Authors: Margaret Carroll
P
orter was not prepared for the pleasure he derived from driving the SUV. He had denounced them as the transport of choice for the uncouth, but he quickly discovered the Yukon had its benefits. He enjoyed making cars scatter in front of him on the highway, signaling fast to change lanes when they glimpsed the Yukon barreling down on them in their rearview mirror.
The last leg of the journey passed quickly.
The weak light of late afternoon worked its way inside the high, narrow windows of the shower room inside the Pueblo, Colorado, truck stop. Porter had the place to himself. He snipped off his beard as his whiskers fell in tight, colorless coils into the chipped basin. He lathered his face and cut long, even swaths with a razor. He rinsed and got his first good look at his face since college days. He was patting it dry when the door opened.
A trucker walked in, acknowledging Porter with a short nod. Porter watched in the mirror as the man’s eyes widened in surprise, mixed with something else. Revulsion.
Porter’s skin was ghost white, dotted with purple splotches like overripe fruit. Pustules along his jaw bled
where he had cut them with the razor. He had grown used to curious stares that lasted long enough for most people to figure out that the dense, colorless beard adorned the face of a young man, not an old one. Now it was gone, revealing the pocked skin beneath that announced his weakness to the world.
Porter Moross hated his face.
He took a bottle of Caroline’s makeup from his leather portfolio, poured some into his palms, and rubbed it into his cheeks. The makeup did nothing to disguise the weak lines of his chin, but the lesions were less purple. He surveyed the results in the mirror and decided he was no longer recognizable at forty feet.
He did not want to be identifiable until someone was at close range.
He gathered his things to go.
A door slammed and the trucker emerged from the shower area. He chose a sink at the far end and prepared to shave.
The man was large, dressed in a flannel shirt, dungarees, and scuffed work boots.
The sort of man Porter had always found intimidating. He lingered now, patting the top of his leather portfolio, feeling the comforting bulge of the pistol inside. Its presence made him bold.
Porter stared at the trucker.
The man pretended not to notice, whistling while he shaved.
But Porter could see he was nervous.
The man nicked himself and swore. He put his razor down and reached for a paper towel, careful to avoid Porter’s stare in observance of the etiquette that was the rule in bathrooms between heterosexual men. When the
trucker had finished patting himself dry, he could avoid Porter no longer, and his gaze traveled to Porter’s face.
Their eyes locked.
The man’s eyes widened with revulsion and he looked away. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair before dabbing at a fresh cut on his chin.
Porter continued to stare, licking his lips loudly and smirking, watching in satisfaction as the big man at the sink hunched over to avoid the confrontation.
Porter walked out, stopping at the door long enough to give a short laugh. “Who’s afraid now? Just tell me, who’s afraid now?” He kicked the door so hard it hit the wall and bounced. In the parking lot after, he eyed an eighteen-wheeler that was idling, debating whether to shoot out all its tires. He decided against it. Apprehension for vandalism now would keep him from his larger objective. Still, the encounter in the restroom buoyed his spirits.
After a career spent coaching people about taming their inner demons, Dr. Porter Moross had discovered just how good it felt to let one’s inner demons run wild.
After a late lunch of huevos rancheros, Caroline made one final trip into town to stock up on fresh eggs and dairy at the local co-op so Nan wouldn’t have to shop for the next week, at least. Early tomorrow morning she would go to the community college the next town over. There, she could gain Internet access to research bus schedules and connections to her next destination: Seattle, Washington.
Clouds were rolling in when she left the co-op late in the afternoon. She drove back to Storm Pass with the windows down so she could draw in deep breaths of
the mountain air, wishing she could stamp the memory of the place inside her. The wind had picked up, tossing piñons and brush. As though the mountain itself was in torment. A large bird soared overhead, and Caroline leaned over the dash, wondering if it was a bald eagle.
A vehicle up ahead brought her attention back to earth. A white SUV was coming toward her, too fast, in the oncoming lane.
Caroline braked and signaled to turn right.
The SUV was almost abreast of the Porsche when the driver apparently decided to make the turn as well. He jammed on his brakes and banked hard to his left, cutting Caroline off in the Porsche.
The Yukon made the turn but just barely, bouncing across Caroline’s lane before careening off onto the shoulder of the road to Storm Pass.
Caroline took evasive action, jamming on the brakes and steering the Porsche hard to her right. The sports car clamped down hard and tight, screeching to a halt just short of the Yukon’s massive rear bumper.
