The Alpine Recluse (23 page)

I’d gone only a few feet when I heard a noise. At first, I thought it was Beth, out of sight, but somewhere below me on the zigzagging trail. But the sound—a branch, a bird, a deer?—had been either behind or above me. I looked up into the ceiling of fir and hemlock. I saw no chipmunk, no jay, no crow, no wildlife of any kind. I stood very still and listened.

Nothing but the silence of the forest. Any creek that had tumbled nearby had dried up by early August. Even at this level of over three thousand feet, there was no snow. The only living creature I saw was a deerfly. I waved it away, not wanting to become its next meal.

But I definitely felt a presence. I was being watched. I’d lived next to nature for too long not to be able to sense intrusion, if not actual danger. I’d had the same feeling several times over the years when I’d been out in my backyard, and later found fresh deer tracks in the damp ground just beyond the tree line.

But the noise could have been made by a bear, even a cougar. I debated about whether or not I should move. Bears won’t bother you if you don’t bother them—or so I’d been taught. Cougars were another matter. I decided to start down the trail.

But I was unnerved, and when I slipped again in my frivolous sandals, there was nothing to grasp. I tumbled into a heap at the bend in the trail. And swore.

I’d twisted my right ankle, skinned my knees, and bruised my left arm. For a few seconds after I stopped cursing, I huddled on the ground, wondering if I dared test the ankle to make sure it wasn’t broken. Like an idiot, I’d left my purse—and cell phone—in the car.

I didn’t hear the sound again. But after I flexed my ankle enough to make sure it was still in one piece and brushed the dirt and gravel off my knees, I finally looked up.

That’s when I saw him.

He was a scant four feet away from me, standing on the trail in a ragged tank top and tattered pants, barefoot, and with a long gray beard.

I was so startled that I couldn’t speak. I knew he was Old Nick.

But when I finally found my voice, I took a deep breath and a big chance. “Hello, Craig,” I said. “How are you?”

NINETEEN

H
E DIDN’T RESPOND
. The man simply stood there, studying me as if I were part of the landscape.

“Can you help me?” I asked, anxiety overcoming pain.

He still didn’t budge.

“I can’t get up,” I said in a plaintive voice.

At last, he came toward me. I was beginning to tremble. Wordlessly, he bent down to peer at every inch of my battered body. Crazily, I thought of Hansel and Gretel, with the old witch speculating about how much meat they had on their bones before she put them in the oven.

“What hurts?” The words were raspy, as if his voice had rusted from lack of use.

“My ankle, mostly,” I said.

His eyes were green, dark green like pine needles. He didn’t smell like pine, though. Old Nick—or Craig, or whoever he was—smelled of sweat and poor hygiene.

With astonishingly gentle fingers—long and lean—he felt the ankle. It didn’t look as if it had begun to swell, but it still hurt.

“Hold on.” He put his hands under my armpits and slowly lifted me to my feet. “Don’t walk. Test the weight.”

I shifted from one foot to the other. My ankle was painful, but not unbearable. Could I manage a hundred yards on it? The length of a football field, I thought irrelevantly. Or maybe not. The end zone meant safety.

Suddenly it dawned on me. My rescuer didn’t appear to have any intention of harming me. All he’d done so far was help. I was still shaking a bit, but my fear began to ebb.

“You are Craig Laurentis, aren’t you?” I finally said.

He looked exasperated. “So?”

“Don’t you care how I know who you are?”

“I already know.”

I stared at him. “You do? How?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“I’m curious, that’s all.” I paused, but he said nothing. “How can I thank you?” I asked.

“You already did.” He turned around and started walking up the trail.

I opened my mouth to call his name, but realized it wouldn’t do any good. I was in no shape to chase after him. I’d be lucky if I could get back down to the cul-de-sac. A moment later, he’d made a sharp turn in the trail and disappeared.

It seemed to take forever to navigate my descent. Every step was painful, and I hung on to whatever branch, root, or rock I could find to keep myself upright. At last I moved out from the trees and into the clearing. The sun blinded me for an instant before I saw Beth, pacing around the area by her car.

“Good Lord!” she cried. “What happened to you? You look like a wreck!”

“I fell,” I said, reluctant to give her the details. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look it,” she said with a frown. “You’re limping, and your slacks are torn. Do you need to see a doctor?”

I shook my head. “Any luck?”

“No.” She grew despondent. “I searched around here while I was waiting for you, but I couldn’t see any sign of Mom. Should we go to the sheriff’s headquarters?”

We didn’t need to. Bill Blatt was pulling up in his patrol car. He got out and hurried over to us. “Dodge has been trying to get hold of you,” he said to me before turning to Beth. “A couple walking their dog found your mother in John Engstrom Park. She’s okay.”

“Thank God!” Beth cried. “The park’s right by the nursing home! Why didn’t anybody look there sooner? Why didn’t I?”

“She was asleep,” Bill said, taking off his regulation hat and mopping his brow with a blue and white handkerchief. “It was the dog who found her, actually. Your mother was under some of those big rhododendron and azalea bushes.”

