touched Sarah’s sleeve. “Why not, dear?”
“I couldn’t possibly move to Washington,” replied Sarah. “It would be a fantastic opportunity, but after what happened, I just can’t—” She wouldn’t look at me, but I could see that her eyes were watery. “Well, you know. After what happened, I just can’t leave Mike here alone.”
I went to take a sip from my beer bottle but found it empty. “I’m going to get another beer. Would anyone like anything?”
Charley rose stiffly to his feet. “Let me help you with some of these dishes.”
He followed me into the kitchen with a stack of bowls and plates.
“So what’s the scoop with that phone call?” he whispered.
“It’s a long story.”
He wagged his thumb at the door leading out to the back porch. “Well then, let’s step outside. It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit in here.”
The temperature had plunged after darkness fell, and there was a crispness in the air that harkened back to the depths of winter. Overhead, the constellations were as clear as illustrations in a textbook. It took no imagination at all to connect the dots and see Orion, the hunter, with his lethal club and broad belt.
As concisely as I could, I told him about Ashley Kim’s disappearance and my tense encounter with the Driskos. He listened carefully, rubbing his lantern chin the whole time, the very model of thoughtful attention. “So you suspect the young woman was headed out to this fellow Westergaard’s house?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“And these Drisko fellers showed up to snatch the deer?”
“I don’t know if they arrived before or after she left—but yes.”
“Do you have Westergaard’s phone number?”
“I have his number in Massachusetts.” I reached into my pocket for the note I’d scribbled in the bedroom. I heard the door creak open behind me and felt warmth from the kitchen rushing out into the night like a hot breath upon my neck.
“What mischief are you men up to out here?” asked Ora. She had to lean forward in her wheelchair to hold the door ajar.
“Just getting some fresh air,” her husband said.
“Could you come inside for a moment, Mike?”
“Sure, Ora.”
“Don’t stay out too long,” she told her husband.
Charley snatched the note from my hand and gave me a wink. “You’d think I spent my life as an accountant and not a game warden.”
In the bright light of the kitchen, I towered over Ora. I’m not sure how she stayed active, paralyzed as she was, but she radiated the vitality of a woman who swam a mile each morning. The house was strangely quiet.
“Where’s Sarah?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s in the powder room. I think she needed a moment to herself.” She paused deliberately. “Is she feeling . . . all right?”
“She’s had some stomach issues.”
Whatever Ora was fishing for, she hadn’t hooked it. “I wanted to ask you about your mother.”
“My mom?” The request took me by surprise. During the hunt for my father, it seemed the whole world believed he was guilty—everyone except his son and ex-wife. I’d realized that my mom still loved my dad in a twisted way that defied understanding. “I haven’t seen much of her,” I explained. “We didn’t have a service for my father. The state took care of the body—cremated it. They asked me if I wanted the ashes, but I said no.”
“What about your mother?”
“I don’t know if she took the ashes.”
Ora frowned with consternation, as if I was failing to understand an obvious question. “I mean, do you know how she’s doing? Your father’s death must have been very difficult for her.”
The concern in Ora Stevens’s wide-set eyes made me feel embarrassed that I’d been so slow to catch her meaning. “She was still emotional when I saw her in Scarborough over the holidays,” I explained. “In her heart, she sees my dad as a tragic figure and blames Brenda Dean for turning him into a monster. We haven’t really
“I couldn’t possibly move to Washington,” replied Sarah. “It would be a fantastic opportunity, but after what happened, I just can’t—” She wouldn’t look at me, but I could see that her eyes were watery. “Well, you know. After what happened, I just can’t leave Mike here alone.”
I went to take a sip from my beer bottle but found it empty. “I’m going to get another beer. Would anyone like anything?”
Charley rose stiffly to his feet. “Let me help you with some of these dishes.”
He followed me into the kitchen with a stack of bowls and plates.
“So what’s the scoop with that phone call?” he whispered.
“It’s a long story.”
He wagged his thumb at the door leading out to the back porch. “Well then, let’s step outside. It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit in here.”
The temperature had plunged after darkness fell, and there was a crispness in the air that harkened back to the depths of winter. Overhead, the constellations were as clear as illustrations in a textbook. It took no imagination at all to connect the dots and see Orion, the hunter, with his lethal club and broad belt.
As concisely as I could, I told him about Ashley Kim’s disappearance and my tense encounter with the Driskos. He listened carefully, rubbing his lantern chin the whole time, the very model of thoughtful attention. “So you suspect the young woman was headed out to this fellow Westergaard’s house?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“And these Drisko fellers showed up to snatch the deer?”
“I don’t know if they arrived before or after she left—but yes.”
“Do you have Westergaard’s phone number?”
“I have his number in Massachusetts.” I reached into my pocket for the note I’d scribbled in the bedroom. I heard the door creak open behind me and felt warmth from the kitchen rushing out into the night like a hot breath upon my neck.
“What mischief are you men up to out here?” asked Ora. She had to lean forward in her wheelchair to hold the door ajar.
“Just getting some fresh air,” her husband said.
“Could you come inside for a moment, Mike?”
“Sure, Ora.”
“Don’t stay out too long,” she told her husband.
Charley snatched the note from my hand and gave me a wink. “You’d think I spent my life as an accountant and not a game warden.”
In the bright light of the kitchen, I towered over Ora. I’m not sure how she stayed active, paralyzed as she was, but she radiated the vitality of a woman who swam a mile each morning. The house was strangely quiet.
“Where’s Sarah?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s in the powder room. I think she needed a moment to herself.” She paused deliberately. “Is she feeling . . . all right?”
“She’s had some stomach issues.”
Whatever Ora was fishing for, she hadn’t hooked it. “I wanted to ask you about your mother.”
“My mom?” The request took me by surprise. During the hunt for my father, it seemed the whole world believed he was guilty—everyone except his son and ex-wife. I’d realized that my mom still loved my dad in a twisted way that defied understanding. “I haven’t seen much of her,” I explained. “We didn’t have a service for my father. The state took care of the body—cremated it. They asked me if I wanted the ashes, but I said no.”
“What about your mother?”
“I don’t know if she took the ashes.”
Ora frowned with consternation, as if I was failing to understand an obvious question. “I mean, do you know how she’s doing? Your father’s death must have been very difficult for her.”
The concern in Ora Stevens’s wide-set eyes made me feel embarrassed that I’d been so slow to catch her meaning. “She was still emotional when I saw her in Scarborough over the holidays,” I explained. “In her heart, she sees my dad as a tragic figure and blames Brenda Dean for turning him into a monster. We haven’t really
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