by Michael Beck
"But it doesn't really say what happened, does it?" I said.
Hunter contemplated me through flat, dead eyes. "You read it. Do you think Ashley ran into that storm voluntarily?" Hunter said.
"No. They did something to her."
Hunter nodded and tapped the Bible. "An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth," he quoted.
"There seems to be something in the Bible for everyone, doesn't there?"
I walked over to the window and peered up the hill. The snow had increased. Someone moved up at the cemetery.
"Is that Mrs. Hunter?" I said.
Hunter wheeled over next to me.
"Yes."
"Does she know what Jason has been doing?"
"No. We've kept this from her. It would be too big a burden."
I almost had to smile at this. If he but knew. Tammy could handle far more than he thought. A family of secrets. Henry and Tammy were both hiding terrible secrets in the belief they were protecting each other. And, I suppose, they were.
"Troy Decker had nothing to do with it," I said eventually.
"You don't know that."
"He told me and I believe him. He loved Ashley."
"Good enough for you. Why should I believe him?"
"Jason tried to kill Decker in New York yesterday. I caught him before he could do it."
Hunter's head slowly fell down until it was resting on his chest. "So, I've lost my son too," he whispered.
"No." I pressed the unlock button on my car key. The rental car's lights flashed and the back door opened. A man wearing a Broncos cap climbed out and stood leaning on crutches. Jason Hunter.
"Decker had nothing to do with it. You'll believe me because I'm going to give you back your son. It's over now."
"You didn't turn him into the police?"
"I don't think the police have to know anything, do you? All of the guilty are dead anyway." All but one, I thought.
After a long while, Hunter nodded. I turned and walked away until Hunter spoke.
"Why did they do it? They were her friends, for God's sake?" he said.
I didn't answer. What could I say? Cupid was right about one thing. Who knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
CHAPTER 82
As I pulled up to the small farmhouse Mrs. Franklin came out on to the front porch. My feet crunched on the snow underfoot as I climbed out of the car. The rolling hills surrounding the ranch were covered in snow. Water in a nearby horse-trough was completely frozen. A large drop hung frozen, suspended pre-fall from the tap. Thank God it wasn't this cold when I had my swim in the frozen lake. I wasn't sure I would have survived.
"How do you cope with this cold up here?" I tugged my collar up and shoved my hands deep into my pockets before they lost all feeling.
"Cold? It won't get cold until Christmas. This is balmy weather for us." Mrs. Franklin smiled sympathetically. "But I was raised here and we consider anything above twenty degrees as a nice day. Come inside, Mr. Pinnut. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
"That would be fantastic. Is Clint around?"
"He's in the barn tending the horses."
"I'll just have a quick chat with him, if you don't mind?"
"That's the only kind of chat anyone ever has with Clint, Mr. Pinnut. Help yourself."
I felt like I should be doffing a Stetson and saying, "Thank you kindly, ma'am." There was something about this wild, open country that made everyone want to talk like John Wayne. And I wasn't even wearing a Stetson.
The red barn held half a dozen stalls, each containing a horse, either placidly eating, flicking a tail or boredly shuffling from one leg to another. The rich, earthy smell of horse, hay and horse-droppings was like a thick blanket. I found Clint throwing hay into the rear stall with a pitch-fork.
He kept pitching and didn't look in my direction before he spoke. "Mr. Pinnut, back to do some more ice-fishing?"
"I'm fishing, but not for fish."
He flicked me a glance. "Oh? And what are you fishing for then?"
"I don't know. Some might call it a weasel. Others might think of it as a fox. I suppose it depends where you stand."
Clint stopped pitching hay and rested both hands on the top of his pitchfork. He regarded me with hard, unreadable green eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pinnut. City folk might be clever enough to follow you, but you'll have to speak plainer for us country boys."
"You're very bitter about your brother, Ryan's, death, aren't you, Clint?"
"What do you think, Mr. Pinnut?"
