Back of Beyond (22 page)

Justin didn’t pull his face away, and smiled at Danielle sloppily. He liked it. Gracie rolled her eyes again and looked back to the fire. “Hey, look,” Justin said to Danielle, “out on the lake. Can you see what’s going on?”

“What?” her sister asked.

“The fish are rising.”

Gracie followed his outstretched arm. The moon lit the still surface of the lake in light blue and sure enough, ringlets were appearing everywhere, as if it were raining upside down.

Justin said, “Want to go down to the shore with me and see if we can catch one?”

Danielle was up like a shot. She stood in front of Gracie and blocked the light and heat, and Gracie felt as if she’d been plunged into cold. She started to stand but Danielle reached back and put a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from rising. Danielle turned and bent over close to her ear, and said, “Not you.”

Justin winked and asked Gracie, “Do you want to come along?”

“No,” Danielle said. “She doesn’t.”

And Gracie thought,
She doesn’t deserve him
.

After they’d left, Gracie considered asking Dakota to help her find that snake so she could put it into the bottom of her sister’s sleeping bag.

*   *   *

She hugged herself against the chill,
now that her sister had abandoned her. It seemed very late but it wasn’t even ten yet. The sky was a bright smear of stars she’d never known existed before, and the busy sky above and the absolute darkness of everything beyond the fire made her feel smaller than she’d ever felt.

The campfire was the hub that held everyone in place. When it started to die Dakota or Jeb would leave their place behind the cooking station where they were washing dishes and toss another piece of wood on it.

She observed the others without staring at them.

The Glodes kept to themselves. They were the farthest away from Gracie, on the opposite side of the fire. Tristan Glode smoked a big black cigar, and the glow danced in the darkness. Donna stared into the fire as if she were comatose. Gracie thought that although they were by themselves they weren’t really with each other. It was as if there were a wall between them even though they were a couple of feet apart. How sad, she thought.

Two of the three Wall Streeters, Tony D’Amato and Drey Russell, were whittling on sticks and joking about it. Everything, it seemed, was a joke to them. Little light-colored piles of shavings gathered on their boots, and the blades from their pocketknives flashed in the firelight.

“A year ago,” D’Amato said in a singsong, bluesy cadence, “I was looking out over the Sea of Cortez from my air-conditioned bungalow in Baja. Now here I am in the freezing mountains, sittin’ on a log. Whittlin’.”

“You a whittlin’ man,” Russell sang along.

“I’m a whittlin’ man,” D’Amato sang back. “Whittlin’ ’til I ain’t got no stick left.”

“You a whittlin’ man…”

“Think I’ll whittle me a boat and float on out of here back to Baja.…”

“He a whittlin’ man who ain’t a-scared of no snakes!” Russell laughed, and the two of them collapsed in on each other. Luckily, they held their knives out to the side.

“You guys are embarrassing me,” James Knox said from the cooking station.

Gracie found herself staring at them with more than a little awe. Knox caught her, smiled, and said, “Do you find us strange?”

Embarrassed, she said, “I’ve never met any New Yorkers before. I’ve heard about you and read about you and you’re on all the television shows, but…”

D’Amato laughed. “But you’ve never met any of us in real life. You make me feel like a zoo animal or something.”

“Sorry,” she said, and looked down. It was just that they were exactly how they were portrayed, and she’d always thought they couldn’t possibly really be like that: fast-talking, ethnic, animated. Like they were playing the roles of New Yorkers according to the script. Just like TV. But she didn’t say it.

*   *   *

To the right, Gracie’s dad
was perched on a large rock next to Rachel Mina, who sat in the grass with her plate in her lap, finishing her dinner. Gracie had noted how Rachel had waited patiently for everyone else to be served steaks before getting her dinner—panfried fish and the last of the beans and corn. She admired the fact that Rachel hadn’t made a fuss but simply waited for her nonmeat meal. Too many of Gracie’s vegetarian friends went on and on about their preferences in the lunchroom, she thought. On and on about what they could eat and what they wouldn’t. They could learn something from Rachel Mina. The clicking of her utensils on the tin plate was rhythmic and delicate and Gracie hoped that someday she could be as graceful and feminine when she ate.

