Chapter 21

Valerie Boren-Odell, 1990

Many and long are the duties heaped upon their shoulders. If a trail is to be blazed, it is "send a ranger." If an animal is floundering in the snow, a ranger is sent to pull him out; if a bear is in the hotel; if a fire threatens the forest; if someone is to be saved, it is "send a ranger."

—Stephen T. Mather, 1928, director, National Park Service.

"My guess is, the investigation doesn't go much further," Curtis comments. We sit side by side, legs dangling off the edge of his front porch as the sun rests atop mountain peaks of evening blue and pale violet. Charlie and a gaggle of puppies run wild in the yard, determined not to surrender the day. "Unless an ID comes in, he'll end up a John Doe who underestimated what water can do. If he was out there with somebody else for a nonrecreational reason—drug trade, illegal hunting, breaking into private cabins on inholdings—his cohort isn't likely to come forward."

"True enough." I've had no hits so far on a missing ex-convict with a size-fourteen foot. The medical examiner's office is backlogged. The death looks to have been accidental. Speculation was minimal and hushed when I dropped by the station after Charlie and I finished our hike. The only thing that causes more collective angst than an accidental death in the park is a death involving foul play, so the keywords right now are presumed accidental.

Curtis twiddles a piece of grass between his fingers, watches it pensively. "Be good if an ID came, though. He might have a family out there who'd like to know."

I'm struck by the decency of that comment. "I hope we'll catch a break on it, but to tell you the truth, my mind's on Braden Lacey—even more since the body recovery. What if he and that guy were together, or they had a random altercation out there, or the same weather event that got John Doe also got Braden? You come up with anything else that could help locate him?"

"Not much, sorry." An involuntary tightening of Curtis's jaw muscles indicates an emotional investment. "His school friends knew about the long-distance girl, but Braden was so into her he'd pretty much ditched his buddies. They thought her last name was Walker, Walters, Watson, something like that. Since Braden moved over here to work for Parker, they haven't heard from him at all."

"Dead end…again." Sinking forward, I let my arms slide between my dangling knees, stretch the muscles in my back, stiff from the long day hike. In the yard, Charlie is in puppy heaven, literally rolling through the freshly mowed grass while a dozen black-and-white banditos use him as a jungle gym.

"Mommmm!" He laughs when one tries to abscond with the junior ranger ball cap. "H-h-help!"

"You're on your own, buddy." Loose wisps of hair blow against my cheek and glow red in the late-day sun. I'm so used to having it up for work, the sensation of it stroking my skin raises an involuntary shudder. I tuck it behind my ear before turning back to Curtis. "Nobody in Antlers had a bead on whether Braden was depressed, overwhelmed, at loose ends? Whether he might have become involved in something he couldn't handle? Maybe as a way to pick up some quick cash?"

"All I got was more confusion. About the kids and about Budgie Blackwell." Scratching Bonnie's ears as she settles in beside him, he shakes his head. "Things had changed in the past few months. Budgie hadn't been going out much, hardly answered phone calls, sounded foggy. She started keeping the gate closed so visitors wouldn't drop by. Stroke, heart attack, depression, the flu, some sort of dementia and paranoia—depends on who you talk to. A couple people said she went to her sisters' house in Tulsa and died there. No funeral because Budgie never wanted one—just spread her ashes in the Winding Stairs. But there's no death certificate on Mrs. Blackwell. I checked. I'm sure you have, too." Scratching his chin, he runs a thumb along his bottom lip. I catch myself watching.

"Maybe Sydney is right. She's hospitalized or in nursing care up in Tulsa at the…City of Faith, I think Sydney said? I have a feeling it's more wishful thinking on her part, but I made a note to follow up tomorrow when I'm back at my desk."

Curtis responds with a skeptical look. "The City of Faith went bankrupt a year ago. It's been all over the news."

"Went…what? Sydney asked me to go there and talk to her grandmother. She begged me to." I squeeze my knees against my threaded-together hands, tighten a cocoon around myself, frustrated. "The whole thing just doesn't fit."

Curtis nods in grim agreement. "Under any normal circumstances, Budgie Blackwell wouldn't leave those kids, or her house and land, without making arrangements beyond just depending on Alton Parker. Parker's got the money to step in and help, but the man basically eats, sleeps, and breathes his businesses. His wife divorced him years ago, and Parker moved into his warehouse. That's not the kind of situation a loving grandmother would pick for her grandkids unless she really had to leave in a hurry."

"Or she wasn't thinking straight. Maybe she intended to go to the hospital, but got confused? Got lost? Went off the road somewhere, and the car's not visible? Is there anyone else she might have tried to reach? Maybe the kids' mother?"