"I think you were angry, hurt and resentful. You lost your only younger brother and you wanted someone to pay for it. You saw how Ryan was after that Thanksgiving weekend. You knew something bad happened up there and that Ryan would never have been the instigator. Three other boys who were up there that weekend were living charmed lives, and here was your brother lying dead on a slab in the morgue. So you decided to do something about it."
"And what was that, Mr. Pinnut?" Clint said, quietly.
"You sent the Hunters the letter."
"And what letter is that?"
"A letter to Ashley, apologizing for what the boys did. Hunter showed it to me today. The Hunters thought Ryan Franklin had sent it. But he couldn't have. The letter was postmarked the day after he died.
"Ryan didn't send the letter. Someone found the unsent letter in his bedroom. Someone who was angry and upset. Someone who wanted the other boys to pay for whatever they did to Ashley. Just like Ryan had paid.
"You sent the letter, didn't you?"
"Well, you've got it all figured out, haven't you? I can see why you would make such a great writer. You can really see to the heart of a story?"
"Do you deny it?"
"What would be the point? You seem to have it all worked out."
His calmness baffled me. I had imagined denial, indignation, shame. Anything but this amazing impassiveness.
"No one else would have had access to that letter, Clint. You were the only one who had the motivation and opportunity to send it on to the Hunters. You had to have sent that letter."
"What letter was that, Mr. Pinnut?" Mrs. Franklin had entered the barn quietly behind me. She was carrying a tray with two cups from which steam rose.
"I was just asking Clint about the letter from Ryan that he mailed to the Hunters after Ryan's death."
"Letter? Why I posted a letter to the Hunters after Ryan died. I found it in Ryan's bedroom so I mailed it. Why? Is something wrong? Shouldn't I have mailed it?"
"You mailed it?"
"Why, yes. It was addressed to Ashley and had a stamp on it so I thought it must have been Ryan's wish that the letter get to her family. What's wrong? Was there something bad in it?"
Something bad? No, just the truth. But the truth, in this case, was worse than any lie or deception. If it wasn't for that letter all the boys lives would have went on unaffected. It was the letter that sent Henry and Jason Hunter on their path for vengeance. As a result, I became involved which caused the death of Matt Maxwell and Dr. Thomas. The letter had destroyed all of the boy's lives in some way.
"It's all right, Ma. It was just a letter." Clint had his arm around his mother, who was looking at me with concern.
"Mr. Pinnut?" Mrs. Franklin was clearly worried.
I sighed. "Clint is right, Mrs. Franklin. There's nothing to worry about. It was just a letter."
Just a letter.
CHAPTER 83
I had just driven back into Leadville when a cop car flashed its lights behind me. I pulled over and stepped out of the car. The snow had increased, so I pulled the collar of my jacket up as I walked to meet Sheriff Shaw halfway. He was wearing a thick sheepskin jacket and his Stetson was pulled low over his eyes.
"Mr. Tanner, you're like our Santa Claus from the Big Apple. I keep hearing you're around but I never see you. You weren't going to go without paying me a visit again, were you?"
"Don't you worry, Sheriff, I haven't forgotten you. There'll be something in your stocking at
Christmas. Perhaps a gold-plated spittoon?"
"I'm an impatient kind of fellow. What about something now? For instance, how about you tell me why you keep on sneaking back into Leadville to visit the Hunters?"
"I wasn't sneaking."
The falling snow had begun to accumulate on Shaw's hat and shoulders. Every breath or word was punctuated by a white exhalation. Even though we were in town, I couldn't hear a car or see another person. We were in a white cocoon.
"You haven't forgotten your promise, have you?" he said.
"I keep my promises, Sheriff."
Shaw stared at me silently for a while, and then nodded. "I know you do. Why else do you think I gave you the Ashley Hunter file?"
"Do you have the results of Dr. Thomas' autopsy yet?"
"Yes. The coroner found small hemorrhages in Thomas' eyes and lungs. That only happens when someone is suffocated. Not many people in retirement homes die naturally of suffocation."
"Uh huh."
"So do you want to tell me why someone would want to knock off a retired, country doctor?"
"Why do you think, Sheriff?"
"I think you should tell me what the fuck you know. That's what I think."