Then, obviously thinking no one was paying attention, her dad reached down and snatched a small piece of fish off Rachel’s plate and popped it in his mouth. She looked back but rather than object, she smiled at him. Her dad raised his eyebrows in an
It’s actually good
gesture. Rachel turned back around and finished her plate.

It had happened quickly, and without a sound. But Gracie sat transfixed as if a thunderbolt had hit her in the chest.

They knew each other,
she thought. The scene had a kind of sweet intimacy about it, like it had happened often before and had become a shared joke.

They knew each other. Really well.

She felt bushwhacked. Her eyes misted and she looked away.

When she opened them she saw Wilson, who’d suddenly appeared from the direction of the tents. Standing there, staring at her, his face lit orange with firelight.

“What do
you
want?” she asked, too loudly.

The others around the campfire stopped talking or doing what they were doing. Jed and Dakota peered over the top of the cooking station, washcloths poised and still.

“Goodness, little girl,” Wilson said. “What is
your
problem?” He looked at the others with his palms open and held up. “All I did was walk up here to get warm. I didn’t do anything.”

No one said a word. A beat passed, and she was glad no one could see her face flush red. She wiped angrily at the tears in her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

From the right, her dad said, “Gracie, are you okay?”

She stood up and refused to look at him. “I’m going to bed,” she said, and started for the tents.

She was gone before her eyes could adjust from the fire to the total darkness, and she tripped over a root or rock and she sprawled forward. She landed spread-eagle, grass in her mouth.

Somebody—D’Amato or Russell or Jed—barked a laugh. Someone else said, “Cool it, that’s rude.”

“Sorry.”

She scrambled to her feet spitting grass and dried weed buds and stomped toward the tents. D’Amato called out to her, “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. Come on back and join us.”

And her dad followed her, saying, “Gracie, what’s going on? Are you all right, Gracie?”

She kept going until she approached the collection of tents. She wasn’t sure at first which was hers—they all looked alike. Nine lightweight dome tents, looking in the soft moonlight like plump pillows.

“Gracie,” her dad said, finally grasping her hand.

She pulled away. The third one, she thought. Her stuff was in the third one from the top.

He grabbed her again, said, “Honey…”

She wheeled on him. “When were you going to tell us?” she asked, her voice catching like ratchets on sobs. “Is this why you brought us with you? So you could be with your secret
girlfriend
?”

Her dad just stood there. She could see his stupid face in the moonlight. His mouth was moving but nothing was coming out. He finally said, “Gracie … really…”

But what she heard was his lack of denial.

“Stay away from me!” she said, and she dove into the opening of her tent. It was small inside but the sleeping bags cushioned her dive. She spun and zipped the opening closed. As she did, her last glimpse of her dad was of him standing there like an idiot with a swarm of stars around his head, trying to come up with the right words—as if there were any. She said, “Go away. This is the worst fucking trip of my life.”

Inside, she could hear him. For five minutes, he stood there, breathing shallow breaths. Then he moaned and said, “I was waiting for the right time to talk with you girls. Really, honey.”

She didn’t respond.

Finally, he turned and trudged away back toward the fire.

*   *   *

An hour later, Gracie heard
footfalls approaching the tent and she opened her eyes. She hoped it wasn’t her dad coming back, and if so she planned to feign sleep.

The door zipper hummed and she sat up, alert.

Danielle said, “Oh my God, I
love
him.”

Gracie flopped back down.

“He’s so damned cute I want to eat him up,” Danielle said. “He tried to help me cast to the fish but I couldn’t get past how he put his arms around me. Damn, he’s hot and I love him.”

Gracie said, “Did you think for a second I might be asleep?”

Danielle hesitated, said, “No.” Then went on, “Before I came back here he gave me just a little kiss—nothing major—and said, ‘To be continued.’ Is that classy and cool, or what? Is that awesome, or what?”

Gracie rolled away from her.

“What’s your problem?” Danielle asked.

