Chapter 15
Dane Amleth Dane shivered in the night's cold. He hadn't snagged a jacket--he was only going to the Barn, after all--but he couldn't go inside, not with Clawson in there. Peeking in through the broad French doors that led into the dining room and kitchen area, Dane could see his mother and uncle standing, rigid with worry (in the former case) and fury (in the latter case) and listened to the ranting come through the double-paned glass. "Where is he?" demanded Clawson, tossing his keys on the counter and running anxious fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Clawson, I don't know." Hearing his mother was harder than hearing Clawson, mostly because she was naturally more soft-spoken than his uncle. "I keep telling you--" "I'm not asking you, Jennifer, I'm just…pissed off, that's all." "I know." That was more lip-reading than audible. "I know, but I…" She turned and followed after Clawson, who had started down the main hallway toward the family room--where Dane had fired the ASP. Doubling back, Dane rounded the house until he arrived at the garage itself, the door wide and the light still blazing. He glanced from his mother's car (a Chevy Volt) to Papa Dane's, now driven by his uncle (the BMW M3) and thought for a moment. He needed to talk to his mother--she needed to see this video, and the sooner the better--but how could he do so without bumping into Clawson first? He shuddered to think what that conversation would be like: "Hey, funcle, you see this new video? It's hilarious! Check it out. It'll slay ya!" He shook his head. No, that wouldn't work at all. He had to get them isolated somehow, talk to just his mother… The door from the house started to open, making Dane, in desperation, duck behind the BMW. Over her shoulder, his mother shouted into the house, "I just need to grab my things! Then we can talk." She stomped down the three wooden steps that led from the house to the garage, muttering, "How am I supposed to know what the hell my kid's thinking? He's an adult now, I can't be expected to…" "Mom," whispered Dane as he rose halfway up from behind the M3. She gasped, a loud enough inhalation that Dane could have sworn that he felt the atmosphere about him drop in pressure. "Dane! What are you--" He put a finger to his lips, casting a nervous glance at the closed door. "Shh! Stop. We have to talk." In a lower voice, his mother said, "What are you doing out here? Why did you steal Clawson's gun? Are you nuts?" He shook his head. "No, I'm not crazy. But I definitely need to talk to you. I will explain it all, but…please, Mom. Not here." "Then where?" He gestured at her car. "Grab the keys. Let's go for a drive." She shook her head and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as if trying to dam a headache. "Dane, please. I've had a long day. I just need to rest." "Tell him you forgot that you needed to pick something up at the store. It'll be thirty minutes, then you'll be back. I'll explain myself on the way." He put on his best imploring expression. She regarded him hesitantly. He could see that she was tipping in his favor. Though he didn't want to, he played the last card he had: "Please? I need to speak with my mother. As her son." That did it. He saw her wilt, her will bending to his. She nodded. "My car is almost dead. It'll take a bit to recharge." "Take Dad's." "But Clawson…" "It isn't his," said Dane with more heat than he'd expected to say. It was one thing--a very small thing, admittedly, but emblematic of the larger problem--that really frustrated him. "It's yours. Or mine. Not my uncle's." She sighed, then gave him another nod. "Give me a couple of minutes." Dane did so, waiting impatiently around the corner of the house until he heard his mother come back. Clawson's voice came drifting behind her, laced with rage and warning: "Not a scratch on it, you hear? Not a scratch!" "It's like he think he owns me already," said Mom in an undertone. Dane could see that she was unhappy, though he thought he knew why. "Here," she said, tossing him the keys. "I don't like driving manual." "Fine," he said. "Let's go." They climbed in--noting, as he always did, the sleek feeling of sitting behind the steering wheel of a BMW--he kicked over the engine, and then he backed out of the driveway, taking care not to peel out, despite the raw energy that coursed through him. It was time, it was finally time to talk to her about what he'd been wrestling with. Spinning the wheel to the right, he rolled onto the street, then dropping the car into first gear, started heading toward the mountains. "I get to go first," said his mother, her voice harsh and edged with displeasure. "You cannot go breaking into your father's office--" "Uncle's," he corrected her, but she ignored the interruption. "--and taking out his guns? And what was with that vase? Did you do that?" "Yes." "Dane." She said his name in the way he most despised--the one with an undercurrent of I am trying my absolute best to remain patient, but you have pushed me too far. Using the same