Death's Last Run (30 page)

CLARE

Clare spotted Jana behind the police tape. Jana's body was heaving; tears were streaming down her face. Clare made her way through the crowd to her and put her arm around Jana's bulky shoulders. She felt awkward, but she guessed this was what she was supposed to do.

Clare looked over at the Mid-Station and saw Chopper waving. She hoped her text to him,
Feeling fucked up, come hang with me
, hadn't been too wussy. She'd played the needy card to get him there, because Bert was right: Clare should see as many reactions to Richie's death as possible.

Inspector Norris was standing apart from the investigating crew. He was with Wade. Their conversation looked heavy, and they were passing a flask back and forth. It was hardly professional, but then Clare wasn't one to judge.

Chopper arrived at Clare's side and squeezed her hand. It felt good. Really good. If she'd asked Noah to be there, he would just grunt and watch the action, maybe make a few snide comments like
I forgot these guys were your friends
. She looked up at Chopper. “Thanks for coming.”

He ruffled his other hand against Clare's toque, looked at Jana, and frowned. He leaned into Clare's ear. “She stoned or sober?”

“Um, sober, I think.” Clare hadn't thought to wonder.

Chopper left Clare and moved around to Jana's other side. He said something to Jana that Clare couldn't hear. Jana nodded, still sobbing, and allowed Chopper to lead her away toward the lift. He looked back at Clare and beckoned with his head for her to join them.

She wasn't sure where her energy was better spent — watching the crime scene, studying Norris and Wade and the others who had gathered around the body, or following Chopper and Jana back to wherever they were going.

What would Lucy do?

That made things simple. She'd go with Chopper and Jana. Clare picked up her snowboard and followed them to the Mid-Station to ride the gondola down to the village.

MARTHA

Martha felt her stomach twist as she saw her opponent approaching in the large Flagstaff convention hall. “Geoffrey.” She did not extend her hand.

“Ah, Martha.” Kearnes' suit was so slick it looked oily. His styled gray hair matched his silver voice. “Riding economy. Legalizing marijuana. Have you thought about crossing party lines, maybe seeing if the Democrats will have you? Actually, you might be too far left for them.”

“Now why would I look for another party?” Martha felt like a child at a playground. She had a big smile on her face that was only half phony. “You know you're the one I want to beat.”

Kearnes leaned in close. Martha thought she smelled sausage on his breath. Or maybe that was sauerkraut. “We should have a conversation later. I have an attractive offer if you'd like to pull out of the race.”

“Let's have the conversation now. The answer is no.”

“My offer could save your family a lot of embarrassment.”

Martha laughed. “My family? You mean me?”

“And, posthumously, your daughter.”

“This morning, I revealed that my daughter was smuggling drugs into America. Which I understand you were about to leak to the press yourself. I don't think I can do much more damage to her reputation.”

“Why would I leak that?” Kearnes frowned. “You think I knew about your daughter's smuggling before I read about it on your blog?”

“Don't give me that, Geoffrey. Your game has always been dirty — since you were twenty years old working on your father's campaign. You'd prefer to dig up dirt on your opponents than try to win votes on your own steam.”

“My own steam has me on top of the polls right now.”

“Well, have fun up there. Just don't fall.”

“Back out, Westlake. Before you force my hand.”

“Jesus, Geoffrey. What do you have?”

“You want to hear this here, where prying ears might be listening? Or would you like a discreet meeting later?”

“I would like to hear now.”

Kearnes shrugged. Still, he lowered his voice before saying, “I know Fraser Westlake is not Sacha's father.”

Martha raised her eyebrows. Did her best to look fearful. The stupid thing was, in no other country would this be a big enough scandal to cost someone the presidency. But America loved both its Bible-thumping ethics and its Schadenfreude — watching a political figure go down for less than perfect family values was almost as fun as a good football game. Unless Martha spun it correctly.

“Is that a yes to a discussion?” Kearnes gave a toothless smile.

Martha chewed her lip. “Your office or mine?”

“Oh, I'll come to you,” Kearnes said. “I'll have to do some glad-handing in New York, now that it's winnable territory. Plus I wouldn't want to put you out. Traveling coach isn't such a wonderful experience.”

“You'd be surprised,” Martha said. “It's led to some excellent conversations with constituents.”

“I'll stick with private. But I'm glad you're having fun.”

When Kearnes had wandered off to smirk at some more voters, Martha whipped out her phone and sent Ted a text:
Go public with the affair.

CLARE

You guys, this is mental.” Jana was curled into Chopper's big fuzzy armchair, scrolling quickly on the screen of her phone. Her tears had dried, but she seemed to still be frantic, looking for distraction in whatever form she could find.

“What's mental?” Clare asked.

“Did you know Sacha's mom had a blog?”

Of course Clare knew. But she was more interested in why Jana still cared after what had happened that morning with Richie. “What kind of blog? American politics?”

“Maybe normally. But in this one, she admits that Sacha's dad isn't her dad. You want to hear?”

When neither Clare nor Chopper responded, maybe because there were about ten zillion more pressing issues at the moment, Jana started reading:

You know what I hate about politics? It's never about the issues. You don't hear candidates saying “Vote for me because I'll make education more accessible,” nearly as often as you hear “Don't vote for that guy. He cheated on his wife. And definitely not that other guy. He got caught having sex in a rubber fetish suit.”

