“So he abandoned his very fruitful career in the technology industry and used his fortune to make Tram Village. And we are very lucky to have such a place so close to the smog and the big cities.”
“I think I understand. I am sorry,” Terrell said, trying to sound genuinely apologetic.
“Not necessary. But you would do well to remember something my grandfather told me: ‘Things are not always as they seem.’ Do you have similar saying?”
Terrell nodded.
Bullet bid him good-bye. Terrell closed the door and flopped onto the king bed. Why had the man told him all this? His mind wandered, searching for meaning in Bullet’s statement, then thinking about his deputy and the dead wolf at the police station.
7
BUFFALO RIVER VALLEY, WYOMING. OCTOBER 17.
12:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
Beyond the Grand Teton National Park’s eastern boundary, where the valley floor began to incline slightly toward Togwotee Pass, the Youst cabin sat in its perpetual state of disrepair.
Dr. Eric Youst and his partner, Susan, were distraught. Over the loss of not only their pet but also their pet project.
Now it was just the alpha female, Luna, and her pup—a heartbreaking sight. To make things worse, the wolf was inconsolable. Wouldn’t eat. Barely slept. She spent most of her time pacing around and whimpering, wondering where her mate was.
“It’s almost a poetic analogy, how it happened. The pup was just born.” Eric wore a sullen smile. That was true, but it didn’t ease Susan’s mind. Plus, she hated when he sounded like such a smart-ass.
“We should have kept better track of him. He’d been snacking on roadkill there for three days. It was just a matter of time until he got hit.”
Eric shrugged and threw a bone to Luna, who sniffed it and let it lie.
They were eccentrics, wandering into town only occasionally to buy a truckload of groceries, mainly canned goods and organic dog food. They farmed what they could from their own land, but the harsh climate of Jackson Hole meant they never got enough to eat. To the folks in town, the word scarecrow came to mind. The reticent way they floated up and down the grocery-store aisles brought another word to mind: cagey. Rumors abounded. They were called communists, radicals, crazies, but the truth was that nobody really knew what they were all about.
Susan smiled from time to time, acknowledging strangers, but Eric only scowled. The townsfolk could feel his judgment upon them through that one simple facial expression.
“Are you sure this won’t come back to us?” Susan had asked Eric over and over again for the first twelve hours or so. She was a nervous, neurotic woman.
There was no way it could, he’d assured her. The hardware gave an identical signal to the tags used throughout the world. Unless someone decided to actually crack the device open and examine its innards, it was impossible to tell the difference.
“It was a victory for us, albeit in a morbid way. It shows that the programming and the hardware work. Plus, we were able to put Alfie out of his misery; that is a gift.”
8
WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 17.
5 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
“Can we just drop it?”
Jake still felt hungover. Combine that with rush-hour traffic and a particularly maddening version of Divya and out came one of the rudest things he’d said in a while. He didn’t apologize, though, because he knew she could take it. And she deserved it.
“Of course we can.” Her hand on his wrist again and a smile. “I was just curious as to your understanding of why things between us fizzled out.”
Jake dodged the question.
“Your conference room there is rigged, you know.” Jake changed the subject.
“Rigged?” Divya bit on the new topic. Jake was relieved.
“Rigged, yeah. There’s some kind of recording device under or inside your table. It interfered with your computer there.”
“Bugged, right. I know, darling.”
“I figured you did; you moved your computer. What’s the deal?”
Jake could see that Divya was enthralled by playing spy, and even more enthralled that she had somehow piqued his interest.
“Nothing, really. Our backers are keeping tabs on us, that’s all.”
“Backers?”
“Backers, supporters, yeah. Agriculture, tech companies . . . hell—even BigMart.”
It’s a goddamned lobby! “BigMart? What about the Fourth Amendment? ‘The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose,’ that whole thing? I thought this was a human rights campaign. It’s called For a Free America, for God’s sake.”
“It is, yes,” she said, looking at him, thrilled to have his attention. “But this is DC; you know that people with similar interests tend to align. American business needs foreign workers. We need their money to further our cause.”
“You’re getting paid?”
“I said it was support. Our costs are being covered. You thought I was paying for all this?”
“You said it wasn’t a lobby.” Jake scowled at her.
“Can we just drop it?” Divya said, mocking him. She bent forward in the town car and directed an air vent at herself. Then she took off her silk scarf and unbuttoned her blouse so that the tops of her laced bra cups were exposed.
“This heat is awful.”
Jake shook his head and looked out the window. The avoidance maneuver made her more aggressive. She motioned for the driver to put the divider up.
“You really mean to tell me that if I propositioned you to make love to me on my cool satin sheets like old times, you would reject me?”
She was leaning over him with both hands on his thigh.
“You lied to me,” Jake grumbled.
“No. I care about this as much as anyone else. My parents were immigrants. Sometimes you have to make compromises.”
“You played me, then.” Jake looked back out the window.
After a few seconds passed, Divya pulled back.
“When did you become such a gentleman?”
Jake shook his head more noticeably now and looked her in the eyes.
