“How are you, Anton?”
“I'm missing you.” I want to blurt out that I'd just seen my brother but I know I can't. Not right now. Not just because of the legal implications, but because that one time she'd met him—on the ridge in Chile—he'd really freaked her out.
There is another pause and then a sigh. I picture Rebecca leaning back in her chair and tucking her hair behind her ears.
“It's only been four days, but it seems like forever, doesn't it?” Her voice sounds detached, and the words are guarded.
For the past six months, throughout the trial that has taken up so much of my time and energy, I'd been commuting to the Federal District Courthouse in Cheyenne from Rebecca's apartment in Denver. During that time I'd gotten to know her better than I have ever known any woman. And it was fantastic. Unbelievable. Even though my career had gone to hell, the relationship was better than anything I could imagine. I would return each night to find her making me a simple dinner at home because the publicity was so bad we didn't like to go out. We would drink wine or sangria or beer. After eating we'd put on music and then make love. Each time it was memorable. Slow on the floor in front of the fire. Laughing as we braced ourselves at the kitchen counter. Growling as we tore up the bed. With wet bodies smacking and slinging water in the shower. I can still hear her growling and shouting as she'd bitten my neck.
The change was abrupt. It had been about a month ago. I came home from a particularly grueling day, when I'd had to swallow insult after insult on the witness stand, my face growing bright red with shame and caged fury, to find Rebecca with an almost fearful look in her eyes. I didn't know if she was starting to believe the things that were being said about me or if she'd found another lover or if it was something else entirely. She wouldn't say. And I was too afraid of pushing her to ask.
Over the next few weeks, until I left for Jackson four days ago, we still sometimes half-dreamily talked about our future together. But she did it with a measuring look in her eyes, as if I were being given an exam. My responses never appeared to be quite correct. I could feel her growing away from me. It was like a diaphanous curtain had dropped between us. I couldn't quite touch her—feel her naked skin—the way I had before.
“Yeah, it seems like more than forever, 'Becca. I tried to call you late last night but you didn't answer.”
Another pause. “I was staying at my dad's place in Boulder.”
I realize I could call him and check in some casual way. Use my investigative skills. But I won't do that. Love is supposed to be about trust. And anyway, I won't demean myself in that way. I won't become some jealous boyfriend watching from the shadows. A stalker. I won't start down that dark path—who knows where it might lead?
“I tried to call you, too,” she says. “Early this morning.”
“I was climbing. Skiing, actually.”
“Where?”
“The East Face of Teewinot. Why do you want to know?” She'd never before asked about the details. They wouldn't mean anything to her.
“Alone?”
“No, I had a partner. A prosecutor here who's being stalked.” It seems like a bad time to mention any more of the details, like the fact that it's a young woman, a movie star's daughter, and someone who loves doing that sort of thing.
Rebecca sighs audibly. “Were you safe?”
I know what this sigh means. Ever since Patagonia at Christmas, when the sight of my brother soloing up toward us had caused such an intense reaction, she has disapproved of my need for getting lethal amounts of air beneath my heels. The sigh shows that at least she still cares if I kill myself or not.
“Of course. It was easy. Just a hill, really.”
“How do you spell Teewinot?”
“Why?”
“Because I'm looking it up on the Internet to see if it's really a hill or not.”
Damn. Unlike me, she has no qualms about using her investigative skills.
I spell it for her and recall the post-Patagonia climbing I had done over the last few months when I was living with her. The times I set the alarm for the 2:00 A.M. drive to Rocky Mountain National Park—where there are thousand-foot walls smeared with winter ice—she clung to me in our bed and asked me not to go. And when I went anyway she would be pissed about it for days. I had reveled in her resentment, thinking it came from love.
She tried to explain her aversion to my climbing forays during one of our recent but less passionate arguments: “I can't understand it, Anton, why you love going to those places, risking your life like that. It's all so macho and superficial. Monochromatic, too. Devoid of life. Rocks. Ice. Snow. You only see blue sky occasionally, between storms. People aren't supposed to be there. What are you chasing? Or running from? There's nothing up there.”