tone, he said, "Mom." "You're being unreasonable!" "I'm being unreasonable?" He could hardly believe his own ears. "Which one of us accepted her brother-in-law's proposal the day she buried her husband?" "Oh, Dane," said his mother, flicking her hands in disgust. "Please don't act like this is a surprise to you." "What?" He didn't know precisely how she would act in response to this point, but he hadn't expected that. "What do you mean, act like it's a surprise? What were you thinking?" "I was thinking," she said, "of you! Of this ranch, of everything your father worked for!" "How--" "Because," said his mother, her voice almost pleading. "Because there's a lot of stuff that you don't understand, stuff you don't know about, that's going on in the background." "Try me." She shook her head. "Dane, that doesn't matter. The point is, the only way that we would be able to keep Elsinore Ranch is if we kept the business in the family." "The 'only way'? You expect me to believe that?" Dane scarcely noticed that, as his anger increased, their speed did, too. It wasn't a surprise, really--going fast was what the car was designed to do. Easy to do, in fact. "Of course I do! You're a smart kid, Dane. Do you really think that I would go into a relationship with Clawson if there weren't reasons?" "I would think, Mother, that you wouldn't worry about those reasons because it's wrong to marry your brother-in-law! Who cares about Elsinore Ranch? It could burn for all I care…" "Don't say that. Your father worked hard to provide it." "My father?" Dane snorted. "Which one?" That gouged her; he could see it from the corner of his eye. Easing off the gas for a moment, he fished about in his pocket until he coaxed loose his phone. (One thing that was always a trick to do in the deep bucket seats of the M3 was getting into his pocket.) Thumbing it on, he held the phone out. "What is this?" "I don't know. Maybe daddy dearest doesn't know how to destroy all of the evidence." "All of the evidence." Dane jerked his chin toward the phone. "That's what I said. Play it." Mom took the device and pressed the play button on the video. Because Dane had used this car before, his phone was already paired to it, so the audio came through the speakers, filling the space with ghostly sounds of a dead man. Dane kept one eye on the road and the other on the footage, watching as he saw his father in his final minutes of life, fiddling with the GoPro. "Stupid thing. Okay. I think it's…" Dane Sr. paused, moving slowly. "I think I heard something," he said, the camera trained forward. Dane recognized the place--it was exactly where he and Harmony had found the GoPro strap. A hand swept in front of it--Dane Sr. signaling to his murderer to stop. Carefully, oh so carefully, he stalked forward. "I think I see--" Clawson started to shout a warning, making Papa Dane spin about, the camera blurring with the motion. Clawson stood a few paces away, his GoPro deliberately held up and to an angle with his left hand, while the other pointed the same pistol that Dane had found in the office at Dane Sr. Clawson shouted a couple of incoherent things, his gaze fixed on his brother. "Claw, what--?" said Dane Sr. softly, only to be interrupted by two shots, both clearly from the ASP, that sent Dane Sr. to the ground. "He…he killed…me…" The rasping rattle of a breath slipping out of a body, never to return, filled the small car, the excellent speakers making it sound as if they were in the clearing with him. The GoPro pointed upward into the twilight sky as Dane Sr. struggled for breath. "Dane! Dane!" The screen filled with the image of Clawson, his voice sounding terror struck, but his face painted with a broad smile of savage glee. "Don't talk, Dane," said Clawson around his grin, though the voice sounded shrill with panic. "Oh, God. Oh, no. Dane! Dane! Don't die on me!" He reached out, and, with a knife, sawed the GoPro off of his dead brother's chest. Dane Jr. and Jenny Amleth got one last glimpse of their father and husband as the camera swung around, the gruesome wound gaping like a mouth, a flap of the camo jacket looking like a lolling tongue. "Come here, you little son of--" The video came to an end. Dane looked up from the phone to his mother, who stared at the Watch Again prompt with disbelieving eyes. "Mom--" "Look out!" Her cry brought his head up just in time for Dane to see the man standing off to the side of the road, waving his arms. The car was going too fast for him to even get his foot on the brake, and with his attention distracted by what was happening on the screen, Dane hadn't even noticed that he'd started to drift. The body hit the right fender with a wet crunch. Tossed over the hood, the bones in the body snapping as it rolled, Dane saw the man's head spiderweb the windshield with a bright spray of red. With a detached sense of unreality, Dane felt like the sound was similar to when he and Ryan and George had, the day after Halloween, gone out to toss pumpkins into the road. In a delay of understanding that made it seem