Porter pulled off the highway late in the day at the exit for Storm Pass. Darkness was already settling in the heavy forest that pressed up to the edges of the road, and he marveled that his timid mouse of a wife had found her way here, far beyond the bounds of any community she had ever known. All on the basis of an e-mail from some pimply-faced kid she had known from the GW dorms.
The scheming bitch.
Porter tightened his grip on the wheel. It had been two long days of hard driving. And now he was here. He would see her soon. His heart raced as he reviewed his
plan to get her alone, talk to her, convince her to come home. They would work things out. They both needed to change. He glanced down at the leather portfolio on the passenger seat. He hoped she wouldn’t require convincing to get into the car and come with him, but the .38 was there if she did.
His mind turned to his other plan, the one that had sprung to mind the night he sat in his office contemplating photos of her with the man. Kincaid. Porter was prepared for that, too.
The SUV bounced across a dip in the road. A large, wet dollop of bird shit hit the windshield from a great height, startling Porter. He cursed and fumbled for the windshield spray. The wipers came on first, smearing the mess across the windshield in a broad, blue path.
He cursed Caroline for leading him here, to this ass-wipe of a place.
He almost missed the turnoff but spotted it at the last minute, thanks to a bright red sports car coming toward him with its turn signal flashing. Porter yanked his wheels hard to the left and made the turn just in time, gravel crunching beneath the Yukon’s giant tires. He hit the brakes hard, stopping so fast his seat belt cinched tight across his chest. The leather portfolio tumbled to the floor.
The red Porsche car screeched to a stop behind him. He glanced in the side mirror long enough to make out a young woman in a baseball cap behind the wheel. A young woman who had witnessed Porter’s mistake.
His shoulders hunched down with embarrassment. Until he remembered his SUV was so big he could drive right over her and her lousy Porsche without even scratching his bumper.
The polite thing would be to get out and apologize. But he didn’t. He stomped the gas instead so the Yukon roared to life, leaving the Porsche and its driver fading in his rearview mirror. Porter laughed out loud. A woman like that had no business behind the wheel of a sports car anyway. He never once allowed Caroline to drive the Saab.
There was, indeed, a freedom in allowing one’s demons to roam free. They didn’t teach you that at Yale.
Caroline sat in the driver’s seat, shaking. She had narrowly avoided the SUV’s rear bumper. She had come so close to impact, in fact, that the Porsche’s nose had come to a rest underneath it. One more inch and the two cars would have collided.
Luckily, there were no other cars on the road.
She’d learned in her short time here that people helped each other. It was the only way to survive. The wilderness around them was unforgiving. Shifting the Porsche into reverse, she edged it back a car length before parking it. She undid her seat belt.
Before she could leave the car, however, the Yukon lurched to life in front of her. She glimpsed a pale, thin man behind the wheel as the SUV bounced back down onto the pavement and roared off.
Eyes wide with surprise, Caroline recalled Nan’s words of caution about the perils of sharing roads up here with SUVs. “City folk with more money than sense,” she’d said. With a shake of her head, Caroline put the Porsche in gear and headed into town, keeping a generous distance between herself and the Yukon. He turned onto Main Street, no doubt headed for the inn. A tourist.
She caught herself. She was beginning to think like a native.
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
Officer Mike Hartung felt a yawn coming on. His shift had ended an hour ago and he was knee-deep in paperwork.
The appearance of his commanding officer stifled the yawn.
“Incoming.” The CO deposited a writ on Hartung’s desk. “Hot off the presses.”
Hartung stopped what he was doing at once and picked up the document. The CO did not usually hand-deliver search warrants. Hartung saw what it was and let out a low whistle. Judges did not usually issue warrants the same day as a prosecutor established probable cause.
Not unless they were in a big hurry.
His boss watched him. “Ring any bells?”
Hartung grinned. “Like Big Ben at midnight.” It was good to see the wheels of justice turn so fast. Hartung had just typed up the request for the warrant yesterday to search the domicile of Dr. Porter Moross. He had thrown in, for good measure, a request to extend the warrant to Moross’s vehicle and any off-premises storage facilities they might discover. Hartung had added that based on the neighbor lady’s story about the handbag. That, and the fact that Porter Moross came across like a complete bastard.
Officer Mike Hartung believed in hunches.
