In Harm's Way

by Ridley Pearson

  He got a kick out of their effort, pushing the pages aside and reviewing some paperwork from his briefcase until well past eleven. Letterman was tearing into the administration’s health care proposals as Walt packed it up for the night. He killed the TV and subsequently knocked the girls’ hard work onto the floor, scattering the pages.

  There was no explaining what the eye could see or the ear could hear. No explaining why Walt could look across a forest floor and effortlessly spot game tracks where others could not. No explaining how a musician could hear a flurry of notes within the confines of utter silence. Walt was bent over and scooping up the fallen pages as his eye picked first one word singled out with a hand-drawn arrow, then a second.

  Shaw Ken

  His eye darted around the page as his fingers found the sheet and brought it up to a reading distance, Walt still bent over the coffee table. Both entries had been crossed out, distinguished as nonsense words by either Nikki or Em:

  The cross-out was such that he could read the word as Fine or Fino.

  The top of the page carried an extraordinarily long URL that combined the website and the search string. Walt hurried to the computer and carefully typed the address into the browser bar, his throat tight, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. He knew the answer but the investigator in him would not allow any jumping to conclusions, demanding precise evidence. He double-checked each letter in the long address, not wanting to input it a second time and, confirming its accuracy, hit Enter.

  The screen went blank. Walt found himself holding his breath as the web page loaded. He scrolled down the results, the page lying alongside the keyboard.

  Fino

  “No…” he muttered aloud.

  The e-mail address “Anon.Weakfish@gmail.com” unscrambled to Fino A Shaw Ken. Fiona Kenshaw.

  He looked back and forth between the page and screen in disbelief, trying hard to convince himself there had to be a mistake. Obviously, the girls had input the address incorrectly. But that reliable eye of his picked out the truth: all the double-checking wasn’t going to change the results. Nikki and Emily had done a fine job of it.

  He pushed away from the table. The chair legs caught and he nearly went over backward, throwing his legs out and recovering his balance. But he was unsteady on his feet as he stood and roamed the room, his eyes unable to leave the screen and the piece of paper carrying his daughters’ handiwork. He paced. Hurried into the kitchen and popped a beer and drank from the can greedily as he continued to contemplate what it all meant. He knew what it meant, of course, but he couldn’t allow it to mean that, so his effort was to reframe the evidence into something that made sense, offered an alternate universe.

  He pried his eyes away long enough to glance at his watch: 11:28. He pulled the BlackBerry off his hip and held it in his palm, then sneaked a glimpse over his shoulder toward the girls’ room. This was the collision of work and family, this moment and moments like it. The after-hours demands of the job and his allowing it to interfere.

  He scrolled through the BlackBerry’s address book to Myra’s entry. His sister-in-law or Kevin would willingly come over and be in the house for the sake of his daughters if asked. Kevin was probably awake anyway.

  He worked the device and his thumb hovered over the green key, now with Fiona’s cell number highlighted. Then, not.

  The list server evidence was not yet evidence-it would have to arrive in written form from either Boldt or Buddy Cornell to be of use to Walt’s prosecuting attorney. Walt had mistakenly-stupidly, he thought-requested that Boldt pressure his people to authenticate the evidence, to deliver it formally. Could he now undo that request without sending up a red flag? Was he willing to do so for her? Did he dare jump to such conclusions without giving her a chance to explain things?

  But he told himself he wasn’t jumping to any conclusions. First had been Gale’s NA sponsor telling him Gale was atoning to women, and Walt’s recollection of the photo of the wide-eyed black kid on Fiona’s wall, photos taken of Katrina victims: New Orleans, Gale’s home city. Now the list server e-mail address providing a direct link between Gale and Fiona. Combined with Fiona’s recent erratic behavior, Walt began to see his suspicion of Kira-and Fiona’s reaction to it-in a new light. He thought back to his interview of Vince Wynn on the night of the backyard shooting, and Wynn’s mention of having received an e-mail from the list server announcing Gale’s parole, nearly two weeks late; he connected this, rightly or wrongly, to Fiona’s going pale at the Advocates dinner as she got a look at her phone. Had she, too, received a list server e-mail that night? Had the man at the back of the conference room, the man Kira had mistaken for her abductor, Roy Coats, actually been Martel Gale? If Kira knew about Fiona’s past it was conceivable she’d experienced a transference, making Fiona’s anxiety her own, and not realizing the difference. The two kids working valet parking had described the man as a hulk of almost comic book proportions: that fit with Gale’s steroid-induced enormity.

  If he drove up to see her, what excuse would there be later for his not having used a ruling of probable cause to conduct a search of the property? He no longer needed the Engletons’ permission for such a search. He had to shed his emotional response and think this through more carefully. Where did the evidence lead? What was hard evidence, and what amounted to speculation? What would his record show or suggest? Detailed records were kept of his e-mails, phone calls, radio calls, informal meetings, proper interrogations. Could he untangle that to keep charges off of Fiona? Was that what he wanted to do? Was that something he was willing to do?

