Authors: John Gilstrap
"Well, why wouldn't she? I mean under the circumstances-"
"It's not like you're thinking, okay? She thinks that God sent us this baby. To be ours to raise."
"Come again?"
"We've had a few miscarriages over the last couple of years," he explained softly, "and you know about Steven. It was looking like we'd never be able to have kids. That's really why we were out there camping in the first place. We wanted to get things right in our heads, you know? Anyway, when we were down there on the rocks, we said a prayer together. We said a lot of prayers together. Hell, I even wished on a star. We prayed, we cried, and then there he was. Now Susan thinks it's a kind of predestination."
When he looked over to Barbara for an answer, she just looked away, twisting her hair and staring at the glove box.
Bobby didn't want silence right now, so he kept going. "I've got to be honest with you, Barb. In the past-what is it, twelve hours?-I've wondered myself if she isn't right. They say that God works in mysterious ways. Who's to say this isn't one of them?"
Barbara nodded, clearly overwhelmed by it all. "They also say, 'Be careful what you wish for." A beat, and then she was all lawyer again. "I assume you're looking for some legal advice here, right?"
"Of course."
"Okay, then, let's deal with the murder first." Bobby recoiled at the word, and she grew still more serious. "I'm sorry, but you know that's what people are going to assume when they find this body. From that point on, they'll do their best to identify who the killer is. Your challenge, then-" Something in Bobby's expression made her stop. "What?"
"I don't think it's a huge stretch for them to figure out who did the killing. When I was unloading the car this morning, I noticed that our camping permit was missing. I think it probably got torn off sometime last night."
Barbara's eyes grew even larger. "What are you telling me?"
Bobby couldn't look at her as he confessed to the ultimate in stupidity. "I think it's probably up there at the murder scene."
"Oh, my God," Barbara breathed. "How did that happen?"
Bobby laughed. "How did it happen? Well, I promise I didn't pull it off and leave it there on purpose. I guess it just came off. Maybe during the fight, I don't know. It's only a piece of paper held on with a wire."
"And it's got your name and address on it?"
"You betcha."
"God, Bobby."
"That's why I'm here, Barb! I told you this was an emergency. Any second now, somebody's going to show up at my door with a pair of handcuffs, and I need to know what to do."
Barbara turned suddenly pale, and her eyes looked sad. "I don't know what to tell you. It's too early to panic, though. It'll take time for someone to discover the body, and maybe-"
This time, Bobby paled.
"What?" Her expression said she was waiting for him to drop another bomb.
He cleared his voice and tried not to look stupid. "I, uh, I called the police on our way out of the park this morning. They found the body a long time ago. Maybe before we even got home."
The attorney looked as if she'd been slapped. "Are you crazy?"
"Excuse the hell out of me! I'm happy to say I don't have a whole lot of practice at this stuff, Barb. I knew that running would make us look guilty as hell, and I thought that by reporting it myself, my shit wouldn't be as weak if I ever got caught. I didn't know that I'd left my fucking calling card there."
Barbara looked disgusted. And a maybe a little frightened that anyone who'd achieved some level of success in his life could do something so patently stupid. "God, Bobby, I just don't know what-" She cut herself off again, and her look of horror transformed itself into something more closely resembling bemusement. "Wait a minute . . ." Bobby turned to face her. "How long ago did you call?"
"I think it was around four."
She checked her watch. "Okay, and it's nearly noon now. Here's my question: How come they haven't already come to get you?"
Bobby started to answer, then stopped. Finally he shrugged. "I don't know."
"I mean, how difficult a thing could that be? They've found the body, they've got the name and address of the person who last camped there. How tough could it be to just come by and have you hauled in? Especially with the victim being a cop."
"So, what's your point?"
"My point is, I don't think they've found your permit," she said, a smile finally invading her otherwise bleak features. "Could be it's under a rock they haven't turned over, or it could be that you lost it someplace else, in which case they don't have much on you."
"How do you figure?"
"Think about it. I mean, you'll have to stipulate to being there at the park last night, right? If you filled out a form, then they're going to have the office copy right in front of them. But you're not the only people to be there. If they can't place you directly at the scene of the crime, then they don't have much of a case. Here's hoping that your permit fell off on the trail somewhere."
"But they're still going to come looking, right?"
"Sure they will. Just as they'll be looking at everyone who was there last night. The difference is, without evidence to tie you directly to the scene, they'll come just to talk, instead of to execute a warrant."
"And what do I say to them when they start asking questions?"
Barbara noticed with a start what she'd been doing to her hair, and she quickly unwrapped her finger and made a futile effort to smooth the twist. "Let's think this through." Her voice took on a new intensity as she plowed her way through the logic path. "You said this happened in a national park, right? So that means the FBI has jurisdiction." She made a clicking sound with her tongue and shook her head. "That's bad news."
"Terrific."
"Well, unlike dealing with local police departments, it's actually a crime to lie to federal investigators. Or even to mislead them."
Bobby scowled. "You mean it's okay to lie to a county cop or a state trooper?"
"Well, I'm not sure it's 'okay' exactly, but you can't be sent to jail for it. In all other jurisdictions, if you're not under oath, you can say pretty much whatever you want, especially if you're trying to cover your own ass. Prosecutors sometimes try to paint a little white lie as obstruction of justice, but not usually. That's why your local beat cop is always so cranky. He just assumes that everyone he talks to is a liar. But with the FBI, you've got to be more careful."
"So, if he says, 'Did you kill this guy?' what do I say?"