like time had come to a standstill, Dane could almost see the body soar through the air, easily ten feet high, arcing toward the unyielding asphalt below. Then time accelerated far too fast and Dane could only try to react, his mind panicking and his heart galloping in terror. The collision pulled the wheels to the right, which caused the car to pitch over the soft shoulder and down into the gulley. It smashed into the ground, sending out a constellation of shattered glass that sparkled in the somehow-still functioning left headlight. The car bounced once painfully, making the airbags deploy and rocking his head back painfully. Still, it kept him from kissing the steering wheel. Plastic exploded and metal crumpled as the vehicle gouged a lengthy trench in the dark undergrowth. For what felt like a long time, Dane struggled to keep his mind awake, to not allow the thick blackness of unconsciousness--or even something more permanent--to take him. In the end, however, his will lost, and a darkness swirled in front of his eyes. Chapter 14
Gwendolyn Madsen When she and Dane had first started dating, he had taken her to this butte that overlooked part of the Elsinore Ranch. "It's kind of my refuge, you know?" he'd said then, walking with his fingers intertwined with hers, guiding her up the path, pointing out the areas where shale rock made it dangerous to tread. "It's nice to be able to come to a place where I can just…you know…think. Try to figure stuff out." She had nodded, more enjoying the incredible view of the valley, with Noah a small smudge in the distance, attached to where they were by a thread-thin umbilical cord of a road. They had taken ATVs up from the Lodge, which they'd parked a ways behind them. The hike was just long enough to make her feel like they'd earned the view, but not so long that she dreaded going back down. She could definitely understand why he liked the place so much. Looking over the ranch, Gwen had pointed to a spot that looked surprisingly cultivated. "What's that?" she had asked. "Family graveyard," he'd said, following her finger with his eyes. "Look, you can see the road that runs in front of it. It's not really that far. That's the one that runs to the Lodge." "Ah, cool," she'd said. More small-talk had ensued, which had turned into an unforgettable moment for her: Dane had leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. It was a unique thrill; she'd never been kissed before. Now she sat on the butte, looking over the ranch, over the graveyard, at the distant twinkle of the Lodge, her lips still burning but because of a far different kind of kiss. Anger, not romance, draped itself over her thoughts. "Why'd you kiss me?" she asked the cold November air. Sitting on a boulder, her knees tucked beneath her chin, her butt slowly freezing on the rock, Gwen watched as the night began to unleash its spray of stars. It was dangerous, she knew, since she would have to navigate the trail down with nothing but a phone's flashlight, but she wasn't really worried. Besides, it was worth being alone. The only person that would likely find her here was Dane, and she rather doubted he would be coming after her. And that was one of the problems: She didn't know if that bothered her or not. She didn't want to be played with, yet she'd tried to play games with both her father and her boyfriend. Dane had done something pretty unforgivable--who, in their right mind, would start shooting at someone and then just pretend that it was no big deal and he wasn't really shooting at her?--and Gwen wasn't really interested in forgiving him at this point. And that didn't even take into consideration the horrible things he'd said in his texts the other day, a detail that she'd meant to bring up with him during their conversation… Yet there was the fact that she understood what had him so upset. They had broken up, and that wasn't something that anyone would really want to deal with. Gwen hadn't wanted to, but as a people-pleaser, and in her attempt at pleasing her father, she'd done a pretty cruel thing to him. Then, to make it worse, she had invited her dad to listen in on a private conversation. That didn't excuse the gun, of course--that was out of bounds. But she couldn't say that she was perfectly innocent either, now could she? Guilt swam through her. Of course it was her fault. Dane was in a bad place right now, and she'd pushed through regardless, desperate to make her father happy--and at the expense of Dane's feelings. An upsurge of emotion swept over her and she let loose a furious, wordless scream at the sky. Curling her fingers through her hair, she closed her eyes and screamed again. It felt good. Not helpful, but good. It got something out of her. "What am I going to do?" she asked of the slowly waving branches of the conifers that surrounded her. "What should I do?" The forest had no answers. Frustrated, she dropped her hands into her lap and stood up. "Okay, so…I should tell Dad that I'm not interested in being a part of this anymore. Dane said he'd needed