"Jade?" He looks at me like I've grown a second head. "They haven't been on speaking terms for years. Last I heard, Jade was living out west. Vegas…Reno. Something like that."

I mentally page through my interview at the Wambles house. "Sydney mentioned that her mother didn't want Braden's girlfriend visiting, that they had enough going on at the ranch with pond dam and barn repairs. That has to mean Jade was around enough to know about recent events."

"If that's true, it changes everything." The tone of that statement is so ominous it pulls my gaze to his. His expression is dark, foreboding. "Jade wouldn't come there unless she was desperate for cash, a crash pad, or a place to hide."

"Hide from what?"

"Could be anything, but Budgie Blackwell's a tough old bird. Not the kind to take it lightly if somebody came around her place causing trouble. I remember a story about her spotting some yahoos in one of her pastures with an empty stock trailer and a couple of four-wheelers, trying to make off with her cattle. That's been…maybe ten years ago. She must've been at least eighty. When the sheriff's department got there, old Mrs. Blackwell was belly-crawling through the high grass with a rifle on her back.

"A few years later, when Congressman Watkins held a public forum about designating Winding Stair as a park, the lawyers and the suits from Big Timber had spread quite a bit of propaganda that it would destroy mom-and-pop timber businesses, hurt the local economy. Mrs. Blackwell showed up with facts, figures, pictures of federal forest land that'd been clear-cut by corporations carting the profits out of state. She let them know they'd better hear her out at that meeting, or she'd be on the TV news next. She made a pretty sympathetic picture, compared to some corporate lawyer in a three-piece suit. So that's Budgie Blackwell. If she caught Jade…sneaking around? Trying to pocket things to sell? Or if some ex-boyfriend or drug contact of Jade's gave them trouble? No telling, but it could get ugly."

My thoughts tumble over one another. "And then Sydney is told that her grandmother left because of a medical crisis in the middle of the night? And that she's in Tulsa, under treatment at a hospital no one can call."

"If something happened at home on Budgie Blackwell's land, it could explain the conflicting stories and the lack of any verifiable information." A long exhalation rounds Curtis's shoulders. "It makes more sense than most of what we've come up with, but it's still possible an addled old woman drove away in the middle of the night, or that Budgie really is in a facility being treated, but Sydney has the details wrong. It's worth digging into who really told Sydney it was the City of Faith. Was it Braden, or was it Jade?"

"I'll follow up with Sydney."

"I think you're the one she's most likely to level with. She's obviously a Ranger Valerie fan."

"Yeah, there are a lot of those around here," I joke.

That earns a smirk. I hadn't noticed before, but he has dimples.

"Goes with the job," I add flatly. I don't want him to think I'm looking for a defender. I can take care of myself. "You deal with it or you get out."

"Doesn't sound like you're on your way out." The observation comes with a note of appreciation, and we spend a few minutes diffusing the tension with random career talk. He's particularly interested in backcountry life in Yosemite. I'm into a few funny anecdotes before I realize that Joel is part of the story, and the story ends with his death in a rescue gone bad.

I tell the story anyway. I'm not sure why. Aside from family, all of my relationships since Joel's death have been surface only, especially at work. Sharing the hard truth with Curtis, the parts that aren't pretty, feels like opening the valve on a pressure cooker I didn't know I'd left on the stove. And yet somehow, cupped in the palm of the mountains at the day's end, it feels doable, maybe even cathartic. Curtis is a relaxed listener, nodding occasionally and offering a sympathetic comment or two, not advice, but empathy.

"Yeah, it just happened, you know?" A hard sigh escapes as I finish. "There's no saying why. I wish things were different. I wish Charlie had known him at least, that Charlie would have memories."

"Stories turn into memories. You just have to tell them enough." Curtis stares into the distance, a tiny diorama of trees and sky reflecting against his eyes. "I had a brother twelve years older than me. He was killed in a car wreck before I can remember. We had an empty spot in our house when I was growing up, but with a big family, there was always someone to tell another story, and so I knew him that way. You'll give that to lil' Charlie over there. You do a good job telling his dad's story. I feel like I've just been to Yosemite." A fringe of dark hair casts a faint shadow over his forehead as he looks my way and smiles. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not half tough enough to be a backcountry ranger there."

Of all things, we laugh together. The moment carries the unexpected promise of a sudden breeze on a suffocating summer day. It promises life.

