“Now, the only thing we can do is send out a search party. Best-case scenario is he’s bivouacked out there with a sprained ankle or something and we can still bring him in alive. You always have to hope.” Ray pauses, his voice transmitting reflection and finally, decision. “But honestly, the chances of finding him out there at this point are probably slim and none. In the back of my mind is always the possibility of foul play; we have to consider it and investigate for it, but we just don’t get strings of homicides around here, and I don’t see much to indicate that in this case.” Ray’s voice drops out. Alma worries for an instant that she’s lost the connection before she hears him clear his throat and begin again. “I hate to have to say this, but the fact pattern developing here is murder-suicide. Walt kills Vicky in some sort of family conflict, is overcome with guilt, and takes off for the woods to end it. So that’s another reason to send out search parties. It may be the only way to collect evidence before it’s destroyed by the elements or four-leggeds, so we can close the case. We’ve got a new forensics report back that I want to talk over with you.” Ray delivers the news in a crisp, detached tone. He is telling her what she must understand, but his reluctance to say these words to her is like a crackling on the line. She feels it without him saying it again: he is sorry. For her part, despite Walt’s misanthropic nature, she just can’t picture the scenario Ray spells out. Walt is a crank, not a killer.
The cruise control is on, carrying the car forward, which is lucky, because Alma would like nothing better than to pull over, curl up, and stop drawing breath in a world where things like this can be real. Instead she shakes her hair off her face and lowers her chin with a determination that Ray can hear rather than see. “I’m on my way out there myself, if that’s not a problem. If there’s any chance he’s hiding, he might come out to talk to me. I know where some of his stands are.”
There’s another heavy pause on Ray’s end. “I’m meeting you out there, then. Don’t go into the cabin, and don’t touch anything. I have to take care of a couple of things here first, but just wait for me, okay? I don’t want anybody else going missing.”
Alma is nearly at the convergence of I-90 and I-94, the great roads rolling westward together like great rivers merged, a pioneer drainage snaking toward the Gallatin Valley along a path traveled by the Crow and Nez Perce. Ordinarily Alma loves the pulse of this fast, truck-heavy interstate, pushing toward the Bozeman Pass, or eastward to Sheridan or Bismarck. More than that, she loves the feeling of the great open lands, the ranges she’s hiked and skied, the peace and isolation of the plains, the fortress of solitude. It holds the greatest safety, this land, once you know how to live on it. Nothing can come at you across the high plains that you can’t see from miles away. But right now she notices none of it. She’s shaky and perspiration is slick on her upper lip. Jean-Marc turns his head to look at her, then drops his head away to watch the billboards flash by.
After dropping off Jean-Marc with a few simple goodbyes, Alma rolls downhill into a space outside the Itching Post. She wants one of Pete’s hugs and a few minutes of uncomplicated sibling irritation, along with Pete’s take on what’s going on with Walt.
“Hey there, kid. You know, I think one of my staff is wasting coffee in the espresso beverages,” Pete says as he comes around the bar. “Either that or stealing it outright. We’re using way more than we should for the number we’ve sold. Usually they don’t use enough and people start complaining that the coffee tastes weak. I mean, I don’t mind if the baristas drink a few, but they’ve got to keep a record. How am I supposed to keep inventory and write orders if—”
“Pete.” Alma has to step into his path to get his attention, speaking low, close to his chest. “I understand you’re trying to run a business here and I’m sorry I keep distracting you, but nobody’s seen Walt in days. I’m about to head out to the cabin to look for him. He could’ve had an accident, I guess, but it seems like too big a coincidence, him and Vicky all at once, you know what I mean? It has to be related.” She resists the words internally. Every step into this quicksand sucks her farther down into a life she’s cast off with all her strength. Every muscle is taut with the urge to run, but she cannot abandon Vicky and Brittany, not this time.
Pete stares back coldly. “Whatever happened to Walt, he had it coming for years. It doesn’t surprise me at all, and I don’t give a shit.”
This reaction slows Alma’s enthusiastic exposition. She bends her head closer to his.
