“Don’t be too quick to judge,” Fiona advised.
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“I’ve got stuff to work out,” Fiona said. “Stuff to write down. I’ll be all right.”
“I can drop you off,” Arian proposed.
“I’ll get my things,” Kira said, standing and reluctantly letting go of Fiona’s hand.
“What do you make of all this?” Fiona asked Arian when they were alone.
“Do you believe her?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
“And how do you know you went over a stool? What if your injury occurred outside your cottage?”
“You think that didn’t occur to me?”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
“Did I hate him that much? Yes, I did. Could I do something like that? Never.”
“Never’s a big word.”
“Never,” Fiona repeated.
Arian dug out his wallet, and from it, a business card. “In case you need me.”
“I don’t.”
“But in case you do,” he said.
Fiona accepted the card.
48
A
Disney Channel Original Movie played from the living room as Walt worked the computer at the dining-room table. Tied in to his office’s server, he was finishing up the report on the Fancelli arrest. He’d already been in touch with AUSA in Boise, who’d promised Walt the Wildlife Act charge would hold. Walt believed that with some backroom discussion he might get Fancelli the maximum sentence of a fine and a year in jail. Small payment for his real crime, but at least something.
The search of the Fancelli home had failed to turn up any suggestion of child molestation or abuse—no souvenirs, no videos—but the man’s arrest included a mandatory DNA swab—this had been the golden ring Walt had been reaching for—and he hoped within the week to use that sample to prove the paternity of his daughter’s unborn child. Fancelli would be going away for a lot longer than a year. As he wrapped up the report, he was feeling good for a change and thinking that this was one of the good nights.
“Hey, Dad,” Nikki called from the living room. It had to be a commercial break because typically they didn’t know he existed if a show was on.
“Yes?”
“I thought you were going to build us a tree fort.”
A family issue that arose every six months or so, Walt had resisted the idea of a tree fort because of the enormous work involved and the likelihood of it turning out to be only a passing interest. He realized, more important, that this was gender bias on his part. He thought of tree forts as a boys’ realm, and was convinced his daughters would quickly lose interest, a conviction he now questioned.
“You’re right,” he answered. “I think I forgot all about it.”
“Can we build one?”
Now Emily was sitting up and looking at him excitedly as well. “With curtains and a bucket to bring stuff up?” she said.
He wondered if a tree house was part of the show they were watching. They were easily influenced.
“Curtains? Why not?” he said.
“When?” Emily shouted far too loudly.
“How soon?” Nikki added.
The questions hit him as a fist in the chest. Everything came down to time. It was the one commodity that fell short and left him feeling cheated, as well as the one doing the cheating. Never mind that he had no time for himself; he gave his daughters short shrift and even his job occasionally suffered. He considered himself an excellent time manager, and yet how was he supposed to find the four hours to erect a tree house with his daughters? And if he couldn’t find four hours to be with his kids, what did that say about him?
“This weekend,” he answered.
“Seriously?” Nikki said, suddenly the spokesperson for the two.
This change caught her father’s attention. Of the two, Nikki had retreated far more deeply into herself following the divorce. Her elevation to spokesperson, and Emily’s willingness to allow it to happen, held profound significance for him.
“Seriously,” he answered. “This Saturday.”
To his surprise, the girls exploded off the floor, throwing their hands high in the air and dancing around, causing Walt to realize how much he missed the obvious. Their excitement had little or nothing to do with a tree house.
“Saturday,” he repeated, watching how it spurred even more celebration. He wished he had a camera. Wished he could preserve forever the elation on his daughters’ faces, wished he understood the complexities of fatherhood better, and resolved to do just that.
With the idea of a tree house now firmly rooted, he began to imagine what backyard tree or trees could be used, as well as the structure’s overall design. A tree house was no simple undertaking, and Walt was no do-it-yourselfer. He Googled “tree house plans” and uncovered a half-million hits. He scrolled down through, then changed his mind and clicked on the “Images” link at the top of the page to see what he was in for.
