a way she never had before — searching his face for some clue as to what had gone wrong, what had changed him.
And whether he’d killed Kumquat?
The thought flashed unbidden into her mind; she banished it instantly, furious at herself for allowing Mark Blakemoor to have planted the seed of such an idea. And Glen looked all right — he was smiling; smiling the way he used to, before his heart attack. As he leaned over to kiss her, she felt her guard lowering a little.
“Hey, guy,” he said, straightening up from the kiss and rumpling Kevin’s hair. “Why the long faces? You two having a fight?”
“Mom thinks I should have to come home with Heather every day,” Kevin grumbled.
“I didn’t say that,” Anne began, then realized it was almost exactly what she had said, or at least implied. “All right, maybe I did. But just promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Stay away from strangers, and if you see anyone even looking at you, just walk away. Promise?” Kevin’s eyes rolled heavenward once more. “Promise?” Anne repeated.
“Do what your mom says, and I’ll take you fishing on Saturday.”
Instantly Kevin’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Really. I promise, if you promise.”
“I promise!” Kevin sang out. “Where?” he demanded. “Are we going to be gone all night? Can Justin go, too?”
“No, Justin can’t go.” Glen laughed. “It’s gonna be just you and me. And I don’t know where we’ll go. And maybe we’ll spend the night somewhere, and maybe we won’t, depending on what your mom thinks.”
As Kevin dashed out of the room to call Justin Reynolds and tell him how he was going to spend the weekend, Anne tamped down her irritation with her husband. What was going on? When had he decided to take Kevin fishing for the weekend? He certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about it to her, and until now they’d always discussed everything concerning the kids. Even before Heather was born, they’d resolved to make all the decisions together. “Don’t I have anything to say about this fishing trip?” she asked, abandoning the attempt to conceal her feelings. “And while you’re at it, you might tell me why you didn’t bother to leave me a note. After what’s been happening—”
“Hey,” Glen broke in, holding up his hands as if to fend off an attack of swarming bees. “Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t leave a note. I went down to see Gordy Farber, and it took a little longer than I thought it would.”
Anne’s anger instantly dissolved into concern. “What did he say?” she asked, hoping the doctor hadn’t told Glen he’d called him at her own urging.
“He said I’m doing just fine,” Glen replied, seeing no reason to worry her. Besides, both Farber and Jake Jacobson had told him to stop worrying, hadn’t they? “If I’d gotten home five minutes earlier, you wouldn’t even have known I’d been gone, would you?” He moved closer to her and drew her to her feet. “Come on, it wasn’t more than five minutes, was it?”
His arms drew her close to his chest, and Anne’s determination wavered. “It was closer to ten minutes,” she said, struggling to keep some kind of control over the situation. “And you still haven’t answered my question about this little trip with Kevin. We always talk about these things, remember?”
“How could I remember?” Glen asked. “I’ve never even considered taking Kevin fishing before.”
Now his lips were nuzzling at her neck, and part of Anne wanted to push him away, while the other part wanted to snuggle closer. “Glen, wait,” she protested, but his embrace only tightened. “Oh, God, what am I going to do with you?” she sighed, her anger collapsing under a wave of affection for the man she’d married.
Anne was still in Glen’s arms when Boots trotted into the room. The little dog started toward Glen but stopped abruptly, one foreleg hovering off the floor. A tiny growl emerged from his throat and his hackles rose.
Then, his eyes still fixed on Glen, he slowly backed away.
CHAPTER 57
Rolph Gustafson and Lars Gunderson had been fishing buddies for more than seven decades, ever since they’d grown up next door to each other in Ballard, where they’d thrown their first lines into the ship canal that separated their neighborhood from the main part of Seattle just to the south. Back then they’d dreamed about all the places they would go to when they grew up, but it turned out that they both still lived in Ballard — a block apart now, but not more than two blocks from the houses in which they’d grown up. They were both widowers, both still talked about going to Norway to look up cousins they’d never met, and both still loved to fish. The main thing that had changed over the seven decades was that they now preferred to cast their lines in the mountain streams to the east of the city rather than in the canal that bisected it. This morning — as on practically every Saturday morning since Lars’s wife had died three years earlier — they set out before dawn, their fishing gear stowed in the backseat of Rolph’s old Dodge, coffee and doughnuts balanced on Lars’s knees. By the time they had crossed the I-90 bridge and began the climb up toward Snoqualmie Pass, they were already arguing about where to try their luck today.
As on every other Saturday morning, Rolph turned off at the Snoqualmie exit while Lars grumbled that they really ought to go farther on, and then as they made their way through the town, past the power plant and falls, and started down the road that wound along the river, they launched into their discussion of the merits of trying out a few of the holes they’d heard of over the years but never quite gotten around to fishing. The debate was still going strong as Rolf pulled into the same campground they’d been fishing out of for years, parked the car, and got out. He began extracting fishing equipment from the tangle of possessions that had been filling the backseat since his own wife had died, only two months before Lars’s Greta had gone to her reward. “Hildie’d kill me if she saw this,” Rolf sighed, eying the accumulation of junk that now completely filled the floor of the backseat.
“Yeah, sure,” Lars replied. “But that don’t mean you wouldn’t want her back, huh?”
Grunting under the weight of their equipment, the two old men started along the trail that wound down from the picnic area where they’d parked Rolf’s Dodge to the edge of the river. There was a wide bend at the foot of the trail, and even at the peak of the spring floods there was still a narrow rocky beach. The snow-pack had been light this year, though, and the thaw early, so today the beach would be wide.
They were halfway down when Lars stopped short, his eyes fixing on something that lay half concealed in the thick underbrush. “Oh, boy,” he said, whistling softly. “Would you look at that. Don’t think there’s going to be much fishing today.”
He moved off to the right as Rolf edged up next to him. For a long moment the two old men stared at the nude body that lay sprawled in the bushes, arms akimbo, empty eye sockets gaping grotesquely.
The body was still recognizable as that of a woman, but already it appeared to have provided meals for several kinds of wildlife. The chest had been torn open, and it looked as though something had been gnawing at one of the arms and the legs. Insects were swarming over the corpse, and even as they watched, something skittered out from under the body and disappeared into the underbrush. As Lars took a step toward the body, Rolf’s gnarled hand closed on his friend’s elbow. “Don’t think we ought to be touchin’ nothin’,” he said. “Seems to me like we ought to just be calling the police.”
Lars, who had enough experience with dead bodies back in World War II to last him whatever years he had left, nodded his agreement. The two men returned to the campground, found a phone, and dialed 911. Then they sat in the front seat of the Dodge to wait for the sheriff to arrive. Lars uncapped the thermos and split the last of the coffee between them.
Sipping their coffee, the two old men quietly reflected on the impermanence of life and the myriad ways there were to die. It was Rolf who finally broke the silence. “When my time comes,” he said, “I think I’d just as soon drown in the river with a big fish on my line.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lars agreed. “You bet’cha!”
By the time the first police car pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later, neither Lars nor Rolf had been able to think of much else to say.
For the next few hours cars continued to stream into the campground, first from the local sheriff’s office in Snoqualmie, then from the State Patrol, finally from the Homicide Department of the Seattle Police Department.