“Ray Curtis thinks maybe he killed Vicky and took off. You think that’s possible? You think Walt could be on the run, trying to make us think he’s dead? I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t know what to believe.”
Pete shrugs and glances toward the bar, busy with customers picking up large morning coffees. He reaches for a shelf and puts a few pound bags of coffee back where they belong, slamming them into place with unnecessary force. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he had cash stashed somewhere. You know how paranoid he is. I’m just saying it would never surprise me if the universe or anyone else had it in for Walt Terrebonne. That man ought to just drop off the karmic totem pole. And that is for your ears only. I don’t know what you’re thinking, chasing around after Walt. What good will it do? Either he’ll turn up or he won’t, and either way, we have no way of knowing what’s happened to him.” Pete turns back to Alma with sudden intensity, even a hostile edge to his normally laid-back gaze. “Look, Ray Curtis is a smart guy in a small police department and he’s looking for some excitement. I think you ought to go ahead and catch a plane to Seattle and let the dead lie in peace.”
Alma stands blinking as Pete strides toward the front of the bar and snatches up his clipboard. She wants his advice about so many things. He knows Billings and Vicky and the family far better than she does these days. He’d reassure her that breaking up with Jean-Marc is obvious and overdue. But he’s shutting her out and sending her away. Somewhere in the last decade or so, she became the outsider, and now her own brother is letting her know it.
CHAPTER 19
THURSDAY, 9 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME
Alma is lost to her own daydreams, elbow up against the cold window as she turns the car out the Nye road at an inadvisable speed. She and Walt have never had much of a relationship, but who can claim to be close to Walt? Vicky is the niece he raised from the age of twelve. To any ordinary man she’d be like a daughter. He must realize that if he’d gone out that night he might have saved her, unless he himself . . . But Alma will not walk herself down that road yet. Not until she has no choice.
In spite of his gruffness, in her childhood Alma felt reassured by Walt’s brick wall presence. The massiveness of him was a bulwark. Her mother never liked him. She didn’t care for his silences and his way of disappearing. “He’s hiding things,” she would say, “and I don’t think I want to know.”
The two families hadn’t been close—awkward holiday dinners, forced conversations at family and community events, and then all at once, in the absence of a will, Vicky was left alone with these arm’s-length relations. Alma shivers at the memory of Vicky standing in the airport corridor, several feet away from Helen, silent tears wetting her face as Alma turned to wave one last time, back when everyone still walked right up to the gate and watched the planes take flight.
At last Alma pulls into the long Forest Service road, over the frozen creek, toward the little cabin above the upper Stillwater. The scenery evokes late summer days floating the river on inner tubes with a contraband six-pack of beer tied on behind, swimming the deep holes, jumping off bridges and high rocks, all those things that everyone who grew up here has done.
Alma is so absorbed by memories that she misses the turnoff to Walt’s cabin and has to go back. Ray isn’t here yet.
The cabin is locked up tight and nobody answers her knock. The steps and ground are windswept with no trace of prints. The hiking boots Alma remembered to pack at the last minute scratch at the frost on the steps but leave no rec
ognizable marks.
There’s snow on the windshield of Walt’s GMC and a trace of snow on the steps. He’d have to walk in or out of the cabin or he’d have to use the pickup. There ought to be footprints somewhere. Alma has never known him to camp so long, not in winter. She looks around her and starts to circle the cabin. Even if Walt were in a stand, it’s not comfortable, especially in this weather. And he wouldn’t pack in days of supplies. He’d come back for things, and he hasn’t.
Alma’s mind starts to tick over. What if Walt did come the night Vicky died? What if the killer saw him? Could someone—Murray, Rick?—have followed him all the way out here without Walt noticing? How would someone Murray’s size overpower a man the size of Walt, or move his body? But Rick—Rick would be big enough.