“Where is she now?” Beth asked.

“In the nursing home infirmary. Just to make sure she’s okay,” Bill explained. “Doc Dewey’s checking her out.”

Doc was having a busy Sunday. Bill finally took a long look at me. “What happened? You look like you’ve been in a brawl.”

“Just a dumb fall,” I said. “Where’s Milo?”

“Doing paperwork,” Bill replied. “Eriks is locked up, Cookie finally went home, and Fleetwood got tired of waiting for news that wasn’t going to break. Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “Toni Andreas called to say she’s quitting her job. In fact, she’s moving to Alaska.”

I shook my head. “That’s sort of precipitous. But I’m not surprised.”

Beth obviously didn’t care if Toni moved to Mozambique. “I’m going to the nursing home,” she said, getting into her car. “Thanks, Emma. I really appreciate your help.” She drove off before I could respond.

“Poor Beth,” Bill said. “Well, I’m glad I found you two together. That made things simpler.” He nodded in the direction of the rubble. “It looks like we’ve got this whole thing pretty well wrapped up. Gosh, who would’ve thought Wayne Eriks would kill his own son-in-law?”

“People are very complex,” I said.

But I wasn’t convinced that Wayne had done it.

L
OOKING BACK,
I
’M
not sure why I had doubts about Wayne’s guilt. He had been so eager to report that he’d seen Old Nick—or maybe I should start calling him Craig—near the crime scene. But Wayne had gone to the sheriff after the fact, and his story had sounded contrived. Wayne certainly wasn’t one of my favorite local citizens since he’d made a pass at me, but that hardly qualified him as a murderer—just a jerk. I couldn’t even envision him in a rage, quarreling with Tim and coming to blows that resulted in death.

All these thoughts went through my head as I drove to the sheriff’s headquarters. That short trip wasn’t easy. It hurt every time I put my right foot on the gas pedal or the brake. By chance, I reached my destination just as Toni Andreas was getting out of her car.

“Toni,” I called out, limping toward her. “I heard you quit.”

Toni frowned and peered at me over the top of her sunglasses. “How did you learn that so fast?”

“I ran into Bill Blatt,” I replied.

“Oh.” Toni proceeded to the main entrance. “I’ve come to collect my personal stuff. I’m leaving for Fairbanks tomorrow.”

“That soon?” I was surprised. “Don’t you have to give notice?”

“I guess not,” she said, going through the door.

Dustin was still behind the counter, talking on the phone. When he saw us enter, he rang off abruptly. “Hi,” he said to both of us, but his gaze was fixed on Toni. “Are you sure about this? Don’t you want to talk it over with Dodge?”

Toni shook her head. “I got a last-minute cheap fare. It’s almost the end of the month, so I won’t lose much on my rent, if I get my damage deposit back. I’ve made up my mind.” She went behind the counter to her desk. “This won’t take long.”

“Toni,” Dustin pleaded, “this is crazy. How do you know you’ll like Alaska? Do you have a job up there? Have you any friends?”

Toni gave him a baleful look. “I’m not sure I have any friends here. And I’m sick of this job. I’m sick of Alpine.” She began to pull out drawers. “Have you got a carton around here somewhere?”

“Yes.” Dustin sighed and headed down the corridor.

I considered arguing with Toni, but knew it was hopeless. Furthermore, the only person she seemed to take advice from was my son. I knew he’d been cautious, but Toni must have taken his lack of negativism for tacit approval. Besides, I had other matters on my mind.

I’d seen Milo’s Grand Cherokee parked outside, so I assumed he was still in his office. Toni paid no attention to me as I went through the counter’s swinging gate and limped over to Milo’s closed door. I knocked twice and announced myself.

I heard him tell me to come in.

“Jeez, Emma, what’s with you? Did you get in a fight at Mugs Ahoy?”

I flopped into his visitor’s chair. “I fell down. Old Nick helped me get up.”

“Right.” Milo pushed his chair back a few inches from the desk. “Man, your arm’s turning some funny colors. Do you want an ice bag?”

I glanced at the bruise. It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t hurt as much as my ankle. Or even my knees. “I’m not kidding,” I declared. “Old Nick is definitely Craig Laurentis. I met him in the woods above the cul-de-sac.”

Milo turned serious. “No shit. When?”

“About twenty minutes ago. I was with Beth, looking for her mother.”

“They found her in the park,” Milo said absently. “Did Beth meet this guy, too?”

“No. She’d gone on ahead back down the trail that leads up from the Rafferty property.”

He got out his cigarettes and offered me one. I took it, wishing he were the kind of lawman who kept a bottle of booze in the desk drawer. “So what happened?” he inquired.

I explained in careful detail. “Then he just ambled off, up the trail. Maybe he lives around there.”

“Hunh.” Milo stared off into space. “I thought you were nuts when you told me your theory. It makes sense, though. Reclusive artist, probably a hippie dropout, antisocial, antigovernment, antiestablishment—the whole bit. I wonder if his family knows where he is and what he’s doing.”