The call that had been logged on the night shift from
a concerned friend in California had only added to Hartung’s hunch.
His CO stood, jangling change in his pockets. “You’ve been to the Moross residence and met the suspect on that one occasion, right?”
Hartung nodded. “Right. We returned their passports to him.” A vision popped into Hartung’s mind of Porter Moross with his purple junkie pockmarks and beady little eyes, darting and watching and twitching and nervous.
Scared.
“Something’s not right.” Hartung had done his homework.
The CO gave a quick nod. “So the guy took off?”
“Oh, he took off. Shut down his business, stopped the mail, fired his cleaning lady, and even ratted out her husband to the INS.”
“Nice guy.”
“A real prince.”
The commander rubbed the stubble on his chin, considering things. “What do the next of kin have to say?”
“Not many of those. Wife’s got a mother in Florida who gets a Christmas card about every other year and that’s it.”
“And him? Everybody’s got a mother.”
“That’s the thing,” Hartung said, the muscles folding in tight along his jaw. “She was living out in the Midwest with some guy for a long time. About six years ago there was a fire in their place, a bad one. Guy died. Momma ain’t been seen since.”
“Bad luck.”
“I thought so.”
The commanding officer squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his head from side to side on his massive neck. When he opened them again, the look Hartung saw in them left no doubt his boss had a bad feeling about this one, too. “And the neighbor lady is—”
Hartung finished the sentence for him. “Wife of John Crowley.”
The CO scowled. “BFF of you-know-who.”
“Yeah.” Hartung thought of Lindsay Crowley in her tidy little Nike tennis dress and tried not to wince. He wished he had acted faster to respond to the concerns of the wife of a man who had been personally chosen for his job by the president.
Really he did.
Lucky for him, the CO was not one to cry over spilled milk. So long as Hartung didn’t spill too much. “Let’s move on this. We got an audience now.”
“Yes, sir.”
S
TORM
P
ASS
, C
OLORADO
P
orter swung the SUV onto Storm Pass’s tiny Main Street. He recognized the tidy white sign for Kincaid’s Garage from photographs in the Beltway Security dossier. Gus Kincaid was inside. Father of Ken Kincaid.
Porter peered at the doorway, half expecting to see Caroline standing there. But she was not. No matter. He would be reunited with her soon enough.
There wasn’t much to Main Street, just a few rundown clapboard buildings, a bank, and a tiny post office. He pulled over in front of the post office. It was time to cross off one more item on his to-do list.
Porter pulled out his manila envelope and dropped it in the mail chute, first stop on its way to Modesto, California. He allowed himself to envision Lisa Fielding waving the envelope and its contents in her husband’s face. Porter hoped Tom Fielding would have the presence of mind to note the postmark: Storm Pass.
It was a nice touch, Porter thought.
He got back in the SUV and made for the giant stone
crag at the end of Main Street, rising into the sky like a big phallic symbol.
Caroline had been drawn to this place for reasons she would never admit, Porter reflected sourly.
He reached his destination where the street dead-ended. Pools of yellow light spilled out onto the yard in front of a Victorian rooming house. A wooden sign on a wrought-iron post proclaimed “Rooms to Let.”
Porter followed the grass drive around back and parked near the only other vehicle, an aging Ford pickup truck.
Two massive black Labrador retrievers ambled over to greet him when he entered. One of the dogs thrust his thick snout into Porter’s crotch.
Porter kneed the animal, hard. “Get off,” he muttered. Porter hated dogs.
“Jasper!” A graying woman appeared and pulled the dog away by its massive shoulders. “Come on, old man, back to your bed.” She surveyed Porter head to toe with a practiced look. A frown appeared on her forehead. “Sorry,” she said through pursed lips.
She’d seen him knee the dog. Too bad, Porter thought. If she was in the hospitality business, she should know that paying guests didn’t want to be slobbered on by big, smelly animals. “It’s okay,” Porter lied. “I like dogs.” He watched the woman’s eyes widen as she registered his pale face and white hair.
She shooed the dogs through a doorway. “Stay there,” she ordered. Brushing her hands on the back of worn corduroy slacks, she turned back to him. “How can I help you?”
Her voice had the same smooth quality as the used car salesman, cold like new plastic and just as sincere.
She had him pegged, Porter figured, for a weekend warrior from Denver or maybe even Chicago, here in search of trout before the nights turned cold enough to drive them deep into the lake bed till spring. She looked like the type who liked to be right. Too bad she was wrong this time. The thought made him smile. “I’d like a room.”