I reached into my pocket and handed Shaw a plastic Zip-lock bag. "Here."
He held it up. "What's this? A tooth pick?"
"Yes."
"Sorry, I prefer dental floss."
"I found it under Dr. Thomas' hospital bed."
"So? They don't use toothpicks in hospitals?"
"Kyle King's bodyguard, Donovan, always chews on a toothpick."
Shaw looked at the toothpick in the Zip-lock bag then back at me. "You know I can't use this in a court. There is no chain-of-evidence proof."
"I know. But I think it will get you heading in the right direction." I took a couple of steps back towards my car, and then stopped. "You were right about one thing, Sheriff. The boys did lie to you. When I know what they lied about, you'll be the first to know. Did you hear that Matt Maxwell died several days ago?"
"Is that right? So Decker is the only one left who knows what happened?" Shaw's tone was way too innocent.
We studied each other for a long moment.
"Apparently," I said.
CHAPTER 84
I knew I wouldn't be ever returning to Leadville, so I did what Fulton always told me was the most important aspect of solving any crime.
Work the crime scene.
Unfortunately, in this case the crime scene was nine years old, thirty miles into the wilderness and ten miles from the nearest ranger's office. Still, I had to see it once. I felt I would be betraying someone if I didn't.
Not Decker. Not even the Hunters or the sheriff.
Ashley.
It was midday by the time my Ski-Doo took the narrow, tree lined trail down to the cabin. The ranger who'd given me directions had sworn I was crazy and had tried to dissuade me. The forecast was for increasing snowfalls behind a massive cold front.
"Have you ever ridden one of these before?" he had asked me after he had started it.
"No, but I have the complete second season of "Man vs Wild" at home, so I'll be fine."
I turned and waved when I reached the top of the first rise, but the ranger was busy writing on a pad. Probably the exact time I was last seen alive.
The cabin was surprisingly easy to find. Armed with a Forest Service map, I had driven along a snow-bound fire-access road, across a valley with a frozen lake, where I found another fire-access road, which took me right to the cabin.
It had stopped snowing when I climbed off the Ski-Doo outside the cabin, which was nestled in the lee of a tree-covered hill. I picked the door lock and entered the room where Ashley and the boys had partied on that Thanksgiving weekend. I don't know what I expected to find or see. Something sinister, something that would help explain to me what happened that Thanksgiving night nine years ago. But nothing did, of course. It was just an ordinary alpine cabin living room: two couches, coffee table, fireplace and throw rugs. The bedroom where Decker and Ashley made love was probably identical to thousands of others across the country. A double bed, two dressers and a bunk were all it contained.
The cabin was cold and smelled musty, but that was all. There was no sense of tragedy, no feeling that something bad had happened in this place. Quite the opposite. The walls were lined with pictures of people skiing and tobogganing. People laughing and having fun. You would never imagine that a girl's life ended here in mysterious, tragic circumstances.
Outdoors again, I retrieved the file Shaw had given me from the backpack I had left on the Ski-Doo. After checking the crime scene map, I walked across the clearing to where Ashley's body was found. It wasn't hard to find. On a massive boulder was a plaque with an inscription.
Ashley Hunter
1986-2003
You were on your own, but not alone
No one saw you die, but God saw...
We will never forget
I stared, mesmerized, at the inscription, startled by the similarity of the last sentence to the phrase tattooed on my stomach. My hand had slipped under my jacket and now rested on my tattoo without my realizing it. Shaw had told me about the plaque, but I didn't have to be Einstein to know that Henry Hunter had written and paid for it.
I couldn't believe how close Ashley had been to the cabin when she died. Across the undulating clearing, it was only about fifty yards from the memorial.
Fifty yards. I could walk that in thirty seconds. I could throw a football that distance.
I looked at the crime scene photo again. Ashley had been found sitting on a fallen tree, with her arms wrapped around a sapling. The sapling was now a healthy sized tree but the log she had sat on was still there. I sat on it, perhaps in the exact same spot she had been sitting nine years ago. Even through my insulated pants, my butt immediately grew cold, and I wondered how it must have felt when Ashley, clothed in only a dress, sat on it.