“They probably gave up on him years ago,” I said. “Or they think he’s dead, probably from an overdose.”

“Could be. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Milo tapped ash into his Marlboro Man ashtray. “He still could be a witness.”

“Not a suspect?”

Milo grunted. “We’ve got our man.” He gestured behind him. “Eriks is locked up and feeling very sorry for himself.”

“He still claims he’s innocent?”

“Oh, yeah. Cookie is his alibi. You know what that means.”

I didn’t express my doubts. They were too ill-founded. “Motive?”

“I figure Tim wasn’t a very good husband,” Milo said. “He may have been physically as well as verbally abusive. I suppose Wayne and Tim got into it, a fight broke out, and Wayne cracked him with a baseball bat. I’ll admit, he probably didn’t mean to kill him. It may even be self-defense. Once he’s got an attorney, that could be the plea. It might even work. Of course, there’s still the arson charge. Wayne started the fire to cover the murder. It all fits.”

“Evidence?”

“The burns on his arms,” Milo said. “The flimsy alibi. We’ll find more, like traces of kerosene on his shoes or some other signs of how the fire started. That’s up to the crime lab folks.”

“What if Wayne destroyed what he was wearing that night?”

Milo shrugged. “Why didn’t he have those burns treated if he got them on the job? Why was he coughing a day or so after the murder and fire?”

I remembered how Wayne had coughed and blown his nose when he’d come into the
Advocate
office. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time—a cold, allergies, a chronic condition. People who work outdoors often have allergies year-round, whether from pollen or mold or whatever other natural source agitates their respiratory systems.

“That’s true,” I murmured. “It could have been from smoke inhalation. Maybe one of the doctors should check his lungs. Could there still be some signs of the smoke?”

Milo gazed at his cigarette. “Wayne’s a smoker. I honestly don’t know if the docs could tell at this late date. I’ll ask.”

I put my own cigarette out even though I’d smoked only half of it. What I really needed was some aspirin. “Will you look for Old Nick—I mean Craig—in the area above the cul-de-sac?”

Milo nodded. “We’ll give it a go. It gets pretty rugged up there, but at least we won’t have to fight the snow this time of year.” The sheriff pulled his chair up closer to the desk and peered at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

I made a face. “I’m not in pieces. I’m just banged up. By the way, I think Craig’s been tromping around in the Rafferty rubble. I saw some footprints there today. Bare feet. I wonder why he did that.”

Milo shrugged. “He’s not the only one who goes barefoot around here in this weather.”

That was true. I frequently shed my shoes when I was home, even when I went outside. “I’d better go,” I said, getting up from the chair and discovering that I felt stiff all over. “Let me know what you find out.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Milo replied. “Take care of yourself, Emma.”

He sounded as if he meant it.

Dustin was on the phone again as I went through the reception area. He nodded politely. There was no sign of Toni. She must have made short work of her task. Maybe there were few souvenirs she wanted to keep; maybe she had too many bad memories.

My cell phone rang as soon as I got in the Honda. “Goodness,” Vida cried in my ear, “I’ve been trying to reach you for ages! I heard you had a bad fall. You’d better come over here and see Doc Dewey.”

“Come over where?” I asked in a puzzled tone.

“To the Erikses’, of course. I’m still here.” Vida lowered her voice. “I’ve been trying to call you at home. That’s where I thought you’d go after you found out Beth’s mother was all right.”

I was still confused. “What’s that got to do with Doc Dewey? He’s supposed to be at the nursing home, looking after Delia Rafferty.”

“He is. He was. She’s fine. But he’s on his way here now to give Cookie a sedative. She’s an absolute mess. No emotional stamina. Good grief, whatever happened to
backbone
?”

“What about Tiffany?” I inquired.

“What about her?” Vida sounded disgusted. “She’s fine. Whining about her father being arrested, of course. Whining about her backache. Whining about not having any potato chips in the house. Honestly! I’m sick of listening to her.”

“Can’t you leave now?” I asked, flexing my ankle before turning on the ignition.

“Not until Doc gets here,” Vida replied. “Do come. I need to be restrained, or the next homicide in Alpine will be committed by me on Tiffany.”

I couldn’t refuse. Doc might have some proper bandages for my knees. They were still bleeding a little through the inadequate Band-Aids I’d used from my emergency kit in the glove compartment.

The Erikses’ house in Icicle Creek looked the same as when I last visited. But of course it had changed. Tragedy had buffeted the place, lending it a defeated air. If the exterior’s beige paint had been peeling before, I hadn’t noticed; if a couple of shingles were missing from the roof, I’d missed seeing the bare spots; if the camellia bush near the front door had already withered, I’d paid no attention. But now I did, and the property almost looked abandoned. In a way it was—abandoned by happiness and hope. Houses were built on sale value. Homes were created by love. If love was here, it seemed to have turned to ash—not unlike what was left of the Raffertys’ burned-out bungalow.