I take that with me as we wrap things up, and I separate Charlie from the puppies, one by one, while Curtis slyly keeps cycling them behind his back, so that we've said goodbye to each at least twice before I catch on. Then he threatens to tuck one into Charlie's backpack, wherein he becomes Charlie's hero. In the end, Bonnie follows us all the way out the gate and climbs halfway into the seat with Charlie. They're so cute together I almost give in before I come to my senses and we leave dogless.

But not friendless.

The comfort of that new realization lasts until I drop Charlie off at Edwin's place for safekeeping, slip into an NPS windbreaker and ball cap, and drive the few blocks to Myrna Wambles's house.

Stepping out of the truck in the Wambleses' driveway, I steel myself for another terse greeting, but when Myrna opens the door, she's wearing a smug smile. She's particularly eager to tell me that if I want to talk to Sydney, I'll need to contact Alton Parker—he came and picked Sydney up a few hours ago.

Alarm bells buzz in my head, and I glance toward the tattered curtains over the front window.

"She ain't in there, if that's what you're gettin' at." Myrna's eyes narrow. "You need to do a search, or you just want to take my word for it? Parker showed up right at outdoor recreation time in the backyard…said he was set up to take charge of the kids now. Had rooms fixed up for them and all."

"Them? You mean Sydney and Braden, both? Braden came home?"

"I reckon. The girl's only got the one brother. That I know of anyhow. Considerin' who the mama is, there's no tellin'." She dusts her palms against one another, clap-swish-swish-swish. "Off my hands, anyhow. Parker'll have his plate full with that one."

My stomach roils. "Any idea where I might find them?"

"Parker stays in that apartment off the back of his business. You can't miss the place. Big sign out front."

"Yes, I've been there." I can't picture a little girl living amid the conglomeration of metal buildings, the grounds littered with piles of old telephone poles, empty fifty-gallon metal barrels, and derelict heavy equipment, a chain-link fence and the smell of grease, creosote, and industrial chemicals surrounding everything. "That's where he took the kids?"

"Yep. That's it." Grabbing the doorknob, Myrna gives it a loud rattle, effectively quieting a rising interior clamor. Snickering at how well the trick worked, she adds, "But you won't find Parker at that warehouse. He'll be headed out to his huntin' cabin for the weekend by now. Reckon he'd take those kids with him."

"Cabin?" The scenarios grow more disturbing with each new tidbit. "Where is that?"

"Oh, I couldn't tell ya'. The Parker family had land from years ago, thousand acres or more. But him and them kids'll be back come Mon-dey, probably with some fresh-killed game." Myrna's smile widens. "Till then, they're someplace in the deep, dark woods. You have a good night, now, y'hear?" She slides through the door and locks it behind herself.

I hurry away, my body so tightly strung I'm at Edwin's trailer before I even realize I haven't caught my breath. An impromptu glow-in-the-dark whiffle ball tournament is happening in the front yard. Charlie begs me to stay and join in, but all I can think about is Sydney, Braden, and Alton Parker's hunting cabin in the woods.

I barely even remember to thank Edwin and his wife before hustling Charlie off to the truck.

"You crack the case?" he asks on the way home.

"What case?"

"About the girl, and her brother, and their grandma in the hospital, but the hospital's closed? And maybe they all had a fight or something?"

I stare at him agape. "Charlie!" I had no idea how much he picked up while playing with the puppies. "You're not supposed to listen to work conversations."

"I didn't listen, I heard. I can close up my eyes." He demonstrates by squeezing his lashes tightly to his cheeks. "But my ears don't got lids. Ears don't close, huh, Mom?"

"Yours don't." Then I warn him that he must not repeat any of this—not to the teachers at daycare or the kids.

"K," he agrees amiably, and busies himself with sorting a couple of found coins from his litter collection baggie as we drive the quiet streets back home to Lost Pines.

"New kids!" he observes, pointing to a family unpacking their minivan at the cabin court. "Can I go say hi?"

"Okay, but just for a minute. We've got baths and supper, then off to bed."

He's out the door as soon as we're parked, intent on doing his thing as unofficial welcoming committee for the Lost Pines Cabin Court. Tracking him with the peripheral mom-eye, I unload the hiking gear and carry our lunch trash over to the dumpster.

I'm caught off guard when I look up and the tourist dad is headed my way with Charlie hurrying along beside him. The man has a bearing that denotes either military or law enforcement, and his body language is anything but casual.

"You know he had this?" A calloused palm offers up one of the treasures Charlie sorted from his litter bag on the way home—a metal tube from a hiker's broken flashlight or walkie-talkie.