I swatted the deadfall angrily. The wood felt as hard as concrete when my open hand smacked against it. It hurt.
I flicked through the photos Shaw had given me: the cabin, both inside and out, Ashley's body in the snow, the autopsy photos. She looked so small and vulnerable in the autopsy photos it pained me to see them. I went to put them away then, frowning, stopped. It was the autopsy photo of Ashley's hands. The palm of her left hand had been scratched, probably by a protruding branch as she tried to crawl along the snow-covered ground. Anyway, that's what I had thought. This time the shape of the scratch caught my eye.
For some reason it seemed oddly familiar. Then I remembered. Ashley's essay on "How I Would Change the World" that stood proudly in the Hunter living-room. All the O's in that essay had a smiley face drawn in them.
I examined the autopsy photo and slowly traced one of the scratches with my finger; a circle with part of a smiley face inside it. It wasn't a random scratch. It was a letter. The letter 'O'. And the letter in front of it? It looked a little like an 'L'.
LO
Was I imagining it? No, that was definitely part of a smiley face. An uneven, shaky smiley-face but a smiley-face nonetheless. The kind of smiley-face someone dying from hyperthermia might make. Someone whose hands were numb from cold. Someone who could hardly hold the branch or stick or whatever she used to make it with.
LO
What was she saying? What was so important that she would scratch the letters into the palm of her hand with her last dying breathe.
LO
I braced my hands beside my hips and gazed blankly around me, my mind swimming. A thought, clear and blinding, struck me like a physical blow and I gazed down with awe at what I was sitting on.
A fallen tree. A deadfall...
A LOG.
I jumped off so quickly, I slipped and fell into the snow. I began to brush the snow off the log, wondering if there might be a message under it. After I cleared a large section I stopped. No, this couldn't be right. If Ashley had left a message on the outside of
the log someone would have come across it years ago. I walked to the end of the log. It was about three feet in diameter and solid, except for a rotted hole in the center.
I knelt in the snow and peered inside. Nothing. I pulled out my cell and held it next to the cavity. It illuminated only a short distance into the hole, which extended several feet into the center of the log. Who knew what creepy crawlies were in there? Did snakes live this high up? Wouldn't they hibernate in warm, dark places exactly like this one?
I sat back on my heels and rolled up my sleeve. Tentatively, I reached inside. At first it was easy but then, when my upper arm entered, it became tighter and tighter. I felt around. It was damp and all I could feel was rotted wood and debris. I thrust harder, my bicep scraping painfully, and felt something.
Something smooth.
I could barely touch it with my fingertips and had to use my ring finger to slowly edge it back towards me. Five times, I pulled it towards me before I could grasp it.
Smooth and contoured.
I drew my hand out and stared down at what I held.
A cell phone.
I pushed the on button. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. If this was Ashley Hunter's cell phone, it was unlikely to work after lying in a log for nine years. It had to be hers. Otherwise, it would be a coincidence of unbelievable proportions.
I opened the back of the cell to look at the SD card. As I thought, it was a different size and wouldn't fit into my cell. Anyway, would there be anything on it after nine years? How long did data like photos and videos last on a SD card? I had no idea. There had surely been something important on it for Ashley to hide it so. Something so important she couldn't risk the boys finding it. Important enough, with her life leaking away, to devote her last remaining energy to devising a clue to ensure it fell into safe hands.
It was hard to believe. I felt like this girl I had never met, who had only been a cute teenager in a photo up until now, had left me a message. A cry from the distant past for help. I sighed. Even though I knew it was silly I felt guilty for letting Ashley down. Whatever she had left on the phone was probably gone, irretrievably lost.
I wondered if the boys knew about the phone? Did Kyle King know what the incriminating evidence Ashley had on the phone was? If so, King must have been a nervous wreck for weeks after that night, dreading that someone would find Ashley's phone. He probably thought she had dropped it in the snow and that some skier would find it. Come spring, I bet Kyle had been the first one back to the cabin, searching for it without success. Over time, he would have relaxed, thinking the phone was lost forever.