“And what have you become?”
The rest of the ride back to Georgetown was silent, except for the hum of the AC.
* * *
“We have dinner in two hours,” Divya said flatly as she dropped her keys into a porcelain dish in the entryway. She looked momentarily dejected, not a mask that suited her.
“Might just skip it.” Jake was already headed upstairs to change out of his dress clothes. “Stomach is still bothering me.”
“It’s Karma!” She was agitated.
“I don’t know what that means, Divya.”
A smirk. “It’s only the best restaurant in DC. Come on, I’ll make you a gin and tonic right now. It will help. Hair of the dog.” She was turning her mood around, just like that. Turning on the charm.
“Let me lie down for a bit.”
* * *
Jake stirred awake at the clinking of ice cubes on crystal, but didn’t open his eyes.
How long was I out?
He felt breath on his neck, but his senses hadn’t awoken enough to register what was happening. When he opened his eyes he was facing the window. It was dark outside. He must have overslept.
“Shit,” he said aloud.
“It’s okay. I moved Karma back.”
This jogged his memory.
He turned to face the voice and let his eyes focus. There was Divya, perched atop him, gin and tonic in hand. She wore a daisy-yellow chemise and her hair was up, out of the way.
She took a sip of the drink and started kissing his chest. Jake let his eyes close.
“Jake!” She said his name as she kis
sed her way down to his navel.
“Hey! Jake!”
His eyes snapped open. He was facing the window again. It was daylight.
Divya was standing next to the bed, fully clothed, which was more than Jake could say for himself. He had kicked off his clothes before crashing.
“You stayed in pretty good shape.” Divya was looking at his stomach and chest. She glanced lower. “Good dream?” She laughed. “You really wear boxers with fish on them these days?”
“Shit!” Jake tried to cover up with the duvet.
“Seen it before.” Divya walked toward the door, still laughing. “You have ten minutes.”
Jesus Christ.
Jake hopped out of bed, got dressed, and went to wash his face.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
9
WEST BANK, SNAKE RIVER. OCTOBER 18.
3:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
“Where the hell is she, Chayote?”
The dog looked at J.P., then looked at the tennis ball lying at his feet, and then back at J.P.
“Fine! Shit!”
He opened the back door toward the creek and threw the ball. The cattle dog went after it in an explosion of acceleration, knocking against the modest CHECK-IN podium with his behind.
J.P. bent over and picked up the half-dozen pens that scattered in Chayote’s wake. When he looked up, there was Chayote, staring at him through the screen door. The tennis ball was between his two front feet.
“Damn dog! Go play!”
Chayote cocked his head. J.P. slammed the heavy door, leaving the dog standing there alone.
J.P. checked his phone again for a new text message. Nothing. Just to be sure he wasn’t losing his mind, he looked at her last message. At least he assumed it was from her; it was from a number he didn’t know.
It’s me. I’m almost back to you. Let’s figure us out. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. XO.
The message had come the previous day. J.P. wrote back several times with no further response. He’d even called, but the phone had been shut off or was out of service. Esma hadn’t set up her voice mail yet.
He paced along the big picture window that looked out on the creek. Chayote paced with him, but on the other side of the glass.
“I can’t take this,” he finally said aloud, grabbing his keys. He jogged out the back door. Chayote bounced along in tow.
J.P. drove fast over the bridge, risking a ticket. The Snake River was a skeleton of its normal self this time of year, its flow lazy and low. It was a sign of things to come, the winter that would slow all Wyoming life, except for skiing, to a halt. He thought of the previous spring and of Esma with wildflowers in her black hair. The sense he had back then that something good was just beginning. He accelerated even more, wanting to get away from the dying river.
When he got to the grocería in Jackson, he slammed the shifter into park but left the engine running. Five minutes later he came back with a six-pack of watermelon Jarritos.
The apartment complex wasn’t far from the grocería. J.P. parked on the street and walked up the exterior stairwell. Chayote followed behind. The young girl, Gaby, was sitting on the deck outside her unit. The Jarritos were her bribe. She sat playing a game of some kind on her smartphone and letting a red Popsicle melt on a plate beside her.
“Little cold for that, isn’t it?”
The little girl just shrugged. Her dark hair was up in pigtails, tied with blue ribbon. She wore colorful pajamas. J.P. took a seat on the deck across from her, leaning his back against the railing structure. It flexed with his weight, which got Gaby’s attention.
“Easy, big guy.”
J.P. couldn’t respond before a shout came through the door. “¡Gabriela! ¡Hora de cenar!”
Gaby ignored the call for dinner, but it pulled her attention away from the device long enough for her to finally notice the sodas next to J.P.
“Put them over here.” She motioned toward the plate. J.P. pulled one of the drinks from the cardboard carrier and popped the cap on a rusty nail sticking out from the railing. Gaby gave him a disapproving look and went back to her game.
The door swung open. The smell of cumin and chili pepper floated out.
“¡Gabriela! La cena esta . . .” Gaby’s mother stopped when she noticed J.P. She said something quickly to her daughter in Spanish.