Gracie told her sister about their dad and Rachel Mina.

“You’re kidding,” Danielle said, finally.

“I’m not.”

Danielle shook her head back and forth. “That just doesn’t seem right,” she said.

Before Gracie could agree, Danielle said, “She’s much too awesome for
him
. What does she see in the guy?”

In the dark, Gracie covered her face with her hands and moaned.

“They’re all still out there,” Danielle said, regaining her stride, pushing the news aside. “Except for Justin, I mean. He went to his tent, too. Gee, I wonder what he’s doing in there all alone?” she giggled.

Gracie said nothing.

“I saw one of the Wall Streeters open a bottle,” she said. “I think they’re all going to pass it around and tell stories or something. I hope they don’t stay up too late or get too loud, ’cause we need to get some sleep.”

“You think?” Gracie said.

“Yeah, there’s a big day tomorrow,” Danielle said, slipping out of her clothing to her sports bra and wriggling into a pair of light sweatpants. “At least it’ll be a big day for
me
.”

“That’s what’s important,” Gracie mumbled.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Never.”

“Well, don’t,” Danielle said, sliding into her sleeping bag and pulling the zipper up. “It’s boring.”

“Justin is too good to be true,” Gracie said.

“He is, isn’t he?”

Gracie thought any more conversation would lead to an argument. “Good night.”

“Good night, Gracie.”

*   *   *

She lay brooding in the dark for hours.
Occasionally, she could hear a whoop or laugh from the direction of the campfire. Danielle’s breathing got deeper and she slept the sleep of the dead and Gracie wished she’d gotten that snake from Dakota.

She’d never hated her father before.

17

Larry said to Cody,
“A pattern is emerging in these cases.”

Cody felt his scalp tighten. He stood. “You mean besides the method of death, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the office. Unauthorized overtime, as usual.”

“Good,” Cody said, standing and gathering his files under an arm while holding the phone with the other. He snuffed out his cigarette, pocketed the keycard, and pushed his way out into the hallway. “I’m at a hotel and I saw a business center downstairs. I’ll go down there and fire up one of the computers so we can both be online.”

“Want me to call you back?”

“No way,” Cody said. “I’ve been waiting all night to hear from you. Don’t worry, I can walk and talk at the same time.”

The hallway was shadowed and cavernous and he padded down the carpeting toward a curving staircase at the end. As he approached he could hear a swell of conversation and laughter from the lounge on the first floor.

Cody descended the stairs. Across the lobby the receptionist saw him and nodded. He nodded back, gestured toward the closed door of the business center, and the receptionist indicated it was open for use. He sat at a PC beneath a window that looked out into the lobby. The doorway to the lounge was straight ahead, and he could make out bodies inside lining a bar. The men and women were well dressed with the women in dresses and men in suit jackets with no ties, about as formal as Montanans were likely to get. The crowd looked young and elite; professionals out after a concert or fundraiser. The kind he usually made a point to avoid.

“So what’s the connection?” Cody asked Larry as he placed the files on the counter next to the computer.

Larry said, “Before I spill it, let me say this is pure speculation at this point.”

Cody sighed. “Of course.”

“And it’s just me right now. I don’t have anyone else on the case to confirm what I’m saying or poke holes in it.”

“Yes, Larry,” Cody said impatiently.

“Let me walk you through it,” Larry said. “Got a pen?”

“Sure,” Cody said, firing up the PC and waiting for it to boot. He opened one of the files to take notes on the front inside cover.

“First,” Larry said, “we’ve got nothing new on our end. The arson tech is still sifting through the burned-out cabin and they’ve confirmed everything we thought. I talked to one of them today and he said there was no sign of accelerants, which tilts it toward an accident rather than a homicide, but in my mind it isn’t convincing. The place was old and dry to begin with and built with logs. Those kinds of buildings go up like a box of matches, especially when there is spilled alcohol on the floor to help it along. The guy said the fire spread normally from right in front of the open woodstove throughout the room.”

Cody said, “Has anything else been found by the crime-scene techs? Hair, fiber, anything like that?”