Ridley Pearson - In Harm's Way

“You mentioned the flower bed to me,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s correct. They redid one of the beds. Replanted it. If we see anything left of what they pulled up, I want that recorded. I’m going to ask the caretaker about that-where he dumps the garden waste. There may be a compost pile, which would make it plain sight anyway, but I may want pictures.”

He tried to see something behind her eyes, to read her, to find some indication of what she knew about the bat, about why it would end up alongside Gale’s rental. But he saw only Fiona, saw the two of them eye to eye in the throes of need and satisfaction, and realized he was too far gone to be objective. In the end, it might take a call to Boldt, some independent eye, to straighten him out.

They arrived at the gate and Walt called through. The caretaker met them, accepting the warrant through the bars of the gate, which seemed symbolic to Walt.

They drove through and parked, and Walt asked the caretaker to stay away from his pickup truck as the man approached, saying they were welcome to look it over. He stood to one side and the trio went to work with a practiced efficiency. Levy had butcher paper and black acrylic paint in hand as he kneeled beside the front left tire. Fiona circled the vehicle, slowly taking dozens of shots.

“Sheriff?” Levy called.

Walt joined him.

“Sorry to burst your bubble. These are Goodrich all right, but Brandon’s wrong about the model. They aren’t Long Trail, they’re Rugged Trail, a step up. Not the same tire.”

“No way,” Walt muttered.

“Afraid so.”

“There’s a light rack.”

“Yes, there is.”

“You’re sure? The Gale crime scene impressions… could we have been wrong about those?”

“Very different tread patterns, Walt. I’m sorry.”

“Well…” Walt’s mind reeled. “We’re here. Let’s take the impressions and we’ll have them on file.”

“Got it.”

Walt headed away but turned and approached Levy once again. “He could have switched them out.”

“Certainly could have.”

“New tires?”

“These? Not brand-new, if that’s what you’re asking. But listen, we all keep multiple sets. These could be his winter tires-they’re serious tires.”

“So the old ones might still be at his place.”

“Or long gone.”

“At the dump.” The county trash dump out at Ohio Gulch had a tire dumping area. Walt wasn’t past sending a team out there to look for a set of discarded Long Trails.

He joined Fiona. “It may come down to you,” he whispered. “Any dents? Anything?”

“Looks in good shape to me. And clean as a whistle. Real clean for a gardener’s truck.”

Pickup truck owners in this valley were known for putting spit shines on their rigs. The spotless condition meant nothing.

“Every inch,” he said.

“Got it.”

“What is it you’re hoping to find?” the caretaker called out.

“We’ll know when we find it,” Walt said.

“You do and it’ll be news to me,” the man said brazenly.

Walt wasn’t accustomed to feeling desperate, but his eyes darted between Fiona busy at work and Boatwright’s estate, with the growing sense of walls closing in.

“What was Caroline Vetta like?” Walt asked the man, seizing on the idea of blindsiding him.

“I don’t know any of Mr. Boatwright’s guests personally.”

“Quite a looker,” Walt said. “Kind of hard to miss.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

Walt pulled the photo from his pocket, separating out Gale’s, which he returned to the pocket. “Jog your memory? Remember, we’re here on a warrant,” he said, hoping the caretaker didn’t know his law real well.

“Mr. Wynn’s friend. Yes.”

“Nice lady?”

“I told you: I wouldn’t know.”

“What was your impression of how she got along with Mr. Wynn or Mr. Boatwright?”

“I wash the windows. I oversee grounds maintenance. I’m not paparazzi, Sheriff.”

“Do you compost?”

“What?”

Walt appreciated the surprised reaction, appreciated the effect the question had.

“Around back?” Walt asked.

“In the aspen stand. East light. Early light. Get as much warmth on it as I can.”

“Show me.”

“You want to see my composter?” He seemed dumbfounded.

“If you don’t mind? Actually,” Walt said, now spotting the twin geometric shadows in the tight stand of aspens on the back side of the sprawling house, “I can see it from here.” Plain sight, he was thinking. “Fiona?”

She joined him and they walked behind the house across a magnificent patio and past a bubbling fish pond. He had a dozen questions he wanted to ask her, but didn’t want to blow the timing or sound suspicious. He needed to think about how to proceed.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

“A lot to process,” he answered honestly.

“The tires.”

“Among other things.”

“You think he switched them out?”

“I think it’s possible. All I go on are possibilities.”

“Got it.”

“What are the possibilities our mountain man paid your place a visit?” He wondered why he’d suddenly started down this path, why he’d chosen to sound so certain of himself.

“We talked about this.”

“Kira heard things.”

“Kira imagined things.”

Should he bring up the bat? The emergency room? Could he bring himself to believe any of what he was thinking?

Inside the stand of aspen the air cooled significantly. The two compost towers were green plastic with stackable sections. The lids to both were closed.

“Look over there,” she said, pointing out toward the house.

Walt followed her arm. “What?”

“Huh!” she said. “Wonder what’s inside?”

Walt turned around. One of the lids was laid back, open.

They exchanged a glance.

“I’m not deputized,” she said. “It’s why you wanted me to come over here, right?”

Walt said nothing.

“Thing is,” she said, “we know each other too well. Personally, I think that’s a good thing, but you’re going to have to tell me if you think otherwise.”

“I want to know you better,” he said. “I want in. And I want to let you in. I want to reach that place that we’re so far in that anything can be said, anything shared. I want to find that place where when one of us laughs, the other knows why, and when one of us is about to cry, the other is already reaching for the hankie. Like that.”

“Hankie? Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“I’m old-school.”

“You are nothing of the sort. You are… dreamy. Thank you for that.” She peered inside. “Blue and white lilies,” she said. “You want pictures?”

He stepped closer. “Blue and white? I remember them as… yellow, when he was working on the bed.”

“Yellow?” she said. “That would be my place. Leslie and Michael’s. They have, like, five beds planted in yellow lilies. Unbelievably pretty.”

“Your place,” he stated, his voice raspy, his throat dry.

“You want me to shoot these?” she asked.

He nodded, unable to get another word out.

“You okay?”

He nodded again.

“Walt? Something wrong?”

His mind tried to stop his mouth, but it was over before he could stop himself.

“Everything,” he said.

Walt stood, backlit by the glare of the Jeep’s headlights, his ghoulish shadow stretching far in front of him. Fiona parked her Subaru by the cottage and stood alongside him.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“That flower bed is damaged,” he said, his eyes on the freshly turned earth.

“The deer wreak havoc,” she said.