow.”

I nodded. “You have time to run me back to the convenience store? There’s nothing more I can do for you here.”

“Sure.” She stood up, dusted off her pants. “Just let me tell them I’m going.”

On the drive back to Vernon, I thought some more about Amy.

Waiflike woman, standing outside the Food Mart in the dark, pulling her flimsy clothing around her against the cold. Big eyes, and somehow I’d sensed her fear.

Tossed-away woman by the roadside, too proud to accept my offer of help.

The derelict cabin at Willow Grove Lodge, her meager possessions scattered around. The blood.

Dana Ivins had been a mentor to her. Bud Smith had tutored her. But somehow she’d fallen through the cracks.

The miles slipped by and soon I was in Vernon. I pulled to the curb across from the Food Mart, intending to walk over there and buy something microwavable for dinner. Sat there instead, my hands on the wheel, listening to what my subconscious had been trying to tell me while I sat on the dusty ground in the mountain meadow. Recalled the phone conversation Bud Smith had been finishing in his office when I went to see him. And got the message-loud and clear.

I’d have to move fast, before the sheriff’s deputies found Smith’s body.

Aspen Lane was deep in shadow when I reached it. I thought I saw a light shining faintly through the trees from Bud Smith’s double-wide, but when I turned into his driveway all was dark. I parked the Rover next to the boat that was up on davits and got out, my feet crunching loudly on the gravel. No other vehicle in the yard, yet I could smell the aroma of cooking food coming from inside the mobile home.

None of which was unexpected.

I moved up onto the deck under the awning. Knocked.

No response, but there was a soft scurrying noise. I sensed someone on the other side of the door, breathing shallowly.

I knocked again. Called out, “Amy, open up!”

The breathing stopped, then resumed at an accelerated pace. I tried the doorknob. Locked.

“Amy, I’m a friend of your Uncle Ramon. Please open the door.”

Gasping now; she’d begun hyperventilating.

“Please, Amy!”

A click as the lock turned. When I pushed inside, I found her crouching on the floor to the right of the door, her arms clasped across her breasts. Her shoulders heaved; she looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Stay there.”

In the kitchen I found a drawer full of folded grocery bags, took the smallest back to her. “Breathe into this.”

She stared, not understanding. I put the bag over her nose and mouth and repeated, “Breathe.”

The bag helped her get herself under control. Then she was able to stand, lean on me as I led her to one of the chairs.

“I know you…”

“Yes. I saw you outside the Food Mart, and then again on the highway when Boz Sheppard threw you out of his truck.”

“… You asked me if you could help.”

“And you walked away.”

Silence.

“I don’t think you want to walk away again.” Dusk was gathering outside, so I turned on a lamp. Amy was pale and much too thin; I could see her ribs outlined by her tube top.

A burning smell from the kitchen. I went in there and took a saucepan I hadn’t noticed before from the stove. Turned a control knob off. Ravioli, courtesy of Chef Boyardee. The empty can sat on the counter.

When I returned to Amy, she had pulled her legs up onto the chair and was wrapping herself in an afghan that had been slung across its back.

I tucked it around her, sat in the other chair.

“You’ve been here since whatever happened at Willow Grove Lodge?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Amy, talk to me.”

“Okay, I been here since the day after. I was asleep that night when somebody broke in. I fought him, and he stuck me on my forehead with a knife.” She touched a bandage above her right eyebrow. “So I kneed him in the balls and got away and hid in the grove. Next day, when I thought it was safe, I used the pay phone and called Bud. He brought me here. That night he went back to get my stuff from the cabin, but before he could pack it all somebody almost walked in on him, and he had to run off.”

So it had been Bud Smith, not Boz Sheppard, I’d chased through the grove. But whose presence had I sensed while I was having my picnic there? Not Amy’s or Boz’s; they’d been in his truck on the highway. Probably some trespasser who saw me and thought I belonged there.

“Where’s Bud now?”

Amy shrugged.

“Answer me. We don’t have much time.”

“Why?”

“I found Bud’s Forester this morning in the Toiyabe National Forest. The sheriff’s people are searching for his body. When they find it, they’ll come here.”

“Bud? Bud’s not dead.”

“Then where is he?”

She shook her head. “He said he’d come back. I been waiting every day…”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.” She pulled the afghan up to her chin. “He had a phone call and he left in a big hurry, didn’t even unhitch the empty boat trailer from his SUV. Said something about a relative… I don’t know!”

I considered my options. None of them were good. Finally I said, “You go get whatever stuff you need. Two minutes, no more.”

Big dark eyes filling with suspicion. “Where’re you taking me?”

“Home, to Ramon’s.”

Home is the place where…

Ramon and Sara fussed over Amy, crying and hugging her and bundling her up in front of their fireplace. Sara fetched homemade soup and the four of us sat around the coffee table to eat it.

