The Ridge

THE HONORABLE DOUG GRAYLING, Sawyer County Circuit Court judge, was presiding over his morning docket when Kimble arrived, so Kimble waited in his office, pretending to flip through an Outdoor Life magazine so he didn’t have to make conversation with the judge’s clerk and explain the purpose of his visit. The issue he picked up included a feature detailing mountain lion attacks in Montana and California. Just what he wanted to read about today.

When Grayling finally wrapped up his docket, it was nearly eleven in the morning, and Kimble had an ache down low along his spine from sitting so long.

“Kimble, hey there.”

He stood and shook the judge’s hand. “Hello, Doug. You have a minute?”

“Of course.”

They walked into his private office, and the judge sat behind his desk, let out a soft groan, and said, “It would be nice if assholes took the holidays off, wouldn’t it, Kimble? If people said, Hey, let’s take the month of December and not be pricks to one another, not get arrested, not get charged, not be arraigned. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“It would. You’ll have a tough time convincing them of the merits of the plan, though.”

“Agreed,” Grayling said. “What can I do for you?”

Kimble took a deep breath, looked at the judge who’d sentenced Jacqueline Mathis to ten years, and asked for an order on jailer to be issued. It was a simple bit of legalese granting the sheriff’s department temporary custody of an inmate. Usually this was done for court proceedings of some kind, when the inmate was required to travel for a hearing. Today Kimble requested it for purposes of investigation, and Grayling went silent.

“She’s in a minimum-security facility,” Kimble said, “and she’s recently been approved for work release. There’s no reason we can’t borrow her for a few hours.”

“No reason we can’t, okay. But I need to hear the reason we should.”

Kimble gave him the pitch: active investigation and a delicate one. Based on evidence found in Wyatt French’s lighthouse, he said, it was possible that a series of accidents that had occurred over the years at Blade Ridge might have been initiated.

“Initiated?” Grayling said. “What in the hell does that mean? Caused by French?”

Kimble had expected this jump, and while he felt a pang of guilt at allowing the misconception to flourish, he figured Wyatt would have approved. He’d wanted Kimble to pursue the truth, not polish his reputation.

“Possibly. There have been many deaths out there, Doug, and survivor accounts are uncomfortably similar. People report the accident being initiated by a man in the road.”

“You think he was causing car accidents by running out in the road?”

“I don’t think it’s anywhere near that simple. But he kept track of the dead, and of the survivors. I’ll tell you this in total honesty: I’ve never been more disturbed by discovery of evidence than I am by what I found in that lighthouse.”

“Homicide investigation,” Grayling echoed. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“Absolutely.”

“The man is dead. We can’t prosecute.”

“That does not remove the need for answers,” Kimble said, “and there’s the distinct possibility—probability, actually—that he was not working alone. One of our deputies died last night, Pete Wolverton, and that demands —”

“I’ve heard. I understood that he was killed by a cougar.”

“Autopsy results are pending, Doug, but I just got off the phone with the medical examiner. He says those results will confirm what I suspected when I saw the body last night—the cougar might have found Pete, but it did not kill him.”

“You’re saying that Pete Wolverton was murdered last night.”

“Yes. I think that’s what happened. I may be wrong, and I hope to be. But I don’t think that I am, and neither does the ME.”

“Tell me again why we need Jacqueline Mathis released for this?”

“She’s one of the survivors who reported activity on the road.”

“Well, interview her then. Get a statement.”

“I have. That’s why I’m here. I want her to walk me through it. I can’t overstate the importance of seeing the way she recreates the scene, Doug. I simply cannot overstate that.”

“You have a distinctly personal relationship with that woman, Kimble.”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“She shot you. That constitutes a—”

“I am well aware of who she is and what she did,” Kimble said. “I’m asking for a little latitude here.”

“It’s not my job to give you latitude, it’s my job to uphold the law.”

“That’s both of our jobs,” Kimble said. “How long have we worked together, Doug? How many cases? You know me, and you know my word. I’m asking you to let that count for something.”

“Always has, always will. But I’ve got to understand how she can help!”

“Her recollection of the scene is special.”

“Special.”

“Yes.” Kimble leaned forward and said, “Doug? I have never worked another case that feels as threatening to the people of Sawyer County as this one. Never.”

Grayling looked at him with alarm. “Car accidents that were really homicides. We’re actually talking about this. Based on evidence you found in a lighthouse.”

“We’re actually talking about it, yes. And I need her at the scene. It’s critical.”

“Someone else should handle her testimony.”

“It’s my investigation. And that was my deputy who died last night. I’m not turning it over to anyone else, Doug. You have a problem with that, you can call the sheriff himself. Troy will approve it.”

The Honorable Doug Grayling swore under his breath and ran both hands through hair that glistened with dye that left it an impossibly radiant shade of black.

“She shot you,” he said.

“I recall that, yes.”

“And you want me to issue an order on jailer to turn her over to you.”

“Twenty-four-hour release. This thing is big, Doug. It’s worth it. No, check that— demands it. I have to know what she can recreate at that scene.”

Grayling pushed back from his desk and stared at him for a long time. Kimble, who understood the value of silence, let him stare and didn’t press.

“I can’t give her to you alone,” Grayling said finally. “Not with your personal history. And I need a female officer there. Is that clear?”

“Diane Mooney will be with me,” Kimble said, and it was the second time he’d ever lied to a judge. The first time had also been with Grayling, only Kimble had been on the witness stand then. Not so much a lie back then as an omission. The prosecutor hadn’t asked specifically if, after the supposedly accidental shot that had dropped Kimble to the farmhouse floor, Jacqueline Mathis had leaned down, smiling, and pressed the muzzle of his own gun to his forehead.

“Do me a favor on this,” Kimble said. “Do the people of your county a favor on this. Keep it quiet, all right? You give me twenty-four hours and I hope to have the answers for you. You might not like them, or even believe them, but I intend to have them.”

“I’ll issue it. But I don’t like the way it feels.”

“Neither do I,” Kimble told him, and it felt good to speak the truth again.

34

ROY SAT IN A BOOTH at the Bakehouse, wondering why Kimble would possibly want to meet to discuss something so dark, so wildly implausible yet thoroughly documented, in a brightly lit coffee shop. It felt like a discussion for a dim and private room, where even whispers wouldn’t be overheard, where two men could talk