me and I hadn't been there. I should care about him. He's the…" She hesitated, putting a hand just below her bellybutton. "What have we done?" she whispered. The idea of having an abortion flitted through her mind, but she didn't know the first step. She couldn't be certain, but the county hospital probably didn't offer abortion services. And while she didn't feel like she had a human inside of her--at least, not yet--did she want to prevent the possibility of it becoming one? She shivered, but not because of the cold breeze that kept the leaves near her whispering as they passed her. Some decisions were too big, too hard to figure out on one's own. Yet whom did she have to talk about it? Not Dad, that was certain. Lenny was out, too--not just because he was out of range (his training was going to keep him in the mountains near Paris, Idaho for another few days, if she remembered correctly) but because he was Lenny--and normally, Dane was the one she would turn to. But he was one of the problems. The only other friend that Gwen felt like she had was Harmony Roman, which… Well, now that she thought about that, maybe Harmony would be available to talk to. She was a good friend, and had been for a long time. Granted, Gwen only knew Harmony through the mutual friend of Dane, but that didn't really matter, did it? Sometimes, girl talk was the best talk, regardless of how the girls got together. She pulled out her cellphone. A quick text would set her to rights. They could eat breakfast at the café--or, better yet, go get a milkshake from Rall's Grill and Dairy Freeze on SR-85, even if it was "fraternizing with the enemy", as Rall's Grill was the primary competition to Trucker's--and grouse about the men in their lives until Gwen felt better. "Oh," she said, feeling deflated. "Never mind." There was no cell service out here. She knew that--it was one of the other perks of coming out here, because no one could get a hold of her--but, in the roil of her thoughts, she had forgotten. Well, it was still a good plan. She just needed to get into town to set it in motion. Gwen stood, brushing the dust off the back of her jeans. Just as she was about to start her trek down to where she'd parked the car--off the side of the road on a spongy shoulder--she heard the choking cough of an approaching vehicle from the road in front of the Elsinore graveyard. As she watched, a large truck--or possibly SUV--lurched to a shuddering stop. The lights remained on as the door flung open, releasing with it a string of curses that, on a night with only a leaf-teasing breeze in it, were able to drift into her ears. "Out of gas, are you kidding me? Son of a…" More swearing, more anger, but what was said didn't really matter to her; it was who was saying it that froze her in place. It was Dad. Sheriff Madsen had, somehow, failed to notice the warning light on his dashboard. It was one of the things, Gwen remembered, that he complained about the most with his service SUV: It had horrible gas mileage and the indicator light was finicky at best. Now, it appeared, the man had run out of fuel while still multiple miles from town. Her first impulse was to shout and draw his attention, to let him know that she was there and she could pick him up. His car was a couple of bends away from hers, so he wouldn't have seen her. He didn't know she was there. The swirl of frustration that she'd been trying to sort through crashed over her again. Did she really want to help him? It was his insistence that had kept her away from Dane during the funeral. It was his idea to break up with Dane, which lead to the horrible texts. It was his idea to spy on Dane during a moment of emotional vulnerability. In retrospect, her dad had not been a particularly good father of late. She knew it wasn't fair to judge him so harshly. He was, after all, a really good dad most of the time. He protected the town and his family. He'd done the widower, single-father gig for a long time, raising a boy (who was just like him) and a girl (who was just like his wife) without help from others. That wasn't something to hate him for. But at this particular moment, Gwen didn't feel like giving him the benefit of the doubt. It was selfish of her, she knew. Granted, Dad didn't know she was there, so he couldn't be mad at her for not picking him up. She could drive up into the canyon a bit further, then loop around and head back in an hour or so, by which time Dad would have gotten some gas. Probably. Drawing in one more deep lungful of mountain air, she nodded to herself. It would serve him right for being a prying, conniving father. Not only that, but did she not much care for the idea of having to talk to her dad at this point. If nothing else, that was enough reason to take the long way. Humming idly to herself as she picked her way down from the overlook, Gwendolyn Madsen did her best to convince herself that she wasn't making the wrong choice. For the most part, it worked. Chapter 13