But if I'm superficial and bent, then that's what I am. You can't change something that elemental. I was good enough for her before—what's changed? But as I think about her words, I realize what I love about her other than her sleek, pale body and the occasionally sharp tongue. It's her ability to put things into words, to take things I never even consider and put them before me in a neat package. It's what makes her a very good journalist. She's my guide to my own world.
“You lied, Anton. That's not a hill. Christ. I can't believe you skied that.” There is no admiration in her voice. Instead it's accusation. There is something brittle, breaking, like she might be about to cry. It's so uncharacteristic it makes me grip the phone until my knuckles turn white.
What the hell is going on?
“Can you come up here next week?” I ask. “I really want—I really need to see you. We need to talk, 'Becca.”
“Yeah. I guess we do.”
There's another long pause. Do we approach it now, five hundred miles apart, or do we put it off until we can look into each other's face when we say and hear whatever it is that needs to be said? By putting it off at least I'll be able to hold on to hope awhile longer. I close my eyes and hear the blood starting to pound in my ears. I'm getting angry as well as scared.
“Call me tonight and I'll let you know if I can make it,” she says before laying down the phone.
SIX
IT'S ALREADY DARK when I pull up in front of Cali's house. The two-story Victorian stands near the center of town. It has a six-foot hedge surrounding the front yard and obscuring most of the lower level. The house must have been purchased with Hollywood money, as no assistant county attorney can afford this kind of real estate. I know from looking for my rental that property like this sells for almost a million dollars in glamorous Jackson. But the house is small and simple compared to the magazine pictures I've seen of her mother's fifteen-thousand-square-foot ranch house up in the valley.
A man looks asleep behind the wheel of a small sedan parked across the street. A Hertz sticker on the back bumper indicates that the car is a rental. The man inside is illuminated by a streetlight a little ways down the block. A goatee attempts to hide a recessed chin and his red hair is pulled back in a ponytail. He doesn't move at all when I walk up alongside his car.
I stand there for a minute, watching through the open driver's-side window as the man's chest rises and falls with the slow rhythm of unconsciousness. His mouth is hanging open and he snores lightly through it. His head is tilted back, the prominent Adam's apple bobbing. Looking at him, I feel the anger building once again. And I realize that tonight I'm slightly unhinged. Seeing my brother and then talking with Rebecca has shaken me; I feel like a steep slope precariously packed with wind-loaded snow. There's a lot of energy on the verge of being released.
Next to him, on the front seat, a handgun is half-hidden under a newspaper. A cheap baby monitor rests on the seat, too. Quiet static issues from the tinny speaker. Through the hiss I can hear a distant clunking sound, probably a drawer being slammed shut.
Leaning into the driver's-side window, I reach over the man and slide the gun from under the paper. Incredibly, he doesn't wake up. I hold the 9-mm Glock pistol at an angle
in front of his face then slam back the chamber so the bullet inside leaps into the man's gaping mouth.
He comes awake with a loud squawk—“Aack!”—and throws himself away from me, across the seat. Then he recognizes me through blurry eyes. “God!” He spits the bullet onto the dashboard.
“I'm not, Jim, but McGee and I will make sure you burn in hell if anything's happened to the girl.”
He rubs his face. “Hey, I'm sorry, Anton. It got hot in the sun and she wasn't doing anything anyway—said she was going to take a nap, and I guess I just—”
We both look at the speaker as the sound of a woman's humming grows louder for a moment before it fades away.
“Where did you put the transceiver?”
“In her living room. Look, man, I told her all she had to do was scream and I'd come running.”
“If we were in the Army, Ross McGee would shoot you for falling asleep at your post. This guy came after her with duct tape and a stun gun. It's serious, so stay awake when you're watching her. Understand?”
“Yeah, man. Look, I'm sorry—” Jim says, staring down at his lap as I treat him like a misbehaving child.
