14
We finished the car rental paperwork by noon, then loaded the vehicle up with coffee, snacks and Amanda's iPod. I fought the good fight to bring mine, but lost despite a valiant effort. To be honest, it wasn't much of a fight since I learned early in our relationship that when it came to playing music, Amanda had the one and only vote. The only thing I could do was learn to love
Fleetwood Mac and early Britney Spears. Though I did worry that listening to 'Rumors' right after 'Oops!…
I Did It Again' might cause my head to distend like when you poured cold water on hot metal.
It was Saturday. Hopefully we wouldn't hit much traffic, the rest of the city either sleeping off hangovers or snacking on fried dough with powdered sugar at a street fair.
Luckily the car had an iPod dock built in. Amanda hooked it up and began scrolling through songs. I started the engine and pulled into traffic and headed toward the George Washington Bridge.
'You know, isn't there some kind of rule stating that whoever drives gets to choose the music?'
'I think that law was considered outdated in the
1970s. Now the female in the car gets to choose the tunes.'
'What if there's more than one woman in the car?'
I asked.
'Then it goes to the most dominant female,' she said drily. 'If need be you lock them all in a steel cage and whoever is the last one alive chooses the music. Kind of like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.'
'Nice to know after all these years Mel Gibson still exerts influence over all realms of pop culture.'
'Stop whining,' she said. 'Here. Try this one. And if I hear one reference to 'sugartits' you can walk upstate alone.'
She pressed Play, and soon a familiar tune came over the speakers. It was Bob Dylan's 'Not Dark Yet.' It was a beautiful, melancholy song. I looked at her, confused.
'I know you like this song,' she said, a sweet smile spread across her lips. 'I figured we can split music choices. There's more stuff you like on there.'
I stayed quiet, just smiled at her, listened to Dylan sing.
As we began the drive, we fell into a routine that was becoming familiar and comforting. Our conversations came easily. Each silence felt warm rather than simply because of a lack of topics to discuss. Being by this girl's side filled me up in a way I'd never truly experi enced. Nothing between us had been forced. From the moment we met during the most stressful situation imaginable, there were a million moments when, if we'd not been stronger, things could have broken apart.
Not too long ago I'd done just that. I thought I was being noble, chivalrous. Putting her life before mine. I learned quickly my heart didn't agree with that decision, and neither of us had rested easy.
When I contacted her for help on a story-that phone call as much for emotional help as professional-it was only a matter of time before we got back together.
Amanda was smart, tough, resilient. Stronger than I was. And together we were more than the sum of our parts. If not for her, my father might still be sitting in an
Oregon prison trying to simply wait out the legal process. At least now we had a chance to help set things right.
Of course, the one bad thing about being together was our tendency to snack. We went through two large coffees, a giant bag of Combos and half a dozen cookies by the time we hit I-95. If we kept going at this pace I'd have to ask Amanda to start hauling my big ass around in a pickup truck to talk to sources.
The scenery driving up was truly breathtaking. Pine trees studded the landscape as we passed numerous hiking and cross-country skiing trails. There was little up here for visitors other than what nature offered. I could see why Stephen Gaines liked to come here. As much as I loved the clicks and clacks of the newsroom, there was something about the peace and quiet this area offered that appealed to me.
It was six o'clock by the time we turned onto I-87
North heading toward Blue Mountain Lake. The city itself was nestled in Hamilton County, in the town of
Indian Lake. After passing Albany and Saratoga
Springs, we turned onto Route 28 toward Indian Lake.
The drive down 28 was breathtaking. The roads were teeming with lush, green trees, small-town stores and crisp blue water. It was the NewYork that existed outside of what people commonly associated with New York.
Nearly untouched by technology, commerce and industry.
About half an hour down 28, we passed a brownbrick building on our left. The sign read, Adirondack
Museum. The lettering was burned into a wooden plaque, and unlike some other museums I'd seen in my travels this one looked remarkably well maintained. It was a shame, I thought, that I'd seen so many places yet actually experienced so few. When I traveled, there was always a reason. A story, something pulling me to a des tination. There was never much time to enjoy my sur roundings. I was here for business, and as much as I could admire the beauty of this place, I wouldn't-at least now-be able to lose myself in it.
We drove several miles down Route 28, the majesty of Blue Mountain Lake on our left. I could picture
Stephen Gaines (or was it myself?) sitting in a chair by the water, writing in a spiral-bound notebook, listening to nothing but the world itself. It was a far cry from what
I'd gotten used to in the city. Either I could love being here for the blissful solitude-or it would drive me crazy not to hear blaring horns and the music of the newsroom.
There were several unpaved roads, which, according to Rose, led to various cabins. There weren't many year-round residents up here, and most of the occu pants were, like Stephen and Helen, city dwellers who came to get away from the hustle and bustle. Each house stood far enough away from its neighbor to allow peace and quiet, but were close enough that it did feel like somewhat of a community up here.
As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road, on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had come here had done so in between the time Stephen
Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,
Helen had come here, we would hopefully find her.
The tracks leading away could have been Helen shopping, picking up supplies.
Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have answers. Even if she didn't know who killed her son, she would certainly know what he might have been mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope, our only lead. My father's only hope.
We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the
Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.
As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was clean. If Helen was here, she hadn't made a fire recently.
'Henry,' Amanda said, her hand gripping my arm tighter. 'Look at that.'
In the dirt driveway, we could clearly make out the tread markings from a second set of tires. These treads were marked with numerous crisscrossing lines, both vertical and horizontal in even patterns. Truck tires tended to have more grooves, deeper cuts, better for sluicing water and specifically designed for off-roading.
These tracks likely belonged to a some sort of SUV. Our eyes followed the tracks back to a clearing in the woods.
Whoever had come here hadn't used the front door.
They'd come in a different way. They didn't want to be seen arriving. Who could have come here besides