Dane Amleth His phone buzzed. Dane tapped on the message from Harmony: You're lucky. Clawsons at office. Sheriff is on his way to lodge. You've maybe 20 minutes before Clawson arrives. I'll try to stall him. He swallowed. He'd only just managed to avoid having to talk to Ryan and George--they'd knocked and tried to peek into the house for a good five minutes before finally leaving--and the emotional peaks and valleys of his conversation with Gwen still rattled him. But Harmony was right: He had to get a move on. Stall as long as you can, he tapped back, then sent the message off. Move. He had to move. But where? Dane wandered the Lodge as he thought. The logical place to go was Clawson's office, of course, but Dane hesitated going there. If the GoPro--or, maybe, what was left of it--was there, he hadn't hidden it in the most secure place. Then again, the man couldn't be bothered to keep the key to the gun safe secured, so perhaps he wasn't being as careful? Then again again, the GoPro might contain some incriminating evidence. A man like Clawson wouldn't think that a gun was as dangerous as that information. Thinking in that vein made Dane despair of finding anything. If he had that kind of evidence, the last thing he'd do was keep it nearby. He'd destroy it immediately. But where would-- And then it came to him. The Barn. GoPros were notoriously hard to break--he'd seen a video on YouTube of someone parachuting with one that fell off, and it survived the entire trip down. If it was a matter of breaking into the thing, the tools he'd need would be in the workshop section of the Barn. He needed to head that way. Dane's thoughts severed as lights flickered through the bay windows. Someone was here. He pulled out his phone, but there was no new message. Besides, it had only been a couple of minutes since Harmony's text: It couldn't possibly be Clawson…could it? Hesitating almost too long, Dane slipped into the closest room--Clawson's office, as it turned out--just as the kitchen door opened up from the garage. From his position next to the door, he could see the lights flick on in the kitchen. The loud rustle of bags drifted toward him, followed by the distinct clicking of his mother's shoes. "Hello?" The light in the hallway clicked on. "Dane are you--" She stopped. Dane couldn't see anything from this angle, but he could guess why she wasn't calling out anymore. "What the--" Click, click, click, as she approached. "What happened?" She was hunkered over the vase, he was sure of it. A moment later, he heard her stand up, return to the kitchen, and thump around. She walked past the slightly ajar door, and Dane saw she held a broom and dustpan in one hand. Moving as softly as he could, he stepped out behind her and scurried to the kitchen. The back door led out to the patio, and was the most direct path to the Barn. A moment later and he was outside in the bracing air, gently closing the kitchen door. He turned and toward the Barn, easily avoiding the dust-covered lawn furniture and clumps of browned leaves, sticking instead to the stepping-stone pathway that led to his destination. The door, of course, was unlocked, but when he flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights, he couldn't see anything untoward. There were the winterized water toys, covered in tarps and waiting for the next time the Amleths could haul them out to Huntington Reservoir; ATVs, including the ones he'd used with Harmony the other day; an assortment of basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, and other sports equipment, most of it languishing in the dust; and other miscellany that brought back fond memories of when his family was normal. The thought of what he'd lost, of the relationship he'd had with his father, tugged at him. Dane Sr. was not always the best of men, but he'd been a great father. He hadn't deserved what Clawson did to him. Steeling his resolve, Dane scanned the large room again. Where would Clawson put something like that? He drifted past the storage area to the workshop, which was in an open-roofed backroom. Workbenches, toolboxes, and other ranch-upkeep-related items surrounded him. Clicking on the hanging fluorescent lights, he stared at the main worktable in the center of the shop. Globs of paint had dried on it, as well as deep scars from rogue handsaws or power drills. Papa Dane had always liked solving problems with his hands--this workshop felt like an extension of him. More than any other time since the funeral, Dane felt like he was seeing the ghost of his father, and it took the form of this room. Dad's laugh, his barking orders, his intensity when working on a project…the phantom smell of sawdust and wood glue hung in his memories. A wave of sadness and pity swept through him. It was as though the dam of his misery had at last cracked and the sorrow that he should have felt, the mourning that had failed to truly touch him, shoved past all of the carefully constructed justifications of his feelings and Dane, for the second time that night, openly wept. The difference, however, was that he wept for his father, this time. Sitting