“Shut up, Jim.”
Then I get a little more control over myself. “Listen, this guy's for real. And it's possible he's a cop.” I tell him about how Cali had broken up with a sergeant in the Sheriff's Office only a month ago, and that he hadn't taken it well. I describe Wokowski, too, saying he's a big, blond guy with an attitude and a face like a pit bull's. Jim will know what I mean if he sees him.
“Go back to your plane or wherever you're staying and get some sleep. I might need you to take over again later tonight. Leave your cell phone on.”
Even though Jim is ten years older than me, I've been senior to him since my second year as a DCI agent. People I've talked to say he's a good guy but suspect he's spent too much time under cover, hanging around with low-life producers of methamphetamine. Their lifestyle has infected him, reducing his ambitions and eliminating his cop's zeal. They say he's perpetually trying to get the men he informs on—his friends, as he's come to see it—special deals with the state's prosecutors. And he's often too chickenshit to take part in the arrests. McGee should have fired him years ago but McGee is as loyal to his agents as they are to him. At least until there is evidence that they've committed a crime.
Jim pulls himself together and drives away without looking back at me.
Watching his taillights turn the corner, I feel a little less angry but diminished in some way. I'm not cut out for bullying. I stand in the street for a minute, breathing deep, willing myself to lighten up.
The upper windows of Cali's house are all bright. Lace curtains prevent me from seeing much inside, but I'm reassured by the ornate iron bars that have been bolted to the downstairs windows and the outdoor floodlight that clicks on crisply as I push through the wooden gate between the tall hedges.
I walk up onto the porch. An illuminated alarm keypad has been installed to the right of the door. I notice that it's turned on—the red light is lit, indicating it's armed. While Jim might not be very good security, the alarm system is. Before I have a chance to knock the door swings open.
Cali stands just inside, wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress that reaches almost to her knees. Black cowboy boots cover her feet and ankles. Her short blonde hair is curlier than it had been earlier. There are diamonds in her ears and, in concession to the party's Western theme, a red bandanna folded and tied around her neck. It appears she's even wearing makeup. She couldn't look more different from our ski trip in the morning. This is almost like another woman.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” I say, pretending to peer beyond her. “I'm here to pick up Cali Morrow.”
She grins before stepping forward to punch me hard in the chest.
“Don't give me a hard time, Anton.” She glances at my untucked shirt, tan jeans, and worn-out running shoes with their mismatched laces and duct-taped toes. “You look, uh, fine, too.”
“I've got a coat in the car. Real cashmere. From Italy, I think.”
“Don't worry about it. There's no one you need to impress unless you're thinking about taking up acting.”
I laugh and touch the scar on my cheek. “Not with a face like this.”
She looks at me speculatively. “You're not giving yourself enough credit. It gives you character.”
A chubby orange cat slinks onto the porch between her boots. It starts to entwine itself between my legs. Even though I've never felt much of an affinity for cats, I politely bend to stroke it.
“Who's this?”
Before Cali can answer, the cat hisses then spits. The hair spikes all the way down its back. It leaps away from me as if I'd touched it with a hot wire and disappears into some bushes.
“What happened? What did you do to him?” She looks as alarmed as the cat. She scans the yard and the bushes that wrap around it.
I hold out my hands innocently. “I just petted him. He must have smelled my dog.”
“But Lester likes dogs.”
“Mine's sort of an unusual dog. She's actually a wolf.” Then I address the bushes. “Sorry, Lester.”
Cali finally smiles again, unsure if I'm kidding and then seeing from my expression that I'm not. “A wolf? Wow. I want to meet her.”
“I'll bring her around sometime,” I say without enthusiasm. Mungo is not the sort of pet I'm proud to own. Aside from smiling, wetting herself and cowering are not great dog tricks I'm anxious to show off. “Is it okay for Lester to be running around loose? With all the coyotes and big cats around town?”