Barbara thought this through for a long moment and finally sighed. "You're putting me in a tough position here, Bobby. I could be disbarred for instructing a client to lie about anything to anyone."
"But hypothetically?"
"Well, hypothetically, if I were in that position, I guess I'd have to weigh the relative advantages and disadvantages of making up a story. On the one hand, I could confess and guarantee myself a trip to prison, or I could try to float a coherent story that would keep me out. If my story was later found to be untrue, then, of course, I'd have to worry about the additional punishment. You know, the punishment that would be tacked on to the end of the death sentence."
Bobby felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Jesus, the death sentence. Was there no bottom to this pit?
"But that's just a hypothetical," Barbara reiterated. "If, on the other hand, I felt confident that I had indeed acted in self-defence, then I might be inclined to step forward and just tell the whole story. Maybe even before the FBI showed up at my door."
Bobby sucked in a lungful and held it as he rested his head on the back of his seat. He knew in his heart that he should turn himself in; that he should just fess up to everything, exactly as it had happened. He'd known that all along-ever since he'd placed his anonymous phone call from the tiny mini-mart. And if everything he'd told Barbara had been 100 percent true, maybe the answer here would be simple. The real truth was that Susan hadn't seen any of what had transpired, and no matter how much he and his wife practiced a response to investigators' questions, he knew with perfect certainty that one or both of them would cave under the pressure. When that happened, he'd be in a world of misery.
"I'm not sure I can do that," Bobby said finally. "For reasons that you probably don't want to know."
Barbara gave him a little resigned smile. "For reasons that I probably already know without you telling me."
"So when the feds come to my door and start asking questions, at what point do I call you?"
"The instant that they lead you to believe that you're a suspect."
"They wouldn't be there if I weren't."
"Okay, then the minute they lead you to believe that you're more of a suspect than everyone else who travelled through the park that night."
Bobby wasn't sure what he was looking for, exactly, by coming to see Barbara, but he knew that he wasn't finding it. Maybe he wanted a script to follow, a set of planned responses for every conceivable question that might arise.
Or, maybe he was just looking for someone to say that he really had absolutely nothing to worry about. What he had gotten instead was more worry, and the strongest possible hint that he was out there all alone on this one. A headache bloomed somewhere near the center of his brain and grew with amazing speed to occupy every space from ear to ear.
"What about evidence, Barbara? All the stuff that can connect me to the campsite? You know, the tent, the remains of our food, our clothes, that sort of thing. What do I do with all of that stuff?"
Barbara looked at him as if he were crazy. "Bobby, you've got possession of a human being who doesn't belong to you. I don't think that your tent is on your top-ten list of problems."
AT FIVE-FOOT-TEN, 165, Carlos Ortega could have been a movie star, sporting perfect white teeth and a flawless olive complexion. He wore his thick mane of jet-black hair short and combed straight back, and he favored a business-casual look. He sat perfectly still, his whole face smiling, as he watched little Christa settle into her chair. Nothing had moved since the last time they'd played together here in the music room, but his daughter was a twelve-year-old perfectionist. The seventh-grader double-checked the strap on her rock stop, making sure the buckle lay exactly on the white line that her father had inscribed across the width of black nylon. That done, she eased the point of her cello's end pin into the cup, settled the scroll just so over her left shoulder, then poised her bow over the strings. She was ready.
"Okay," Carlos said, "I'm going to give you two measures of the bass part, and then you come in."
"I know, Daddy." Christa sighed, and issued her patented eye-roll.
Carlos laughed. He loved it when Christa got so serious about her music. She had a gift, bestowed by Saint Cecilia herself, the patron saint of music, and gifted children needed to appreciate and respect the responsibility that came with their unique talents.
At the piano, Carlos's right hand remained on his lap as the fingers on his left stroked the opening notes of Pachelbel's Canon, a staple at every wedding he'd ever attended. He never tired of the delicious, rich melody of the piece, and as Christa entered exactly on her cue, his eyes welled with pride. Tonight at the concert, the string ensemble would play the piece as a round, with Christa switching in the third verse to the obbligato, playing the solo that was written for a violin, but which was nonetheless granted to her in deference to her talent. Here in this final rehearsal, Carlos played all the other parts on the piano, even hitting the wrong notes that he anticipated from the other children in the ensemble.
"Listen to your part, Christa. Don't let the violas drag down the pitch. Let them adjust to you. Hear the music, not the notes. Feel the music."
And she did. Music blossomed from her bow and rose to fill the glass-walled music room. She improvised a trill, but her father intervened immediately. "This is a performance, sweetheart. Never experiment in a performance."
Christa smiled, as if to say she'd done that on purpose just to get a rise out of him, and Carlos laughed. "All right, Miss Smart Aleck, you got me. Now, we'll keep going all the way through without breaking, okay?"
Christa responded with a nod, then became one with her music again.
Behind him, over his right shoulder, Carlos sensed movement, and he pivoted his head to see Jesus Pena standing in the doorway, his perpetual scowl only slightly less severe than normal. Now there was a man who needed more music in his life. Eye contact was all that Pena had been waiting for, and once it was made, he retreated out of sight. Knowing how much his boss cherished his time alone with Christa, this was as close to an interruption as Pena would dare.
The Canon doesn't end as much as it just dies away. When they were done, and the final notes hung about them in perfect harmony, father and daughter shared a smile.
"That was pretty," Christa said, ever the champion of understatement.
"That was beautiful," her father corrected, and he slid out from behind the piano.
"Aren't we going to practice some more?" Her voice dripped disappointment.
Carlos rumpled her hair. "No, not today. Not with the concert tonight."