After we were finished, I asked Ramon and Sara if we could speak privately. We went into the kitchen.

“She’s been living in Bud Smith’s mobile home since the day after the attack on her at Willow Grove. It happened the same night her sister was killed. I should’ve figured it out sooner: I sensed somebody was close by when I first went to the trailer looking for Bud. Amy heard my car and hid in the trees. The door was unlocked, so I went in and found clothing in the guest room-Amy’s. At the time I thought it belonged to a roommate.”

“Poor kid,” Sara said. “Why was she living at the lodge in the first place? She had a perfectly nice room here in town.”

“From what she told me on the way here, I gather it had to do with Hayley. Amy used to worship her big sister, even though she hadn’t seen her for years. But when Hayley came back to Vernon, Amy found out she was a prostitute. It tore up the fragile new life she’d built for herself. She regressed and, essentially, went home to the lodge.”

“But after the attack, why didn’t she come to us?”

“Because it was the logical place for whoever attacked her to look. She was scared, though she didn’t know Hayley was dead till Bud told her.”

Ramon’s face darkened. “That pervert had our Amy-”

“Smith’s not a pervert, and he didn’t do anything to Amy but give her shelter. The problem is, he’s likely been murdered up in Toiyabe. When the sheriff’s department finds his body, they’ll go to his trailer and discover somebody else besides Smith has been living there. After that, it’s only a short step to finding out it was Amy.”

He glanced helplessly at Sara. “What should we do?”

I said, “Do you have a lawyer?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he’s up to handling something like this.”

“Well, then, just make sure that she gets a lot of reassurance and a good night’s sleep. Chances are they won’t find Bud’s body till tomorrow-the light in Toiyabe was already bad when the sheriff’s people started searching. I’ll be back here around eight in the morning, take Amy to talk with the deputy in charge of the case. If she needs a lawyer, I can call one.”

Ramon asked, “What was this business with Boz Sheppard throwing her out of his truck?”

“On the way here we passed the spot where it happened. She told me he picked her up in town and came on to her, wanted her to go down to Inyo County with him. She refused, things got ugly, and he threw her out. I’d say there’s a good possibility that Sheppard was the one who attacked her in the cabin.”

“Did he rape her?”

“No.”

“But he cut her-the bastard!”

“If he’s the one who attacked her, he won’t get away with it.”

Two pairs of hopeful eyes looked back at me; Amy was all they had left of their family, and they needed me to sort this out.

Please help me. You can make this horrible thing right.

I don’t know what to do. Please help me.

I always wanted to say to clients, “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t.”

I always said, “I’ll give it my full attention. Don’t worry.”

There were various messages on my machine when I got back to the ranch house: Hy, Ted, Adah Joslyn, Ma, Patrick, Mick. I noted them down and began returning them in order of importance. Mick, since he’d said it was urgent, came first.

“I did a nationwide sweep on this Trevor Hanover, using some really sophisticated software Derek and I have worked up.”

“You’ve been creating sophisticated software on my time?”

“No, on ours. At night and on the weekends. Derek’s between women and, well, you know where I’m at. Anyway, today was the first time I’d put it through its paces and judging by its performance, I’d say he and I are due to make a bundle on the licensing. I’d’ve gotten back to you sooner, but the nurses keep taking my laptop away and telling me I should rest.”

“Well, you should. What have you got on Hanover?”

“I concentrated on the gap between when he was born and when he was rewarded with the cushy job for bringing the investment broker’s drunken daughter home. But Trevor Hanover-the one born in Tennessee-never lived in New York City or worked as a bartender. He and his folks died in an apartment house fire in Chicago when Trevor was thirteen.”

“The old stolen-identity trick. Our Trevor was in his twenties when he surfaced as a lucky bartender. Back then you could still easily get away with that kind of scam. Any details on the fire or the parents?”

“Typical tenement fire. Too many people, too many appliances, bad wiring. The father worked as a security guard. Mother described as a housewife. Trevor was in eighth grade. There’s not much information.”

“In short, they weren’t anybody, so no one cared.” Sad, bad truism of our society: we can cry over a movie star’s marital crisis, but we give scant attention when an ordinary family is wiped out in an accident that could have been prevented. “Anything else?” I asked Mick.

“I’m going to run a nationwide search on Hanover’s personal life as soon as Kelley here will return my laptop to me.” He paused, and then I heard him saying, “Kelley, please. Please, please, please. I’m going into withdrawal!” He came back on the line and added, “She’s relented, thank God. Talk later.”

Next I called Adah back. Only the voice mail at any of her numbers. I hoped her message meant she was seriously considering my proposition.

I decided to call Ma next, reserving Hy-the best-for last. The business calls could wait till tomorrow, after I’d taken Amy to Bridgeport to talk with Lark.