  He had prided himself over a career of public service at having never corrupted a case or allowed himself to be corrupted. The office had accepted donations of Hummers, RVs, boats, trailers, and cash-He had never once taken so much as a gas can or a dime for himself. He’d had ample opportunity to screen friends from drunk driving charges or excuse parking tickets. Never had done it. But Fiona was different. Not only could he forgive a woman from defending herself against the likes of a Martel Gale, but after nearly two years of avoiding women in the wake of his marriage’s collapse, he’d now found the one woman he was willing to risk himself with-and here was his repayment. It seemed quite possible she’d bludgeoned a man to death.

  His thumb cleared the phone’s search field and typed an “F” into the blank bar. Hovered there.

  But his cell phone calls were a matter of public record. He looked toward the kitchen phone. His home calls could easily be subpoenaed. His work calls. His e-mail. He cursed into the room: his life was a matter of public record.

  He caught sight of the computer. Nikki had a Hotmail account she used for instant messaging. He’d set it up for her. He knew the password. He stepped toward the dinner table, recalling that Skype allowed the user to place phone calls anywhere in the world.

  Including six miles up the highway.

  39

  Walt asked Fiona to step outside the cottage and led her up the hill to the edge of one of the dimly lit, yet oddly colorful flower beds where he’d dragged a pair of her lawn chairs. Beatrice patrolled the forest, snapping twigs and snorting when she caught something up her nose.

  “Why the cloak and dagger?” she asked. The nearest floodlight was a good distance behind them at the corner of her cottage. Their long shadows stretched in front of them, following their motions, their faces dark.

  “I can’t see you very well,” she said.

  “That’s probably okay.”

  “Walt?”

  “This is tricky for me,” he said.

  “What is tricky for you?”

  “I’ve never done anything like this.”

  “Like what?”

  He let the hum of the crickets answer her. An old tree house hung between two firs on the far side of the flower bed filled with yellow lilies. Its presence suggested the children the Engletons never had, and for Walt it hung there like sadness.

  “An investigation like this-probable homicide-is either straight
forward or elliptical. When it’s your case, you hope it’ll be easy. Fast, and easy. When they drag out, they often go unsolved.”

  “This is about your case.”

  “And what happens is, some of the evidence is hard, some soft. Some you can take to court, some not. And then there’s this gray area where evidence is soft when it first comes in but then firms up as the lab gets it or the chain is laid out properly. It’s this no-man’s-land where as the investigator you know something but can’t legally prove it. At least not at the time. It’s a dangerous and difficult minefield to negotiate because if you misstep, maybe you alert your suspect or the suspect’s lawyer to what you have, and they’re in front of it before you actually have it.”

  “Is your circumvention intentional?”

  “Making matters more difficult,” he said, as if not having heard her, “is that any of us can be made to testify in court as to what was done or what was said in any given circumstance. Including this one. Including me. For once in my career, maybe I don’t want to get on the stand.

  “There are databases-all sorts of databases out there now-for everything from fingerprints to DNA,” he continued. “Felons, sure-known criminals. But also government employees, federal and state. Teachers. Military. Idaho maintains a database of the fingerprints of victims of abuse. In case a body should ever be found, or a kidnapping or abduction takes place. It’s voluntary but, especially with minors, parents nearly always give their consent.” He paused, allowing that all to sink in. “Just now, on the way up here… it’s been one of those days where all the data comes in at once. I just picked up a voice mail from the lab. The way it works is the computers do the yeoman’s job of searching the database, and then people take over, carefully studying the promising matches.

  “Minors, victims of abuse under eighteen, are nearly always in the system.” He made that as concrete as possible. “I need to ask you… on the record… so I need you to consider your answer carefully… Are you aware of the whereabouts of Kira Tulivich?”

  “Do you mind if I get a glass of water or something?”

  He told her he didn’t mind. She brought them both lemonades a few minutes later. She placed hers in a cup holder attached to the lawn furniture and drew patterns on the sweating glass.

  “You’ve won my attention,” she said.

  “I need you to answer the question.”

  “No. I don’t know where she is. But I’m guessing you found her prints on something.” She made it a statement.

  “I can’t confirm or deny that, though I’d like to,” he said. “What I can tell you, because it’s soft evidence, is that I received the list server database, the e-mail list for people at possible risk from Martel Gale.”

  She drew a deep inhale through her nose, keeping her vision set straight ahead.

  “If I’m going to help you,” he said, reaching over and touching her arm, “and I want to help you because I care about you, I need to know. I need to know it all.”

  A minute or two passed. For him it felt much longer.

  “Please. It’s not the sheriff asking.”

  “I tried to stop my picture from running in the paper. I tried to get you to help me. I knew someone would see it. I knew he’d find out about it.” She said nothing for a long time. He thought back to how he’d interpreted her attempts to stop the photos of the rescue as false modesty. If only she’d explained back then…

  “The emergency room,” she said. “I woke up with a lump on my head and not much memory of what happened. So as you’ve put this thing together, I’ve tried to figure it out from my side. I keep hoping something will help me remember. But so far, not so much.”

