by Mary Burton
“I didn’t say you couldn’t see it.”
“Then let’s go now.” He cocked his head. “I want to get my globe.”
“I have a house cleaner there now.”
“How much mess can we make retrieving a globe?”
He was not arguing about a globe; he was asserting his need for closure. She’d thought that by going to the house alone, she was protecting Nate, but in reality, there was no foolproof way to do it.
“Okay, but we can’t get in the cleaning lady’s way.”
Shock widened his eyes. “I thought you were going to fight me about seeing the house. I had arguments prepared.”
She put the car in gear. “You’ll have to save them.”
“Why now? You haven’t let me see the house at all in the last year.”
“Might as well do it now. As soon as it’s clean, it’s going on the market.”
He did not press about keeping the house or moving back in, which led her to believe he did not want it any more than she did. But still, he needed to say his goodbyes. “Okay.”
She drove to the old house, wishing it were a hundred miles away. But in five minutes they were both parked in front of the residence. Maura’s truck was in the driveway, the garage door was open, and it was filled with at least a dozen packed green garbage bags and another ten moving boxes filled with books, dishes, and lamps.
“She works fast,” Ann said.
“I hope my globe is not in one of those trash bags.”
Ann shut off the engine. “Let’s go see.”
Nate waited for her to come around the car, giving her some comfort that he was not fully grown up. They walked up the sidewalk and through the front door together. She was grateful that the graphite powder had been cleaned off, all the shades and windows in the house were open, and a cross breeze had chased away most of the staleness. In the kitchen, a portable radio blasted out a country-and-western song.
“Whose radio is that?” he asked.
“The lady who’s cleaning the house.” Ann rounded the corner and was relieved to see Maura wrapping the dishes from the cabinet in newspaper. “Maura?”
The woman turned quickly, as if she did not expect to hear her name. However, her smile was bright and welcoming. “Hey, Dr. Bailey.”
“How’s it going?” Ann asked.
“Slow and steady.” Maura turned down the music. “I started in the foyer, moved to the closets, and then decided to tackle the kitchen. Good time of year to get kitchen items to the secondhand stores. New students are looking for dishes, plates, and lamps.” She grinned at Nate, turned around, and produced a Superman cup. “Is there anything here you want me to save?”
Nate’s eyes widened. “That’s my favorite cup.”
Maura handed it to him. “I thought it might be.”
“It’s okay if I keep it, right, Mom?” he asked.
“Of course, pal. That’s why we’re here. To retrieve whatever you want to keep.”
“Okay. Thanks, Maura.”
Maura’s relaxed grin spoke to her laid-back demeanor. “You’re welcome, Nate. Is there anything else you want?”
“My globe.”
“Still on your desk,” Maura said.
“Thanks.” The boy hurried along the hallway, his thudding feet echoing behind him.
“I should have this room cleaned out and emptied today,” Maura said. “I noticed you’ve left a lot of clothes, makeup, and jewelry behind. I did not bundle those up. Do you want any of that?”
“No. I packed what I wanted.” The blue stoneware dishes Maura was wrapping reminded Ann of the day she and her late husband had bought them. Barely out of college and newly married, she’d been pregnant with Nate. She had been drawn to the color because it looked calming. Foolish reasons to choose everyday dishes, but she had needed something to settle her nerves, which had been on overdrive since the day she and Clarke had exchanged vows. Even then, her subconscious had recognized her mistake.
Ann rattled her keys in her hand, already anxious to leave. “Do you need anything, Maura?”
“Nope. All set.”
“It all looks great. And thanks for wiping off the graphite.”
“Figured it’s not the kind of message to send to new buyers.”
Ann braced for the questions that always followed, but when none came, she allowed some of the strain to bleed off. “Okay, I’ll check on Nate.”
“Sure.”
As Ann moved along the hallway, she noticed the family pictures had been removed from the walls, leaving behind their shadowed imprints. She was not sure where Maura had put the portraits but was glad that they were not displayed for Nate to see. She found the boy in his room, standing at his desk and spinning the globe.
“It looks so much smaller,” Nate said.
“You’re bigger. A year is a long time.” She leaned against the doorframe, determined not to rush him. This would be the last time they came into this house.
As the globe rattled on its axis below a Power Rangers poster, he opened a desk drawer and removed a wooden cigar box. He studied the contents.
“What’s in the box?” Ann asked.
“Rocks. Dad always brought me back a rock when he traveled.” He rooted around and removed a smooth black stone.
“Where’s that one from?”
“San Diego. Dad was there for a conference in 2016.”
Clarke had been a firefighter and arson investigator for the city. He often traveled out of state to seminars and conferences and had become one of the nation’s leading experts on fire. Ann wondered what he would have said about the body she had seen on the ridge near Anaconda today.
“You should keep those,” she said carefully.
“There’s no fingerprint dust on the box.”
“Fingerprint dust?”
“There was some on my window,” he said. “Maura must have cleaned off the rest.”
“She did,” Ann said softly.
“You really think I should save the rocks?”
