B.J. Daniels - Odd Man Out

It wasn’t that she believed the rumors. She just couldn’t stand seeing Max’s named dragged through the dirt. But more than that, she knew the rumors were somehow tied in with the way Max had been acting the past few weeks. Secretive. Something had been bothering him. And Denver felt that if she knew what it was, she’d know who killed him.

“He’s gone, Denver,” Pete said, taking her hand as if he could read her thoughts. “As much as we both hate it, he’s gone. Leave it alone.”

Concentrating on the click-clack of the wipers, she closed her eyes. Now wasn’t the time to let grief blind her, not when there was something much more important that had to be done—no matter what Pete said.

“I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at my place and didn’t go back out to the cabin tonight,” he said.

Denver opened her eyes, tempted to take him up on it. Since Max’s death, she’d been having the nightmare again. “Thanks, but the cabin’s home and I need that right now.”

Pete’s look reflected a mixture of annoyance and worry. “I don’t like the idea of your being out there alone. It’s too deserted this time of year.”

“You know how I feel about the lake. I love this time of year because it’s quiet out there.” She touched his arm. “I’ll be fine.”

“I wish you’d change your mind.” He sounded angry.

And she wondered if he was talking about her staying at his place or about the argument they’d had earlier.

“I swear, sometimes you’re as stubborn as—”

“As Max?” she asked. Max McCallahan had given stubborn a new definition.

Pete’s smile faded. “Yeah. Max.” She could see him fighting painful emotions as he turned on the radio. Intermittent snow flurries, the newsman said. A slow, sad Western song came on. Pete took her hand. “I just worry about you.”

“I know.” She smiled, feeling the familiar tenderness she’d felt for him since they were kids. Pete, Denver and J.D. Max had called them the Terrible Trio because of all the trouble they’d gotten into. Pete and J.D. had been the older brothers she’d never had; now Pete was her best friend. She chastised herself for arguing with him earlier; he was just trying to protect her the way he always had.

She studied him, forgetting sometimes how good-looking he was—tall, handsome with his blue eyes and blond hair, and capable of being utterly charming. If only she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago. Instead of J.D.

Another song came on the radio. Denver saw Pete tense and her own heart lurched as it always did when J. D. Garrison’s voice filled the airways. “Number ten on the country and western chart and climbing,” the radio announcer cut in. “Our own J. D. Garrison with his latest hit, ‘Old Friends and Enemies.’”

Pete snapped off the radio. “I can’t believe he didn’t make the funeral.”

Just the thought of J.D. brought back the hurt and disappointment. In her foolish heart, she’d always believed J.D. would come home if she or Max ever needed him. Well, they’d needed him. And he hadn’t come.

“I doubt J.D. can just drop everything at a moment’s notice,” she heard herself say. “Maybe he didn’t get the message you left him.”

Pete shot her a look. “Still making excuses for him?”

She looked away. Loving J.D. had always been both pleasure and pain. And all one-sided. J.D. had never seen her as anything more than a kid. But sometimes his gaze had met hers and— And then he’d ruffle her hair or throw her into the lake. No, he’d never taken her seriously, even when she’d promised him her heart. Instead, he’d teased her. Just a schoolgirl crush. Puppy love. She’d get over it.

He’d been gone nine years, but she still saw his ghost lounging on the sandy beach beside the lake, heard his laugh on the breeze that swept across the water and felt his touch on a hot summer’s night as she stood on the dock, unable to sleep. She’d just never met anyone who made her feel like J.D. had.

But if J. D. Garrison were here right now, she’d wring his neck. For missing Max’s funeral. For breaking a young girl’s heart. For still haunting her thoughts.

It began to snow harder as they dropped down to the Madison River. A soft mist rose from the water, cloaking the bridge in a veil of white fog and driving snow. A local teenage superstition prophesied that if you didn’t honk as you crossed the bridge you’d be in for bad luck. Pete didn’t believe in superstitions. “You make your own luck,” he’d always said. Denver honked, partly out of superstition, partly out of tradition; J.D. had never crossed the bridge without honking.

As they crossed the bridge, Pete didn’t honk. The snow fell in a thick, hypnotizing wall of white in front of the pickup. Denver realized she could barely make out the Madison Arm sign as they passed it. She glanced in the side mirror and was startled to see a huge semitrailer barreling down on them.

“Pete?” Her voice cracked. Her heart caught in her throat. “Pete!” He looked back, his eyes widening as he saw it. At the last moment, the truck swerved into the passing lane. Denver thought it would head on around them, but instead, she realized with growing horror, the truck was edging over into their lane.

“Son of a—” Pete yelled.

Denver could see the huge semitrailer wheels right next to them. A scream lodged in her throat; the truck would either force them off the road or—

Pete hit the brakes. The back of the semi just missed the front of the pickup by inches as it swerved the rest of the way into their lane.

Snow poured over the cab in a blinding rush as the semi roared past. Pete brought the pickup to a skidding stop sideways in the middle of the highway. Denver stared through the falling snow, expecting another vehicle to come along and hit them before Pete got the pickup pulled over to the edge of the road.

He sat there gripping the steering wheel. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice sounded strained as if the shock of their near mishap was just sinking in.

Denver took a shaky breath. Now that the danger had passed, she was trembling all over. “I think so. What was that guy doing?”

Pete shook his head as he looked at her. “I don’t know, but I could kill the bastard.”

Denver looked at the highway ahead, half expecting the trucker to come back and finish the job. “I can’t believe he didn’t even stop to see if we were all right.”

Pete swore as he steered the pickup back onto the highway and headed toward West Yellowstone again.

“Did you recognize the truck?” she asked. It had happened so fast she hadn’t even thought to look at the license plate.

“I’m sure it was just some out-of-stater who’s never been in a snowstorm before.” But Pete kept staring at the highway as if he expected to see the truck again, too. And Denver knew she wouldn’t feel safe until they reached town. No, she thought, she wouldn’t feel safe until Max’s killer was caught.

Pete slowed on the outskirts of town. At first glance, West, as the locals called it, appeared abandoned. They drove down the main drag, past the Dairy Queen, a row of T-shirt and curio shops and Denver’s camera shop. All were still boarded up behind huge piles of plowed snow. A melting cornice drooped low over Denver’s storefront. Out of a huge drift peeked a partially exposed homemade sign. See You In The Spring!

The only hint of spring was in the rivers of melting snow running along the sides of the empty streets. Dirty snowbanks, plowed up higher than most of the buildings, marked the street corners they drove by. Everywhere, a webbing of snowmobile tracks crisscrossed the rotting snow still lingering in the shadow of the pines. Down a muddy alley sat a deserted snowmobile, its engine cover thrown back, falling snowflakes rapidly covering it.