As in many areas of this campaign, I'd like to do things differently.

Rather than wait for an opponent to find this and cast a sinister spin on my entire political platform as a result, I'd like to reach into my closet and drag out the one secret that would be gold to my opponents. You can forgive me or not, but at least you'll hear it in my words — and know that I am honest with constituents.

Twenty-four years ago, I dated Geoffrey Kearnes. We were working on his father's campaign. He was running it, I was an intern. It was a high-strung campaign — hard work, hard play.

We had fun. Our minds worked well together and the heat of the campaign kept things sizzling. We dated for several months until I overheard him asking another intern to dig up dirt on the candidates who were in second, third, and fourth place so we could use it to secure his father's lead. This happens all the time — I wasn't naive about that — but somehow I'd believed that Geoffrey was above the dirt. I stormed off the campaign with the righteous indignation of a 22-year-old.

What I didn't know when we split was that I was pregnant.

I had a rebound relationship with Fraser Westlake. When I found out I was pregnant, I assumed — perhaps because I wanted to — that the father was Fraser. We were married shortly thereafter, shared twenty lovely years together, and until last week I believed he was Sacha's biological father.

Since I now know that he isn't — I'll spare you the science, but trust me: I know — the only possible father Sacha could have had is Geoffrey Kearnes.

As Jana finished reading the blog post aloud, her voice wobbled. Tears were falling from her eyes again. They were quieter tears than earlier, on the hill. Clare wished she could go over, make it better somehow. But she didn't have the first clue what she'd do.

In the kitchen, Chopper cracked one of his giant craft beers and poured it evenly into three glasses. Clare checked her phone for messages and was shocked to see it was already two p.m. The day had been such a strange haze, her father's health and Richie's death fighting for top spot in her mind.

“I think you two should stay here for a while,” Chopper said. “Overnight, and maybe longer. I don't like the thought of two women alone in an apartment.”

No — much better to be alone with two prime suspects.

“We'll lock our doors,” Clare said. “We won't do any midnight skiing.”

“Lucy, trust me on this. Stay here tonight.”

Clare met Chopper's gaze and tried to figure out what lay behind it. “You're scaring me.”

“You're scaring me, too,” Jana said.

“Good. Listen, I have a suspicion that doesn't make me happy, but if I'm right, you could both be targets if you're in town.”

Clare didn't like the guessing game. “A target for who?”

“I'm not saying more until I have proof. I'm worried it's a friend.”

Norris or Wade.

“I need to take my contacts out,” Jana said. “And get a pair of glasses. I can't stay up here overnight without them.”

Chopper nodded. “That's cool. We can mix up some saline with boiling water and salt. I did that for a girl once.”

“I can only wear contacts for five or six hours. My eyes are already starting to sting.”

“So be blind for one night. You don't need eyes up here.”

“I'm not staying without my glasses, Chopper. You're the one with the whack theory that we're safer up here. If you're wrong, I'd like to have my vision in good working order.”

Chopper's forehead wrinkled. Clare watched his eyes glance in a few different directions before saying, “Okay. I'll take you back into town. Lucy, you want to follow on my extra sled? I think that's safer than three of us taking the one.”

The three of them had come up the hill on one snowmobile — not a three-seater, but an ad-hoc arrangement that had only sort of worked.

What Clare really wanted was the chance to scope out Chopper's place alone. Maybe even poke in his woodshed if she could get in. But she had to play that cautiously. “I'm baked from that joint. Not sure I should be driving anything.”

“Jana, you want to ride the extra?”

“Yeah — but I've never driven a sled
and
I'm baked. So Lucy's a way safer option.”

“I'll crash on your couch,” Clare said. “I could deal with listening to music and staring at the falling snow right about now.” Clare was sober. She'd figured out how to
actually
not inhale, unlike her first couple of attempts. Either that or she was getting used to being stoned.

Chopper hesitated. Clare wasn't sure if the pause was for her security or his own. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm sure you'll be all right. Just lock the doors. And call me if anything happens.”

“What could happen? You said all the bears are asleep.”

“Please, Lucy. Take me seriously. Keep your phone close to you. We'll all be fine if we look after each other.”

Clare hoped that was true. She liked Chopper. She didn't want him to be guilty. Jana, she could go either way on. The police had questioned Jana at length that morning before Clare had arrived at Richie's body — Clare would go over the transcripts with Noah later.

Clare waited until Chopper's snowmobile had zoomed off into the distance and she could no longer hear its engine.

She was about to light a cigarette when she thought about her father, clinging to life in some stupid hospital bed. Was she horrible for not wanting to go running to his side? She didn't want to end up like him — rasping and gasping and all his own stupid fault.

Clare grabbed her cigarette pack from the coffee table, wet them from the tap so they couldn't tempt her later, and tossed the pack into the garbage can.

Then she eyed the coffee table — the pirate-style treasure chest with the piece of glass on top. The chest was locked. Didn't people realize that a lock was the best way to tell someone where to look? Clare planned to find her way inside.