There on the screen was a small thumbnail photograph of a structure that matched the last tree house he’d seen: the one in the Engletons’ woods. The one he’d been sitting near when he’d suggested to Fiona that a small fire would clean things up nicely.
His house phone ringing interrupted him, and he rose to answer it with reluctance. Anyone who wanted to reach him called him on his mobile, so he assumed this was either for the girls, or a telemarketer. Both options left him grumpy. He answered the phone, “This is Walt,” and paused.
“Sheriff Fleming?” It was a high, timid voice, with a Hispanic accent, and Walt’s first thought was how she’d gotten his unpublished phone number.
“Speaking.”
“My name Victoria Menquez. I am married to Guillermo. You know Guillermo. He work for Forest Service.”
“Yes, Mrs. Menquez.”
“My Guillermo, he no come home.”
Walt had been led into a search for Gilly once before; he felt the taste of sarcasm lingering on the tip of his tongue as he swallowed it away.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Walt said. “Have you called his friends?”
“He not fine,” she protested. “He said he do something for you when he left this morning. This is why I call you. Why he not call? Why he not come for supper?”
“Me?” Walt blurted out too quickly. The last thing he needed was to be dragged into a pub crawl looking for Gilly Menquez. He was about to suggest looking under “Bar” in the Yellow Pages when he gained some control. “The Forest Service,” he said. “He must carry a radio or something?”
“I call. No answer. Only recording. Office opens eight a.m. I know when office opens.” She was the one reverting to sarcasm. He glanced at the kitchen clock. It felt later than it was. The soundtrack of the Disney movie was bothering him; too much laughter for his present conversation.
“I think you should try some of his friends.”
“You are his friend, no? Guillermo say what a good man you are.”
That stuck like a bone in his throat. “Listen, Mrs. Menquez, if I’m going to be honest with you, I would suggest you call his favorite taverns. My hunch is, that’s where you’ll find him.”
“But he said he was working for you.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen or spoken to Gilly—Guillermo—in over a week.”
“Said you were looking for someone, that he could find him. My Guillermo, he can find anyone in the woods. Says you are almost as good as him.”
A bubble of laughter rose in Walt’s throat but he choked it back. “That’s what he said?” Walt asked. “That I was looking for someone?”
“He made a mistake, Sheriff. He know that. He told me. And I told him: ‘You make a mistake, you fix it.’ That is what he was doing in the woods today. He was fixing it.”
Then the collision happened, as it so often did for him. Like one idea can’t get out of the way of the other, so there’s nowhere to go but into each other. And suddenly two thoughts spawn a third. It was this—the Google image overlaid with the lovely, lilting speech of this woman—that drove Walt to sign off the call as politely as possible.
“Hit the record button,” he called out, advising his daughters. “You’re coming with me.”
He called Myra from the car, the girls strapped into the backseat, Beatrice’s tail smacking them both as it swished back and forth. “I’m heading up your way,” he told Myra, before his sister-in-law could get a word out. “I need to leave the girls with you for a few minutes. Can you handle that?”
“Walt? I—”
“Can you do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“Ten minutes.”
“L
ock the door, and stay near the phone.”
“Walt?” Fiona said.
“Better yet, just get out of there.”
“I will not.” She paused, the telephone connection crackling. “We need to talk.”
“Later. Right now, you need to get in your car and get out of there. No, no. Stay. That’s good. But lock up tight. Do you have a weapon in there?”
“If you’re working on scaring me, you’re doing a fine job.”
“You do or don’t have a weapon?”
“I own a handgun.”
“But—” He caught himself. How had he never asked her this question earlier? Who went after a guy with a baseball bat if there was a handgun in the drawer? He couldn’t help himself: “Have you had training?”
“Walt, what’s going on?”
“I’m coming onto the property. On foot. I’ve called for backup, but there was a drowning in Carey. Anyway, for the time being, it’s just me. Do you know how to use that handgun?”