  He felt awash with relief. She had decided to talk, not close him out. He’d feared the latter. “Probably better if we talk hypothetically whenever possible,” he said. “It won’t always be possible.”

  “I’m not asking you to protect me.”

  “I didn’t say you were. And you don’t have to ask. But hypothetical is still better.”

  “But what I’m telling you is that I don’t know. I don’t think I can help you.”

  “An e-mail address-an anagram of your name-is on the list server for those at risk from Martel Gale.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Several more minutes passed. Beatrice came out of the dark and lay down next to Walt; he reached down and scratched her head. “I didn’t want you to know. Not you. Not anybody. Especially not you, not given… you know. Us. I was afraid what you’d think.”

  “You and Gale.”

  Her shadow faintly nodded on river rocks edging the garden. “It was supposed to be behind me.”

  “It still can be.”

  “No. Not now.” She waited for what seemed like minutes. “I came here to get away from all that. Him. To get away and stay away. Kira… she and I, we share that. It’s what allowed me to reach her in the first place, to help her find her way back. It could have been me giving that speech at the Advocates dinner, Walt. Marty-Martel-was… awful. People like that, they’re insidious. You’re afraid to leave. You know you can’t stay. Stuff like that, a situation like that, it’s a lot to go through. A lot more to get out of. But the worst of it is the labels people put on it, and how others see you once those labels are put on you, and I didn’t want that. I wanted a clean slate. With you, of all people. You’re in contact with that stuff. I didn’t want you knowing. I didn’t want you seeing me that way.”

  “Wouldn’t happen. Won’t happen.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “You think I haven’t seen this stuff? I’m telling you: it won’t happen. I’m not that guy.”

  “The bottom line is, I was selfish. It was wrong of me.”

  He worked to control his breathing. He was both angry and scared. Scared that he would succumb to seeing her as she feared.

  “I have to protect her,” she said. “She doesn’t need this. This is my problem, not hers. If she had any part in it… well, listen, he deserved what he got. I’m not putting her through this again…”

  “It’s not her I’m looking at,” he admitted. “That’s where the conflict comes in.”

  She gasped and turned her head fully toward him. “Seriously? But I assumed… I thought… She took off right after it happened. I just assumed…”

  “Some of the most important evidence is still soft, Fiona. That’s why we’re talking. Why I’m here.”

  “Meaning? Help me through this, Walt. I don’t know where we are, much less where we’re going. Why are you here?”

  “Because for the first time in a long time, I’m afraid to be right. I would do… I will do… nearly anything in my power to help you. Protect you. Keep this off you.”

  She continued looking off into the dark.

  “When you found him. In that pile of stuff, that debris… When I saw him…”

  He recalled how wrecked she’d been, how he’d put that off to the horrific condition of the body, not its identity.

  “That-out there by the road-was the first I’d seen of him in twenty-six months and nine days,” she said. “At least I think it was him. Let me ask you something: did his killing happen on the same night as my accident? Is that what you mean by you’re not looking at Kira? The timing makes sense?”

  He said nothing, weighing how to answer her without damaging them both down the road. He’d never been in this position. New territory.

  “The timing didn’t escape me,” she told him. “And I could already hear the questions: Why hadn’t I called in the breach of the restraining order? Why hadn’t I at least told you or someone else about my connection to him when I had the chance? I’ll tell you why: I panicked. My secret was still safe. My identity, my role in the trial, was sealed by the court; not even you could uncover I was the one who testified against him. I knew that much. No one could possibly connect the two of us. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and let him be dead. But as it turns out, I underestimated the investigator. Should
have known better.”

  “Have you done anything to protect Kira?” A question that had to be asked, but as it came out of him, it sounded more like an accusation.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Forgive me for even asking, but you said you couldn’t let her become a suspect. What did you mean by that? Did you do something to protect her?”

  “You think I messed with the investigation.”

  “You control our record of evidence. I just need to know-”

  “My pictures? Are you kidding me?” She turned back. “That’s unfair.”

  He searched for the right words, wondering how the law defined conspiracy.

  “Unfair… of me,” she said, correcting herself. “Did I consider it? Hell, yes. I printed the truck tires after it was returned to the garage.” She left that hanging there like a knot of bugs around his head. “They’re the right brand. The same tread. I couldn’t be sure if they matched or not. I didn’t see anything to say they did, but I have to admit I considered what I’d do if they did. I thought… I realized I could probably switch out the photos in your office. I mean, it’s all electronic. You probably would have given me access if I’d asked. Did I consider it? Yes. Did I do it?”

  He breathed a little easier. The logical next question, he couldn’t ask: Where were you that night? A simple enough question. Explain your head injury that’s on record at the hospital. In fact, he nearly asked both of these. But he stopped himself, knowing the code that would bind him if either answer proved revelatory. He not only didn’t want the answers, he didn’t want to have to lie about having asked them, if it ever came to that.

  “I’d seen her nearly come after you that night you were poking around the cottage. It’s not like there was blood or anything in my house. There was nothing in there, my place, to suggest… I thought maybe it had happened outside. And if so, I had a pretty good idea who’d done it.”