on the workbench, he cradled his head in his hands, rested his elbows on the table, and let the tears flow. The cascade of emotions travelled from the top of his head and worked its way down through to his soles. His body heaved with the expression of his grief. How long he staid there, letting the feelings of loss express themselves, he didn't know. What pulled him out, however, was the familiar buzz of his phone in his pocket. Sniffing loudly, he looked at his phone with tear-blurred eyes. It took a moment before he could process what he read. He's headed your way from my house. I tried to stall him, but it was no use. You have about ten minutes. Make them count. Wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, he stood up and took a deep breath. He wasn't sure what Harmony had done to give him this time, but it would be ungrateful of him to waste it. And, unsurprisingly, Harmony was right in getting him back on track--a surprising feat, considering the fact that she was miles away. He drew in a cleansing breath, wiped his eyes one more time, then cast about the workroom. There was nothing there. The place was clean--even the debris of the last job was still in the trashcan… He paused. "He couldn't be that stupid," he said to himself, walking over to the bin and peering in. For a long moment, Dane stared, unmoving. He couldn't believe his luck, the fact that Clawson could be so thoughtless--but, the longer he stared at the shattered pieces of a GoPro camera in the folds of a black garbage bag, the less surprising it was. After all, Clawson was like most people Dane knew: Throwing it into the garbage meant the thing ceased to exist. Fingers trembling, he reached in and pulled out the plastic shards. The device looked like it had been pulverized by a sledgehammer--which was probably what had happened. The plastic case in which it would have been strapped onto Papa Dane's body lay next to it, scuffed and chipped but otherwise intact. Though he had no reason to assume that this was what happened, he imagined that Clawson had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to crack open the carrying case before finally looking up a YouTube tutorial on how to remove it. He knew it was dumb--Clawson had his own GoPro that he'd used, after all--but it was a gratifying mental image nevertheless. The camera was indeed ruined, but it wasn't the camera that had him curious: It was the SD card. Holding his breath, he used a fingernail to try to pop open the covering. No good. Glancing at his smartwatch, he realized that if Harmony was right about Clawson's timing, Dane only had minutes left--two or three, probably. Two quick strides took him to the plastic drawers that lined one side of the walled room. Pulling open one, then another, then a third, he cast about for longer than he cared to think until at last finding the drawer containing the needle-nosed pliers. He pulled them out, steadied his hand, and began to pry. A moment later, the SD card came out. Throat dry, he fumbled for his phone and popped out the SD card/SIM card carrying chassis. Substituting his own for the one from the camera, he held his breath as he reassembled his phone and tapped his way to the settings menu. New SD card found. Format? He glanced at the door. Clawson was due any minute now. Heading toward the exit and clicking off the lights as he went, Dane left the Barn, still fixated on his phone. He tapped the No option, keeping his mental fingers crossed that there wouldn't be corruption of the device. The phone thought for a long time, a spiraling circle the only indication that anything was happening. He was almost back to the house when the settings menu returned. He tapped on the card's icon, then went to the video section. Multiple videos were available, but a quick sorting of most recent entries brought up the one that Dane wanted. He heard the thunder of the garage door opening. He was out of time. Chapter 12
Harmony Roman--Twenty Minutes Earlier Harmony hung up her phone and dropped it on the Formica-topped table in the break room, the clatter of the plastic the only sound besides the buzzing of fluorescent lights and the contented hum of the refrigerator. Tenting her hands across the back of her head, she leaned forward and groaned. "Dane. What the hell are you doing to me?" Straightening, she scrubbed her face as if to wash off the strain that her friend had put on her. "Seriously. What the hell." It wasn't even a question, that last one. Just…frustration. With a sigh, Harmony stood, staring at the phone without touching it. More than anything, she regretted telling Dane the truth. She wouldn't have been able to live with herself otherwise--she knew that well enough--but that didn't change the fact that all of this was happening because she couldn't keep her mouth shut. Her Hufflepuff-level of loyalty was at fault here. And, in her heart of hearts--in the place where she kept her feelings for Dane--she recognized that, even if she had known how crazy it would get, she still would have shown