I pitched my tent and set my backpack in it, then looked to see if anyone else might need help. I saw Earl, the one guard whose name I had heard spoken, taking some medication. He was a man who appeared to be in his late forties; I thought his partner might be a little older.
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked.
“Me?” he asked, quickly stashing the pills away. “Oh, I’m fine.” At my questioning look he added, “Just getting over an ear infection. If certain parties knew, they would have kept me off this assignment.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He grinned. “Especially not Thompson.”
“Right. I guess it’s pretty clear that there’s no love lost between us.”
“Lady, there’s no love lost between Thompson and
“Nice to meet you, Earl. I’m Irene.”
“Oh, we all know you. You’re Harriman’s wife.”
“Yes.”
“Good man, Frank. Any of these other jokers give you problems, you let me know.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Earl!” one of the other cops called out. He was the burliest of the crew, and seemed to be the oldest.
“My partner, Duke Fenly,” Earl said, moving off. “Looks like he needs help with that tent.”
“Duke and Earl? You’re kidding.”
“Naw — we’re real aristocrats,” Earl said over his shoulder. “That’s why they put us in charge of all the royal assholes.”
Even with Earl’s help, the pair had trouble pitching their large tent, so I decided to help out. As we worked, Earl pointed out Merrick and Manton, two other guards, and an officer named Jim Houghton, who was putting up Thompson’s tent.
“He’s young to be a detective,” I said.
Earl snorted. “He’s no detective. He’s a uniform, just like we are. Thompson’s got no regular partner at the moment.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Off the record? ’Cause nobody can stand working with the s.o.b. So poor Houghton got drafted to be Thompson’s
“His flunky,” Duke growled. “But Houghton’s quiet — doesn’t let anything get to him. He’ll be okay.”
We had just brought the tent up on its poles when Thompson suddenly looked over from a discussion with Newly and shouted, “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”
Our hands stilled. Earl looked behind us, as if he couldn’t believe Thompson was yelling at him.
“What’s the problem, Detective Thompson?” Duke said icily.
“Get that goddamned reporter out of there!” Thompson said. “I don’t want her touching anything that belongs to the LPPD!”
“Gee, Bob,” Earl taunted, “that’s gonna be awful tough on Harriman when she gets home.”
The other cops laughed — even Houghton — which didn’t help Thompson regain his temper. “That’s his problem. Up here, I’m in charge. Got that?”
Duke and Earl didn’t look entirely convinced, but I decided to choose a better fight. I was tempted to loosen my grip on the tent and allow it to collapse, but again I saw Nick Parrish watching me. I looked away, seeking an ally. Andy was moving a wanigan — a chest full of cooking supplies — toward the cooking area. I was about to ask for his help, but before I could say anything to him, Ben Sheridan strolled over and took hold of the support I was clasping. “Go on,” he said.
My own small tent was on the edge of the clearing, on the lee side of some trees. I studied the sky for a moment, and decided to put the rainfly on. Then I chose a moment when even Nick Parrish wasn’t looking at me and backed myself inside the dome’s opening. I stayed facing the opening as I stowed my gear, an awkward process at times, but I needed to see the darkening sky, feel the cool air. I refused to let myself think about staying inside this confined space. I put on another layer of clothing, then stepped outside. I took out my little white-gas stove, and began to prime it.
Phil Newly saw me and hurried over. Watching his tense, jerky pace, it occurred to me that this trip into the woods might relax him, but I quickly snapped my thoughts back into reality — this wasn’t a vacation or some backpacking trip for a little R&R — we were on our way to unbury Nick Parrish’s horrible handiwork.
And here was his defender, smiling down at me. Charismatic at will. Newly had brown hair, chiseled features, and a pair of intense, dark eyes that were said to be able to unhinge a prosecution witness long before he asked his first question on cross. But decked out in his brand-spanking-new designer outdoorwear, he looked decidedly dudely. And harmless.
“Irene,” he chided, “you aren’t going to deprive us of your company at dinner, are you?”
“Deprive is hardly the word your opposition would use.” I’d been told to bring my own food supplies, although the others would be fed courtesy of the LPPD. Newly had bought steaks for this first night out.
“Hell,” he said, “if I can face all the loathing they express for my profession, you can manage, too. Come on and join us.”
