wanted to know if the teacher assigned homework for the weekend.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it,’ Rollie said. ‘I was sitting with her in the living room when she got the call.’
‘Why did Ashlynn call Tanya and not someone else?’
‘Probably because they’re the two best students in the class. Not that I understand why. Tanya sure doesn’t get her religious savvy from me.’
Chris frowned. The explanation made sense. It was simple. Logical. Unmysterious. Even so, it bothered him. ‘Do you know what Ashlynn was doing that day?’ he asked.
‘No, Tanya just said she missed class.’
‘She was in Nebraska having an abortion,’ Chris said.
Rollie looked sucker-punched. He was genuinely upset. ‘Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip, Chris. I had no idea.’
‘It’s hard to believe Ashlynn was worried about a homework assignment while she was losing her baby,’ Chris said.
‘I don’t know what to tell you. Tanya told me what the call was about, and I believe her.’
‘I’d really like to talk to her.’
‘Chris, she’s scared, she’s fragile, and she didn’t do anything. I’m not putting her through more intimidation.’ Rollie turned as the noise of a buzzer floated through the open door of the house. ‘That’s our dinner, too, so I’m going to say goodnight.’
‘What’s on the menu?’
‘Tater tot hot dish. Tanya’s favorite.’
‘Enjoy it,’ Chris said.
‘Be sure to give Olivia her best wishes, okay?’
‘I’ll do that.’
The younger lawyer disappeared up the stairs and shut the door. Chris stood next to his Lexus without getting inside. The phone call still bothered him. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t believe it was that simple, no matter what Tanya had told her father. Something else was going on between her and Ashlynn, and he wanted to find out what it was.
He opened his car door, but as he did, he saw movement rustling the curtains on an upstairs bedroom. A face quickly vanished from sight, but their eyes met across the dark space. It was Tanya Swenson. She’d been hiding near the open window as Chris talked to her father.
She’d heard everything.
26
It was nightfall. Under the barest sliver of moon, the open lands of the Spirit River valley were almost invisible.
Chris pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the road where 120th Street led to the river. His engine ran. He switched his lights off. Trees hung low over the asphalt, draping their branches on the roof of the Lexus. He gripped the steering wheel, debating whether to turn. He had been agonizing all day about what he needed to do. There were certain lines in life that were indelible: if you crossed them you couldn’t go back.
The gun was on the passenger seat beside him.
His daughter was in the hospital. She’d been brutally violated. She would recover, but the stain would be with her for ever, like a tattoo inked into her brain. Like graffiti scrawled on a perfect, beautiful painting. His anger was so deep it left him speechless. Something needed to be done; someone needed to pay. He thought about Marco Piva, who had become his conscience and his compass in the short time he had known him.
Half a mile behind him, headlights drew closer on the highway. He couldn’t afford to be seen here, and he had to make a choice: stay or go. With a tap of the accelerator, he swung into the woods that lined the river road. He coasted toward the water. Acorns and branches popped and snapped under his tires. He squinted, but he was mostly blind. Lights winked through the trees, marking the handful of houses built well back inside the forest. He lowered his window, and he could smell the dankness of the river not far away. Ahead of him, where the lights vanished, the road ended at the water. He was as close as he dared go.
He did a three-point turn and pulled as far to the side of the road as he could. He didn’t get out immediately; instead, he stared into nothingness. Wet leaves clung to his windshield. A crow screamed in the treetops. He took the revolver from the seat and felt its heft in the palm of his hand. He was like Hannah. He’d always hated guns. It wasn’t until this moment that he felt they had a place in this world.
Chris got out silently. He kept the ignition key in his hand and held it apart from the other keys on his ring. Carefully, he laid the key ring on the front seat, so that he could sweep up the ignition key without struggling to find it in the darkness. He eased the door shut with a quiet click. The gun nestled in his hand.
He planted each step softly. His pulse thudded through his throat and made a roar in his brain. Drooping pine branches scraped his face like fingers, startling him. He stopped, listening. Something scurried in the brush, a small animal alarmed by his presence. The river water slapped on the bank. In the still air, he heard a murmur of voices. Someone laughed.
The lights of the last house were twenty yards away. Kirk’s house.
A yellow light bulb flickered like Morse code on one corner of a detached garage. The bulb on the other corner, closest to the house, was burned out. He saw an F-series pick-up truck parked outside. The house itself was small, one story, with peeling white siding. The front porch was dark. So was the deck, overlooking the river. The lights he saw, and the voices he heard, came from the near side of the house, beyond the garage. A square glow framed the window.
Chris approached the pick-up, which was spattered with mud. Between the garage and the house, the wet ground was covered with long brown grass. The flickering light on the wall of the garage cast faint, moving shadows. He veered to the corner and used the sleeves of his shirt to turn the hot bulb until it went black. He was invisible now for anyone who looked into the woods. He crossed to the house and crept toward the rear window. It was a casement window, cranked open, with no screen. The voices got louder. He distinguished two sets of male voices. Kirk wasn’t alone.
Chris peered inside the bedroom. A king-sized bed was shoved against the nearest wall, immediately under the open window, with no headboard. The bed was empty, the sheets and blankets tousled into knots. He saw a high-definition television on the other side of the room; the screen was at least fifty inches wide. An elaborate weight-training system was positioned in the corner. The walls were painted navy blue, and he saw several crushed holes in the sheetrock, the size of an angry fist.
Kirk Watson sat in a leather recliner. His chest was bare, and he wore checkered boxers. His long hair was loose around his shoulders. His arms and legs bulged with well-defined muscles. In the doorway of the bedroom, Chris spotted Lenny Watson, smaller and younger, still with a bandage on his face. Lenny stared straight at Chris, and Chris tensed, expecting the kid to shout. Instead, Lenny kept talking to his brother, unable to see into the darkness outside the window.
‘Six in the morning, man,’ Lenny said. ‘Shit, that’s early.’
‘Well, it’s not the kind of business I’m going to do at noon in front of the courthouse, Leno. Don’t be stupid.’ Kirk reached for a bottle of beer. ‘You want to stay in bed, you lie there and have a wet dream. I don’t need you.’
‘No, I want to come with you.’
‘Just make sure you’re ready. I’m not waking you up, Leno, got that?’
‘I got it.’
‘I want you in place by six-thirty. Sun’s up at seven.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You remember the deal, right? I drop you at the monument site with the binocs, and you keep your eye on