“Oh yeah. Lester can take care of himself. I've had him forever. He's been doing his own thing for nine years.”
She closes and locks her door behind her. I note the gleaming dead bolt with professional approval. Like the bars, security lights, and alarm, it appears brand-new. “I hope you got some sleep today, Anton. This could go late.”
I receive another punch when I grimace the way I had on the trail.
“You're going to have fun, jerk.”
SEVEN
THE PARKING LOT at Molly's Steakhouse is overflowing with rented SUVs and Hummers, and even the street in front is loaded to capacity. We end up parking the Pig on a residential street almost two blocks away from the barn-shaped restaurant. Cali laughs when I press a button on my key chain to trigger the truck's alarm.
“Who's going to steal that pile of rust?”
“It's not as crappy as it looks. It's got a new engine and a CD player,” I tell her, not mentioning that there is also a small .22 Beretta hidden under the dashboard, and red and blue flashing lights concealed behind the front grill. “And I know you'll find this hard to believe, but there are a few people in this state who don't like me very much.”
“I've heard that about you,” she teases.
I try to enjoy the walk in the night air, which has finally begun to cool. The hours ahead, I expect, will be filled with too much noise and too many people. My vision scans the sidewalk ahead for any sign of a lurking psychopath. The eye in my head, though, is watching me. That trouble-waiting-to-happen feeling is still there. I could easily do something really dumb tonight.
A warning flares in my mind when Cali's fingers brush against my wrist. The fluttering touch is repeated several times as we walk side by side on the narrow wooden sidewalk. Then her fingers lock around my wrist and slide down to my own fingers, where they entwine themselves. I don't have time to think about what to do or say—we're already there.
People are standing in line to enter the restaurant. They're dressed as I feared, wearing what real Westerners would only wear to a rodeo or as costumes on Halloween. Nearly everyone sports cowboy hats and boots. Embroidered denim and leather make up the rest of their clothes. At the door a young man with a ponytail and a discreet earphone checks names off on a list. A smile-faced sign is tacked on the wall behind him, reading, “No Media, Please,” as if Wyoming is full of hungry tabloid reporters. Two crew-cu
t security guards, probably local off-duty cops, stand behind him ready to enforce the edict.
Cali doesn't speak to anyone as we wait our turn to enter. I assume she has been out of the Hollywood limelight too long to be easily recognized. And I'm relieved to realize that none of these out-of-towners appears to recognize me. The only good thing about my notoriety is that it's local. Even the security guards are too busy ogling the women and the movie people to pay any attention to me.
Cali gives her name and the kid with the ponytail shows us a too-perfect set of small, feral teeth. “Of course!” he says happily. “It's good to finally meet you, dear.” He kisses her cheek. Then he beams at me as he crosses off Cali's name and writes with date. When I answer his query about my name, I'm happy to see that he scribbles Antonio Burns as if it were John Doe.
We follow the line of partygoers into the restaurant's single, wide room. It's about the size of a basketball court. The peanut shells that cover the floor crunch under our feet. There are already fifty or sixty people inside, and there is room for about a hundred more. They are packed ten-deep around the long bar at the far end of the room. Banquet tables with red-and-white-checked tablecloths stand in perfectly aligned rows down the restaurant's center. These are empty except for flowers, discarded purses and coats, and tin buckets of peanuts. Bluegrass music plays over the speakers.
We start to move past three men with drinks in their hands. They're slouching against a wall just inside the entrance. About my age or younger, all three are dressed as foolishly as the rest of the crowd in embroidered pearl-button shirts, fringed vests, and big hats. One of them wears all black like a television gunfighter. He has an ornate holster of Mexican silver slung low around his waist. There are a pair of toy pistols with long barrels on his hips.
Ignoring my attempt at a polite smile, the three “cowboys” all stare intently at Cali. Their eyes linger on her legs and butt as she passes ahead of me.
One of them says loudly in a fake-Western accent, “Fine-looking heifer you got there, pardner. I bet she could take my bull by the horns.”
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