"He picked that up on our hike today—he always carries a couple baggies for trash and treasure pickup. We like to think of it as voluntary dejunking of federal land."

The man is unamused. "Ma'am." He's still slightly breathless from unpacking coolers and suitcases. "I'm a retired US Army engineer, and this thing your son has…this is a blasting cap."

"A what?" I grab Charlie and shove him toward our cabin.

"It's an empty. It's inert," the guy assures me. "But it's nothing to play with." Now I know why he's breathing hard and his eyes are bugging out of his skull. He's just gone through a near-death experience, similar to the one I'm currently having. Blasting caps, if they're not inert, are filled with the kind of explosives that trigger a bomb.

"I didn't know-w-w," Charlie wails, shrinking away. "Nobody told me!"

"Charlie, where did you get that?" He's been taught not to touch syringes, needles, razor blades, other sharp objects, anything that looks like medicine or discarded drug paraphernalia. He knows how to watch for loose rocks, slippery moss, snakes, poisonous spiders, scorpions, beehives, bear scat. But blasting caps? My mind runs wild. That kind of thing shouldn't be within miles of a public-use area. How did it get there?

I squat down to look at Charlie straight on. "Did you see any more?"

A quick shake of his sniffling head, and then, "No…'cause I looked everyplace for pieces, so maybe I could put it back together. I wanted to fix it, but I thought it was something good, Mom."

A mental catalog of our hike cycles through my head. The swimming hole where we ate lunch? The parking area? New gravel had been spread there. Maybe that thing was mixed in a delivery of road base material from the rock quarry?

I elect to make our excuses before questioning Charlie any further. Once we're inside, I hold him by the shoulders, say again, "You can tell me. You're not in trouble. Where exactly did you pick that up?"

Finally he spills, "At the rockslide."

"You're sure?" He nods, and I hug him close, pull in a long breath, draw back so I can look him in the eye. "So, listen, that isn't something to talk to anybody else about, either, okay? And like the man said, if you ever, ever see an object you're not sure of, ask an adult first."

"Oh, I will." Sagging forward, he lets his arms dangle. "Whew. I'm glad that's over."

It's anything but over.

That rockfall didn't just happen. Somebody blew a chunk off the side of our mountain.

The question is…why?

I hustle Charlie through his bath, supper, and then off to bed. He's out cold before I can take a quick shower, slip on sweats and a tank top, and make a cup of tea. Grabbing my notepad, I jot down words, tear off pages, turn the coffee table into an impromptu evidence board.

Cave bones. Rockslide. Braden Lacey missing? John Doe.

Heard someone near the rockfall area.

Budgie Blackwell missing?

Alton Parker.

City of Faith.

Jade?

Murder? Cover-up?

Sydney…

Sinking into the sofa, I stare, chew on my lip and the possibilities, rearrange the board. Finally, I scoot Budgie Blackwell,murder,cover-up out of the picture, put Braden Lacey at the top, throw my wet hair over the back of the sofa, rest my head, study the remaining cards again.

What if there was more in that cave to begin with? Antiquities? Indigenous grave goods? What if the truck drivers who supposedly discovered the site fled as soon as they saw human remains? What if, as the phone tipster indicated, they really were talking about it at a bar? And someone besides the tipster heard the story? Someone who knew the mountains well enough to go hunting for treasure? Someone who, after making one score, was willing to blow the side off a mountain looking for another?

What if…that person was…Braden Lacey…

Some military knowledge or interest…

Had access to the Parker Construction warehouse…

Explosives?

Familiar with the area…

Needed money…

Sydney said…he was…he was going to find treasure…

Robbed a…a grave…

My eyes drift closed and sleep whisks me into darkness. I land in a high-mountain meadow. A spring creek runs past, the water musical, clear, peaceful. Along the banks, three little girls turn in a circle, holding hands and laughing, singing, "…around the Rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall…"

A flash of light, a burst of sound, the earth trembles. The girls lie on a carpet of leaves beneath an ancient oak, their bodies wrapped one around the other. I try to run to them, but my legs are heavy, uncooperative.

Reaching the tree is arduous. I claw through the grass on hands and knees. Thunder echoes against the mountains as I touch the eldest girl, turn her over to check for a pulse. The face is Sydney's.

I gasp, jerk upright.

The meadow disappears. The thunder morphs into a frenetic hammering.

Someone's pounding on the cabin door.

Snatching a can of bear spray off my day pack, I start across the room, saying, "Okay. Okay. I'm coming."

The dream and reality run headlong into one another as I unlock the door, open it a crack.

"Sydney?"

Grabbing my arm, she gasps, "You gotta help me."