“Do you have good memories when you look at them?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Then you should keep them.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Your dad did love you very much, Nate. Never forget that.”
Nate closed the box and tucked it under his arm and retrieved his Superman mug. “This is all I want.”
“What about the globe?”
“It’s not that accurate. The sizing of the countries is not as precise as it should be.”
“We can get you a new one.”
“Maybe.”
When they reached the front door, Maura was carrying a box to the back of her truck. She waved to Ann and smiled.
Ann wanted to believe that life had shifted for the better. But as she looked at the house, she wondered if anyone could escape the past.
Elijah Weston stood across the street from the one-story house, watching Ann and her son get into their car. He tried not to follow her too much, but there were days when his curiosity was overwhelming. Today, he had come to see the Beech Street house, but he had lucked out and seen her and the boy.
He had first noticed her on campus as she raced across the front courtyard on a cool September day. He had been a freshman and she a senior. Leaves had caught in a gust of wind and swirled around her feet as her blond hair flew behind her like a golden wave. She had taken his heart that second, and despite a decade behind bars, he still loved her.
And the boy. He was growing so fast. He had to be an inch taller than he had been at the beginning of the summer.
As Ann backed out of the driveway, she glanced in her rearview mirror, seemingly making sure the boy had hooked his seat belt. But she let her gaze roam. She was always checking. Always vigilant. She drove off.
He was glad to see her cleaning out the Beech Street house and moving on. That was healthy. The reporters who had deluged the city after her husband died were gone, and the calm was returning to her world.
He lin
gered, watching the cleaning woman load up her truck with more boxes, and when she finally drove off, he glanced from side to side. It was five thirty in the afternoon, and most of the folks in this neighborhood were still at work. There were no unexpected cars in any of the driveways, hinting that someone might be home and available to see him.
He trotted toward the house and tried the front door, discovering it was unlocked. Grateful for the cleaning lady’s sloppiness, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
After the police had finished their investigations in early winter, he had been tempted to slip into the house several times, but there had been too many reporters and too much curiosity about the house. Now he had it all to himself.
He had never been impressed by the rancher and did not picture Ann living here. But she had been young when she chose it. He wondered when her husband’s frequent absences had turned into disquieting questions and unconscious worries. Had she sensed the depth of his evil? What had finally driven her out of this place?
He walked into the boy’s room and smiled. The periodic table poster reflected the child’s intelligence, whereas the Power Rangers poster and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling marked his youth. The boy had chosen the Red Ranger, same as Elijah had as a boy.
Ann had done a good job with the child, and she had kept their little family afloat during the storm.
He spotted a globe on the desk and picked it up. It was not expensive, but the boy had scratched his initials in the plastic base. The sizing of the countries was incorrect in a charming way.
He turned to a dresser, where a comb stood tucked in a brush, as it must have for the last year. As he should have noted before, there were strands of hair on the brush. Scientists had tested DNA in hair follicles that dated back to the time of the caveman, meaning there had to be enough material here to get a full read on the boy’s DNA.
Elijah pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. He had been drawn to the house because of Ann, but he had come prepared, hoping to find proof of the boy’s paternity.
He put multiple strands of hair in the bag and tucked it in his pocket. Since he had first seen pictures of the boy, he had suspected the child was his. But his priority had been leaving prison, getting established, clearing his name, and suing the state of Montana for wrongful imprisonment. Now that he had both settlement money and a reputation that would mend over time, he could claim what was his.
He tucked the globe under his arm and moved into the room Ann had shared with Clarke. The mattress was askew, and several portions had been cut out of the tufted fabric by the forensic team, looking for samples.
He crossed to the dresser still sporting Ann’s perfume bottles, raised the one with a butterfly glass top to his nose, and inhaled, imagining Ann dabbing it on her bare neck. He put the bottle in his pocket.
Outside a vehicle pulled up and a car door slammed. There would be time to return and see what else he could find. But for now he hurried to the back sliding door, opened it, and carefully closed it before jogging across the small patio and ducking into the woods. He would return soon.
CHAPTER FIVE
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
6:15 p.m.
Bryce pulled up in front of Ann’s new house in the quiet residential neighborhood. It was like many in Missoula. Brick, one story, surrounded by tall shrubs by the front windows. He assumed she was also in a good school district.
Out of the car, he grabbed the file box and strode toward the house. As he rang the bell, several loud thumps echoed inside. His hand slid automatically to his sidearm.
The front door snapped open to a flustered Ann. “Sergeant McCabe. Please come in.”
Thump. Thump.
“What’s that?” he asked, lowering his hand.
“It’s my son. He’s packing for his camping trip.” She brushed back a strand of hair and stepped to the side. When he entered, she closed the door behind him. “The trip is four days, but in Nate’s mind, it’s a yearlong expedition.”
He removed his Stetson, followed her around the corner, and found the boy sitting in the center of the living room rimmed in moving boxes. The kid sat cross-legged, surrounded by what looked like every stitch of clothing he owned. There were also several new fry pans, three flashlights, and a large bag of Twizzlers.
“Nate, this is Sergeant Bryce,” Ann said.