On a rear windowsill is the Ace key copy that has always been there. The police have already searched the place and she’ll hear Ray coming for miles. Alma wastes no time. She goes to the fridge—two six-packs of PBR, a stack of burger patties, a bag of buns. On the counter is a paper bag of canned goods. She turns the faucet—no water, but a coughing sound. Walt must have turned on the water and left it long enough for the pipes to freeze. He expected to be back.
She sits down on a folding chair next to the scarred card table in the main room that doubles as a kitchen. None of this makes sense. Walt knows how to handle himself in the woods. She gets up and paces a few times across the cabin with her hand to her forehead, breath billowing in the chill.
Forgetting her good intentions not to leave any sign of her presence, Alma flings open the front door of the cabin and runs down the steps. The nearest stand is less than a mile away. She has to look. Panic is on her like sudden sickness. Nausea rises. She rounds the corner behind the cabin and starts to run up the trail, taking in the stinging cold air with big, panting breaths. The elevation and the slope slow her, but she makes good time, powering through ankle-deep snow, following the terrain line.
“Walt, goddamn you, be alive,” she mutters, pulling off her cap and stuffing it into a pocket, opening her coat as she starts to sweat. There are wildlife tracks and scat—some kind of big hare, squirrels, deer—but no human sign.
The stand appears in the distance all too quickly. It’s high up, higher than a stand should be, but Walt liked the perspective and took pride in the difficulty of the project. Alma makes no attempt to hide her tracks or muffle the sound of her approach. “Walt!” she cries. “Walt, are you up there?” Her voice is shockingly loud against the winter quiet of the tall pine forest. She sees no sign of life above, but she’s put her hand to the lowest grip all the same when an odd shape catches her peripheral vision. Perhaps ten feet away, even with the drip line of the tree, something pokes out of the light covering of snow.
“Oh shit.” Alma steps back from the tree and regards the object in the snow for a long moment before moving to it. Her body knows and clenches tight before her mind admits what it sees. As she comes closer, the bottom of a boot, then the leg attached to it, reveal themselves under the light crust of snow. Walt’s twisted body is sprawled on the forest floor, up against a decaying log that hid him at first. She knows him from his boots, his coat, his size. She comes near enough to see the white and red beard trailing from under his hood, then backs away, keeps backing until she smacks into the tree. She puts her hands behind her and clings to the trunk for support. “Dear God,” she breathes.
The prayer is inarticulate, a plea for nothing more than the strength to turn around and put one foot in front of the other. This much she does, stumbling back down the slope, falling a few times, crying. At last the cabin appears, like a mirage in the desert. Just past it stands the Billings PD Suburban.
Alma’s momentum carries her into the clearing. Ray is standing on the front steps of the cabin and bounds over to her. He grabs her by her upper arms to keep her from falling.
“Alma? Alma!” Ray guides her to the idling Suburban and helps her up into the passenger seat. “Just sit here, okay?” He hands her a small plastic package of tissues, fishes her keys out of her pocket, slams the door, and starts back up the trail with long strides, unholstering his handgun as he goes.
He is back in what feels like too short a time to Alma, but his face has changed. His jaw is fixed and the gun back in its holster. He climbs behind the wheel and sits for several minutes before speaking. Alma has stopped crying and blows her nose in the silence.
“You okay?” Ray asks.
Alma hiccups and forces a trembling nod. “I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my mind.” She pulls out a fresh tissue and begins to tear it into tiny snowflake shreds. “I’m just not used to this much traffic in dead bodies. He’s been up that tree a thousand times. I never thought he’d fall.” Alma brushes the tissue flakes off her leg and starts with a fresh tissue, her fingers working the soft paper frantically.
Ray reaches over and takes the package back. “Seems unlikely,” he agrees. “Also seems like a low-value way to kill yourself.”
“He’s armed like the Tenth Mountain Division,” Alma observes. She looks down at the shredded tissue as if seeing it for the first time, then wipes her nose on her coat sleeve. “If he’d wanted to kill himself, he didn’t need to jump out of a tree.”
“So we’re back to a double homicide,” Ray replies, then waits to hear what she’ll say. Alma leans back against the hard seat. She notices that Ray has locked up the cabin and wonders how long he would have waited until he followed her tracks.