Gaby replied in English. “No. Esma’s boyfriend.” She rolled her eyes, as if to say Yep, this schlub.
Another quick exchange, but now Gaby spoke Spanish too. Her mother was upset. J.P. stood to go, but before he could, Gaby grabbed his hand and led him inside. The kitchen table was crowded with a feast: tamales, pork, chicken, and a cucumber-and-jalapeño salad.
The middle-aged woman pulled out a seat for J.P. and then gave him a thoughtful look. “I sorry she make you sit outside.”
“No problemo. Just looking for Esma.”
The woman didn’t seem surprised. She looked at Chayote, who had wiggled his way inside toward the smell when the door opened, with disdain. He sat and looked back at her, begging.
She frowned and threw him a piece of pork.
Gaby was Esma’s goddaughter and their downstairs neighbor. Sometimes when her mother and father were at work for the dinner shift or wanted an evening alone, J.P. and Esma would take Gaby out for what the little fireball sarcastically called “fun nights.”
The trio ate mainly in silence. When they were finished, J.P. tried to help clean up, but Gaby’s mother waved him off. He sat back down at the table, where Gaby was playing on her phone again.
“Did you make her leave?” The child spoke without looking up.
“I, um, no. Of course not. She wanted to see her family.”
Gaby was too sharp to fall for this. “Totally,” she said sarcastically.
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“Nope. There’s probably no reception down there.” She turned to her mother and spoke in Spanish, then back to J.P. “She hasn’t heard from her either.”
“Did she get a new phone? I got a message from her, but it was a different number.”
Gaby laughed. “I hope so. I’ve been bugging her to get an iPhone for like a year. She said she would when her phone died.”
It must be her! Her old prepaid wasn’t holding its charge very well before she left.
Gaby’s mother brought in flan, made from scratch. Gaby pushed hers aside, but J.P. devoured his. He had barely eaten since he’d gotten Esma’s message, and his hunger had caught up with him. Hearing that Esma might have gotten a new cell phone encouraged him. He was feeling better.
“When is she coming home?” Gaby asked. This time she paused the game and looked at J.P.
“I don’t know, but I think soon. I have to go. I’ll have Esma call you!”
He gave Gaby and her mother awkward hugs and sprinted out the door.
When he got in his truck, he immediately dialed the number again. The phone rang, which was the first time he had gotten that far. His excitement was building. Four rings. Five.
C’mon. C’mon!
J.P. dreaded the automated voice.
C’mon. Please just pick up.
“Hello?”
The voice shocked J.P.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Whoa, who the hell is this?” A man’s voice. American. From the background, he heard a scuffle and another voice, louder. “Put it down, idiot!”
“Hey! Is Esma there?”
Just laughter. Then, “I said put it down!” There was a loud thump and finally silence. Dead air.
“Hey!”
What the fuck?
J.P. dialed again. The phone rang but went straight to the automated voice mail. He dialed one more time. Nothing.
J.P. started the engine and swung the truck arou
nd in a U-turn, toward the police station. He fumbled to find a cigarette in the glove compartment, ran a few stop signs, then parked at the City/County complex. He jogged to the reception entrance, tossed the butt, and flung open the doors.
“Where’s the chief?” he shouted. His voice was trembling.
The receptionist stood up to block him from walking back into the offices. An audience of officers stood up, ready to react if necessary.
“I know him,” one of the detectives said. “It’s okay.” Mike, the ski-patroller-turned-cop. Must have a hard-on for telling people what to do, J.P. figured.
“Thanks, Mike.” J.P. caught his breath, put his hands on his face, and sunk into one of the hard plastic chairs in the waiting area.
“What the hell is going on? You can’t storm in here like that. You’re gonna get yourself shot.”
“I’m sorry. My lady is in trouble, man. We were having some issues, you know, and she left, but she said she was on her way back, was supposed to be here this morning. She never showed.”
“Change of heart, maybe, J.P. Calm down.” Mike gave him a sympathetic look.
“It’s not like that. I called her phone, some guy picked up and somebody else was talking in the background.”
Mike considered this for a moment. “Is this Liz Hingley all over again, J.P.?”
“What? Shit no! C’mon, man!”
Mike recited the facts: six years earlier, J.P. had come home to find his girlfriend of over a year in the shower with his closest friend. And another friend. So he drunkenly fashioned the horns of a cuckold out of paper-towel rolls and wandered around the square with a bottle of Jim Beam, bawling. The cops weren’t far behind him.
“All right, I know the story, dude. Shut up.” Mike was trying to keep a straight face while the receptionist guffawed. “I just know something’s wrong.”
Mike put on a straight face. “All right, c’mon back.”
J.P. kept his head down while walking through the cubicles. Some of the officers kept their chuckles to themselves. Others weren’t so kind. J.P. didn’t look up until he sat down in front of Mike’s desk.
“Let’s start with her phone number. Sometimes if we call, they take it a bit more seriously.”
River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) Page 5