“Yes.”
“Then keep it close. And don’t do anything stupid: it may be me coming through your door.”
“Who else would it be?”
“That’s the point,” he said. “Anything out of place there recently? Anything missing? Clothes, maybe? Underwear?”
“What’s got into you?”
“Should I take that as a no?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, think about it.” He guessed he was still five to seven minutes away. He liked keeping her on the phone, liked hearing her voice so close.
“I haven’t lost anything. Kira and I leave each other little gifts. You know: cookies. Wildflowers. It’s a girl thing.”
“Any lately?”
Her pause was far too long.
“Fiona?”
“You’re coming straight here? Come straight here, will you?”
“Fiona. Talk to me.”
“I’ll get the gun now, like you said. I’ve already locked up.”
“You were going to tell me something.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“I think you were.”
The mobile connection sparked and crackled. Reception wasn’t perfect on this stretch of the road. Walt’s Jeep approached and passed the area where Gale’s body had been found. Broken yellow police tape flapped in the light glow of the headlights.
“He
is
dead, right? With his face so badly—What if it wasn’t him?” Walt’s question about the gifts had in fact jogged loose yet another memory: Gale entering her cottage carrying flowers. She’d found them, withered and dry, on the coffee table after returning from the hospital, believing them to be from Kira. But she now knew Kira had taken off by then. They couldn’t have been from her. Only him. The idea of that monster bearing a gift of flowers was almost too much to take.
“We ID’d the body,” he said. “No worries. Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
He pulled off the highway but took the right fork toward the Berkholders’ instead of going left toward the Engletons’. He drove twenty yards, killed his lights, and coasted to a stop, shutting off the engine. Beatrice was made to heel and understood from the urgency of the whispered command that this was not a training session. She responded appropriately: silent, attentive, holding close to his left leg, her nose and eyes working overtime. Together, the two moved quickly through the dark.
Up the hill, the Engleton flagpole showed in silhouette against the illumination of the night sky and the richness of the Milky Way. Also in silhouette, to the right of the flagpole and farther still up the hill, a strongly geometric shape revealed itself—the northeastern corner of the Engleton tree house.
Minutes later, Walt hopped over the rail fence alongside the gate and Beatrice slipped through, catching up to his leg and heeling obediently without further command. Walt stayed in the shelter of the planted aspens that formed grove after grove as the driveway climbed up the knoll. He reached the end of the drive, where it widened into a turnaround and parking area connecting Fiona’s cottage to the main house’s garage, and a path leading to the front door. He crouched here and waited, settling his heartbeat and getting control of his respiration, his left arm over Beatrice’s back as she panted at his side.
He rubbed the dog’s head, rewarding her, and as he stood, gently placed his hand on the outside of his left leg, reinforcing the heel. She followed him to the right, around the back side of the house, rather than across the inviting, open space of the turnaround. He passed more beds containing the yellow lilies reminding him of the fire, then his conversation with Fiona near the tree house. He held to shadow, Beatrice at his side, moving silently.
Walt stayed low as he finally reached the southeastern corner of the main house, facing the scar of burned earth directly in front of him, then moved up the hill, the tree house now immediately to his right. A pine rail ladder was attached to one of the three fir trees supporting the tree house, a sizable structure fifteen feet off the ground. He signaled Beatrice to stay and then moved in a stealthy crouch to the base of the ladder and began to climb. Beatrice followed his every action, her nose rising with each ladder rung.
It was a trapdoor entrance leading up through the tree house floor. Walt paused just beneath it. He fished out his Maglite and Beretta and, marrying the two while holding to the ladder, used his back to push and throw open the trapdoor. The Maglite’s bluish halogen beam flooded the lavishly decorated space, past posters, curtains, a hand-hooked rug, crumpled tissues on the floor, a child-sized table littered with half-eaten food and open soup cans, and landed on Gilly Menquez, stuffed awkwardly into the corner, his tongue purple and grotesque, his eyes open and unmoving.