Her eyes narrowed. She was about to tell him they had no vacancy. He forced himself to smile wider, speaking in the flattest Midwestern accent he could muster, before she had a chance to turn him away. “And if you got a map that tells where the trout are biting, I’ll buy it off you.”
She paused, considering this. Considering him.
Porter thought of the deserted parking lot out back.
“It’s late in the season for trout,” she said, putting one arm on her hip. Her gaze never wavered from Porter’s face.
He shifted his weight to one hip and pushed the opposite leg out in front, scratching his head lazily with one hand in his best I’m-okay-and-so-are-you mode. “That’s where Ken Kincaid comes in. I hear he’s the best guide around.”
She lightened up at the mention of Kincaid’s name, as he figured she would. “You’re booked with him?”
Porter took a chance. “Yeah,” he lied. “I was supposed to come up last month, originally, then things got kind of crazy at work. Lucky for me he agreed to squeeze me in.”
That seemed to settle things in the innkeeper’s mind. “Okay,” she said finally, walking around behind an oak check-in desk. “How long will you be with us?”
The look on her face told him the less time, the better. Grumpy old bitch, Porter thought. “Just a night or two.”
She slid the registration form his way and watched him fill it out, entering the name and address of the man who had sold him the Yukon.
Her gaze lingered on the form, long enough for him to wonder if she was going to ask for identification.
She disliked him enough to do it, so Porter cut her off before she got the chance. “Yeah, I spent a lot of Sundays watching Ken hold up the Chiefs’ defensive line. I can’t wait to meet him in person.”
“He’s a fine man. You won’t be disappointed.” She didn’t bother to look up, as though she’d had this conversation a hundred times.
Porter heaved a small sigh of relief as the moment passed.
She filed the registration form and withdrew an old-fashioned skeleton key from a hook on the wall and handed it to him. “We’ve got a good room for you at the top of the house, facing front so you can see all the action on our Main Street.”
She smiled at her own joke, the first she’d cracked since he walked through the door.
A man, obviously her husband, appeared in the doorway. “Maebeth, are you about ready? Dinner’s on.” Seeing Porter, he stopped himself. “Oh, hello.” His gaze lingered on Porter’s face a moment longer than necessary. He looked away.
“I’ll be right there.” Maebeth turned to Porter, her tone brisk. “Continental breakfast starts at seven and goes till half past eight. It’s included in the rate. If
there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know. Enjoy your stay.” She came out from behind the desk, signaling her business with him was finished.
Porter didn’t budge. “There is one thing. Can you recommend a good restaurant for dinner?” He had purchased coffee and a sweet roll at the truck stop near Durango, but that had been hours ago.
The man opened his mouth to speak but his wife shot him a look. “Sure,” she said. “Head back out to the county road and take a right. There’s a pretty good diner about seven miles along. If you see signs that you’ve entered the Pueblo reservation, you’ll know you’ve gone too far.”
Porter’s stomach rumbled. He wasn’t in the mood to spend any more time behind the wheel of the Yukon again tonight, but an idea came to him. An idea that brightened the prospect of a nighttime drive through a wilderness area. “Thanks,” he said.
Maebeth Burkle smiled but her eyes held no warmth. “Don’t mention it.” She watched him go, gathering her cardigan more tightly around her. Something was not right about Jim Bell. His hiking gear, for one, so new it still smelled of a high-end department store. His soft hands with nails that gleamed under a coat of clear polish, for another. And his sickly complexion. And now he’d gone out for the evening without bothering to check the room first, something even corporate execs on expense accounts did. That fact didn’t sit well with Maebeth.
“So?” Her husband shot her an amused look. After thirty-six years of marriage, they didn’t require many words to communicate.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She wasn’t the type to
talk about weird vibes or bad karma, like half the young people who moved up here these days to eke out a living and homeschool their kids. She shook her head.
Her husband chuckled. “Looks like he rubbed you the wrong way. That diner is the last place you’d want to eat. And you gave him the worst room in the house.”
Together they watched the headlights of the Yukon swing past the front parlor.
A thought sprang unbidden to Maebeth’s mind, startling her with its ferocity. And the thought was this. That Storm Pass and everyone in it would be better off if Jim Bell from Denver got lost out there tonight and never came back.