The boy appeared to shift mental gears, stood up, and extended his hand. It might have been the last thing he wanted to do, but his mother’s training ran deep.
Bryce took his hand and shook, discovering the kid had a strong grip. “Good to meet you, Nate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks like you’re headed on a big trip,” Bryce said.
“It’s a four-day camping trip with my uncle and cousin. And Joan. We leave in the morning.”
Bryce could not picture city slicker Joan Mason camping when she regularly complained about the lack of restaurants and bars in Montana. Still, she was going, and in his book got an A for trying to make her relationship with Gideon and his family work.
“The weather is supposed to be nice,” Bryce said.
“The temperatures will range from eighty-five to ninety degrees, and the skies will be partly cloudy,” Nate said. “Zero percent chance of precipitation.”
“A little cloud cover helps when you’re near the water. Cuts the reflection.”
“That’s what Gideon says. What’s in the box?” Nate asked.
“Files for your mom to look over.”
“Let me take those,” Ann said. “I’ll set them in my office.”
“Best to keep the lid on,” Bryce warned.
“Understood.”
As she stepped away, Bryce set his hat on an unopened box, rested his hands on his hips, and inspected what Nate had chosen. “How do you plan on transporting this?”
“I have two big suitcases. It’ll be tight, but I’ll make it work.”
“How far in-country are you going?” Bryce asked.
“The cabin is seventy-one miles northwest of here.” The boy stood back, also placing his hands on his hips.
Bryce shook his head, pretending to consider the value of the suitcases. “I never had much luck in the mountains of Afghanistan with a suitcase. The wheels kept getting stuck in the mud.”
Nate arched a brow. “Is that a joke?”
“It is.” When the boy continued to stare, he went on, “All right, I did not take a suitcase on the marches, but I sure did overpack my rucksack on the first expedition. Do that once, maybe twice, and you never forget.” He plucked a backpack discarded to the side. “I can help, if you don’t mind.”
“I can barely get anything in that backpack.”
“You might be surprised. Hand me those three shirts and two pairs of shorts. And I’ll take six pairs of socks.”
“Six?”
“A soldier has to take good care of his feet. Makes all the difference in the world.”
“That’s what Uncle Gideon said.”
Bryce carefully folded the first shirt in half and then rolled it up into a tight cylinder. He handed the second shirt to Nate. “No sense in me doing all the work.”
The boy copied Bryce, though he had to redo his roll twice to get it as small. Next the shorts were rolled, and the socks were turned over on themselves into snug balls. He lined the bottom of the pack with socks, pants, shirts, and underwear. “What shoes are you wearing?”
Nate pointed to a pair of worn sneakers. “And my hiking boots.”
“Good choices.” He skipped over the snacks and fry pan, knowing Gideon was always prepared, and grabbed a paperback. “King Lear by Shakespeare. That’s mighty tough reading.”
“It’s not too bad, once you get used to it.”
Bryce’s knowledge of English literature was limited, but he remembered the basic theme: father betrayed by a child. “Never hurts to have a book. Hand me two of those flashlights.”
Nate
handed him the flashlights. Next came an empty gallon ziplock bag, which Bryce filled with bug spray, tissues, matches, an extra pocketknife, and sunscreen. By the time he had picked through the items, he had selected 5 percent of what Nate had hauled out.
As Bryce rose and hefted the pack, he judged the weight to be acceptable. Floorboards in the hallway creaked, and he knew Ann was watching. “Let’s try it on.”
Nate adjusted his glasses and eagerly fed his arms into the pack. The weight sat low on his back, so Bryce adjusted the straps until the pack supported his spine. “How does it feel?”
Nate walked around. “Not bad. Are you sure it’s enough?”
“It’s enough for five or six days, just in case.”
Tugging at the shoulder straps, Nate asked, “How do you know so much about packing?”
“Fourteen years in the marines made me an expert. Like I said, once you’ve had to ruck two hundred pounds up a mountain, you lighten your load any way you can.”
“How many times would you say you’ve packed like this?”
“Thousands.”
Nate nodded slowly. “That’s enough time to reach proficiency levels.”
Bryce chuckled. “I’d say so.”
“Mom!” Nate said.
“Yes?” She was leaning against the living room wall.
“I’m ready to go,” Nate said.
“Looks like it,” she said.
“Can I call Kyle?”
“Sure.”
“I bet he’s overpacked.”
“Better check and see.”
The boy left the room, easily shouldering the weight.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “He wasn’t listening to me.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“I get it. It’s a father-son kind of thing.” A sweet bitterness tangled around the words.
“Does he talk about his father much?”
“Not really.” She ran long fingers through her hair and smiled. “But that’s not what you came to talk about. The files are in my office. This way.”
He followed her to a small room that was not much bigger than an extra-large closet. But she had managed to fit a tiny desk and computer in the corner and a compact couch behind her. Leaning against the wall was a large framed print featuring the sunrise over the eastern mountain range. Pencils, papers, magazines, and files were all neatly arranged, but he would have been surprised to find otherwise.