“There’s Murray,” she begins. “But you arrested him Monday morning at the home place and he didn’t post bail until Tuesday. And Rick. I can’t be sure, but I think he might have forced me off the road the other day with his pickup. And this morning Brittany said . . . she told us that Rick was there that night, and he went after Vicky. So Walt could’ve witnessed something. And Pete told me”—another deep breath, preparing to let this burden go—“that she was raped a few months ago. That’s why she was pregnant.”
Ray exhales heavily. “Okay. I’ll need your statements. You think Brittany will be willing to talk to me?”
“I hope so. She’s been getting better.”
Ray settles a hand on the dash and taps it in a slow drumbeat as he reflects. “I’m still working on Murray’s motive. I don’t think there’s much there, but some of these guys will kill each other over what’s for dinner. Everyone who was there that night claims that nobody left to go after her, and nobody has mentioned Rick being there. So now we’ve got Brittany telling a different and uncorroborated story. You’re right that if Walt was an eyewitness, that could be a motive for coming after him. As far as I can tell, though, Rick had no relationship with Murray’s crowd. How would he get them to lie for him, especially when it might mean casting suspicion on one of them instead? Nothing about that makes sense. If he’d been there, at the very least Murray would’ve tried to use the information to get leniency, and he never said a word.”
Ray is thinking aloud as he tries to reassure Alma, but his words are only a reminder of the word they’re both thinking: murder. Double homicide. Murder suicide. Not good options. It was easier to think of Vicky as a victim of the elements than to see her in the scene that now runs incessantly through Alma’s mind: stalked, attacked, left for dead on a slab of ice in the fury of a January night. She would do anything to blot out that image, but instead her imagination is filling in the details, showing her how it’s all possible, only blurring the murderer’s face as he leans over Vicky. Facts would help, if there are any, but just when she thinks she has a handle on one, it runs like watercolor and changes into something less reliable.
“You were going to tell me more about the forensics report,” Alma prompts.
“Right. The autopsy produced the gray wool fibers I told you about. We don’t have any DNA and the blood work isn’t back yet, but it’s possible that somebody covered her nose and mouth with something like a scarf or a blanket. High quality, long fibers. She breathed in a few, and we di
dn’t find anything like that on her or at the house. If we can match the fibers we’ll be a little closer to building a case.”
“Where are you looking?”
“We’re executing search warrants for everyone connected to her recently.”
Alma notices again how Ray avoids using Vicky’s name. “I assume you talked to Dennis and Kozinsky?”
“Yeah, we talked to Kozinsky first thing and interviewed Dennis a few days ago. Kozinsky’s best alibi is Brittany—she was sitting right there in the room with him until she fell asleep that night. Dennis was at the Gazette until nearly one A.M. getting the paper to press and then his car wouldn’t start, so a coworker gave him a ride home. Why, have you heard something we ought to check into?”
“Not really. Dennis sure doesn’t live like he has any extra money lying around, but Vicky always said he put on an act so he wouldn’t have to pay child support. And Kozinsky—I mean, sure, he’s probably mixed up in the drug trade, but I don’t know why he’d be more of a suspect than anybody else Vicky knew. They got along well enough to live together.”
“They were in some kind of relationship,” Ray acknowledges. “Although it didn’t seem like much more than sleeping in the same bed.”
“That’s what I thought. And Brittany says he didn’t like her, but you could probably guess that from where she was sleeping.” Alma balls up the remaining tissue and stuffs it into her pocket so hard she hears the lining tear.
Ray pulls off his gloves to warm his fingers over the heat vents. “I hear from Sheriff Marx that there was an incident out at the Murphy place first thing this morning.”
Now, sitting next to Ray, Alma feels unconflicted about Jean-Marc’s lie. She nods.
“I spoke to a Chance Murphy by phone this morning after the run-in with Burlington—I take it he was a friend of both you and your sister?” Ray continues.
“Yes. A childhood friend.”
The Home Place: A Novel Page 25
