I got an armload of split larch and kindling from the woodshed and carried it to the cabin. This time I made it all the way through the door and saw that the phone machine light was blinking.
The voice was Sarah Lynn's, agitated to the point of trembling.
'Hugh, Gary Varna just left here. He said Kirk Pettyjohn's gone missing, and he wanted to know when you were here last night and how you seemed, and all that. What's going on? Call me.'
The little man in the phone machine said the call had come at 8:47 AM. Gary had left here about eight. That meant he'd gone straight to her place.
And that meant he was real interested in checking out my story.
I started to punch Sarah Lynn's number, but then hesitated. Rationally, I felt justified about the deceiving I'd done so far, but my gut didn't like it, and lying straight out to her about killing a man we'd both grown up with would be excruciating. I knew I was going to have to do it and keep on doing it, not just with her, but with other people who trusted me. But not just yet.
I made a small fire in the stove to break the chill. My belly was reminding me that I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. My mind wasn't interested, but my body demanded food. I dumped a can of corned beef hash into a frying pan and put it on the hot plate, then rummaged for something to go with it. I usually did my laundry and grocery shopping on Sunday mornings, and right now I was out of just about everything. The best I could come up with was a couple of bread heels and half a bag of stale potato chips. I put the bread in the toaster oven and got out cream cheese and Tabasco sauce from the refrigerator. I filled the kettle with fresh water and put it on the hot plate's other burner, ground up some coffee beans, and shook the powder into a filter cone to make myself a good strong cup.
The cabin was warming up, but it felt small and close. When the hash finished browning, I opened the door and ate standing up there, facing the quiet vista of forest and mountains.
The smell of the burned lumber was still hanging in the air, faintly disturbing-and it brought to light another of those slivers festering under the surface of my consciousness.
I'd taken it for granted that Kirk had set the fire and lied to me about it. But it must have started about dusk- right when he said he'd reburied the horses. That would have taken him a while, and the drive from the ranch to my place was close to half an hour. It would have been physically impossible for him to have gotten here that soon. Maybe he'd buried the horses earlier and lied about the timing, too. But I couldn't see any reason for that, and it made sense that he'd have waited till dark. I was concerned because if someone else had burned the wood-like Doug Wills, getting revenge for our fight-Gary Varna might find out I hadn't and I'd be caught in a lie really touchy to explain.
I was just finishing lunch when I heard a car coming up the road. I stayed in the doorway until I could get a glimpse. It was a small, off-white, fairly new sedan, not a sheriff's cruiser and not a vehicle I recognized as belonging to anybody I knew.
24
I didn't think someone bent on harm would broadcast his presence like that, but I'd thought the same thing about Kirk, and the car might even be a shill for someone else approaching on foot. I'd brought my father's pistol back into the cabin but it wouldn't do me much good except at close range, and I never wanted another face-to- face confrontation again. I pulled the door most of the way shut and strode to my gun safe. I knew the combination like high school kids knew their lockers', and within thirty seconds, I had my Model 70 elk rifle out.
I stepped to the door again, staying to one side, and jacked a round into the chamber. The car was just pulling up to my gate, about fifty yards away. The driver was a man, alone. I could see him lean forward in the seat, like he was reading the numbers on my mailbox, before he got out.
The rifle's scope gave me a clear look at him. I'd never seen him before any more than I had the car, and he was just as nondescript-my age or a little older, wearing glasses, clean-shaven, and neatly dressed. A bow tie added a prim, even nerdy touch.
Then I saw that he was carrying a nine-by-twelve mailer envelope, like the kind UPS and FedEx used, but colored yellow and green. I recognized it as being from XP-DITE, a local courier, the kind that ferried parcels and car parts around town. He squinted at the cabin like he was trying to decide whether to open the gate and come on up. But then he put the envelope in the mailbox, hung a tag on it, and drove away.
For two or three more minutes I stayed where I was, scanning the woods through the cabin's windows and wondering who in hell would have sent me an express package at all, let alone on a Sunday. Nothing moved that I could see except the tag on the mailbox, fluttering listlessly in the breeze.
I started down there as if I was sneaking up on game, half-crouched, ready to drop prone and shoot. Forty feet short of the gate, I stopped. After another long look around, I picked up a rock and chunked it at the mailbox. I felt like an asshole, but an envelope could hold enough explosives to blow somebody to bits.
I threw like an asshole, too. It took me five tries to connect with a good solid thunk. Nothing happened, not that that was any guarantee. I walked the rest of the way and cautiously pulled the mailbox door open. A few letters from yesterday were still there, a couple of flyers, and some other junk, with the XP-DITE envelope on top. My name and address were typed on a label. There was no return.
I slung the rifle over my shoulder and lifted out the mailer, tingling at the thought of plastic explosives or a cloud of anthrax dust. It was light, with only a slight bulge in the middle. I didn't touch the pull tab. Instead, I carried it back to the cabin and cut off the opposite edge with scissors.
Inside, there was a plain white letter-sized envelope. Inside that were twenty-five hundred-dollar bills.
I sat down in the doorway with the money in my hand, staring out into the forest.
With everything else that had happened, I'd almost forgotten that I'd demanded the bail money from Balcomb. I'd assumed that if he did pay it, he'd deal directly with Bill LaTray. But it made sense that he wouldn't want anyone else to know about it. Gary Varna might believe that he'd dropped the charges out of the goodness of his heart, but his paying my bail on top of that would be a big red flag that there was more to this.
I briefly considered the notion that he was spooked enough by Kirk's disappearance to really back off. But Balcomb keeping his word made me even more nervous than him being straightforwardly out to get me. It underlined the one thing I was sure of-that I couldn't keep on like this much longer, edging around sideways and looking over my shoulder.
The ring of the phone was like an exclamation point to what I'd just been thinking, making my hands jerk so hard I almost dropped the bills. I guessed that this was Sarah Lynn, and tried to phrase an apology.
'Finally, you're home,' a woman said. 'I've been calling you all morning.'
It was a different voice from Sarah Lynn's, one I'd only heard a few times, but easy to recognize-refined, musical, softened by the trace of a southern accent.
I couldn't say that Laurie Balcomb was the last person on earth I'd expected to hear from, but that came close.
'My message machine seems to be working,' I said.
'I didn't want to leave a message. I didn't know who else might be around. We need to talk, in person.'
'Is that a fact?' I was already suspecting another of Balcomb's setups, and the coolness must have come across in my voice.
'I can understand why you don't like me,' she said, sounding anxious now. 'But I want to help you.'
That was just how Kirk had come on. At least he'd had a plausible pitch, but there was no reason I could see why she should be feeling generous toward me.
'Mrs. Balcomb-'
'Laurie, please.'
'It's not that I don't like you. To be perfectly truthful, I don't know you well enough to have a take one way or the other. But right off the top, you being your husband's wife doesn't exactly make us buddies.'
'When I found out how he treated you, I could have killed him.'
She said it very convincingly. My skepticism stayed, but I scaled it back a shade.
'What is it we have to talk about?' I said.
'Will you just please come meet me? I'm in town, at a phone booth. I couldn't get through on my cell