him the video. He needed to know. It was only just. Another sigh as she scooped up the phone and mindlessly turned it on. The picture of a Noah sunrise filled the screen. She swiped up on the text message app shortcut. Dane's was on the top, the most recent entry. She opened it up, thumbs hesitating over the digital keyboard. What should she tell him? "Harmony?" She jolted, more because her own thoughts were heavy enough in her mind that she hadn't noticed that her dad now stood in the hallway than because she was actually surprised. "What?" she asked, clicking off the phone and putting it into the poor-excuse for a pocket on her jeans. "Hey, are you going to the Amleths' tonight?" "Um, maybe. Why?" Her dad leaned against the doorsill, a folder in his hand. He stared at it with a furrowed brow, the kind of expression that was equal parts alarm and confusion. "I need to talk to Clawson, but he isn't answering his phone." Harmony pulled on her knit cap and smoothed her hair about it. "Is there something wrong?" "Maybe." Dad sighed, moving back and out of the way so that she could exit the break room. "I think I may just be tired, but I came across this paperwork that makes me think that Northern Way Ranch is maybe…" He stopped and shook his head. "Shoptalk, sweetie. Just, if you see him, will you let him know that I need to talk with him? In case he didn't get the two voicemails. Or the texts." She forced a smile. "Some hyperconnected world we live in, huh?" "Yeah," said Dad, still distracted. "You headed home?" "I--" The rolling tapestry of shadows and lights bloomed on the walls, letting her know that someone had just pulled in. It was past closing time, and it wasn't really common to have a lot of foot traffic for a realtor's office. She squinted as the large vehicle shook with the gentle movement of being put into park. The passenger door popped open and, to her surprise, Clawson Amleth started to emerge. He paused, talking to whoever was driving--probably Sheriff Madsen, since the sheriff had come through earlier in the day to get him. "Dad!" "Hmm!" "I'll go get him." "Who?" "Clawson." She gestured as she hurried to the front door. It was locked--Marcie Rall had clicked the deadbolt into place when she'd left for the day so that no one simply wandered in, desperate for directions through town (which did happen from time to time)--so she had to unsecure it before cruising through. Clawson didn't see her immediately--probably because the streetlight was a good hundred yards away and the building's light cast a feeble yellow glow that was basically worthless. She jogged up to him and blurted out, "I'm glad you're here. Dad said that he needed you to see something." Clawson gave her a startled look. "See what?" Harmony was about to answer, but caught a weird look on Sheriff Madsen's face. Instead, she shrugged. "He was trying to call you, but you didn't answer." "I was talking to my fiancé," said Clawson in a way that sounded almost like a growl. Harmony glanced back at the sheriff. He had a strange expression playing across his face as he looked at her. She knew that, if she had to tell a guy what the expression was like, she wouldn't be able to say what, exactly, it looked like. (If she told some of her girl friends, they all would know immediately what she meant.) It was enough to make her skin crawl. Her stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. "Hello? Harmony!" She broke eye contact and said, "Um, I'm not sure. Fifteen, twenty minutes." "I'm going to go ahead," said Paul from inside the SUV. "If it's all the same to you." Clawson chewed his lip, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, go find Gwendolyn. Leave the rest to me." "Okay. I'll call you before you go to bed, tell you what's up." Clawson nodded, slammed the door shut, and gestured at the building. "Ladies first." Harmony faked a smile and then went inside, keeping the door propped open with one hand so that she could move out of the way and let him into the office. "He's in the back room…" "I know the way," said Clawson, his irritation almost palpable. He disappeared down the hallway, leaving Harmony alone. As soon as he was out of sight, she whipped out her phone and fired off a text, her thumbs a blur: You're lucky. Clawsons at office. Sheriff is on his way to lodge. You've maybe 20 minutes before Clawson arrives. I'll try to stall him. She sent it, then took a deep breath. What could she possibly do to slow him down? When she and Dane had discussed the plan, it hadn't been something like this--a serendipitous arrival and an actual window of time in which to enact it. They had a couple of loose possibilities for how she could help keep Clawson from the Lodge, but "shoptalk with Marshal" wasn't one of them. The phone buzzed. Dane's response was perfunctory: Stall as long as you can. K, she shot back. It wasn't eloquent, but it got the message across. Her mind reeled as she stood in the semidarkness of her father's real estate office. Sending the text reminded her of what she'd been talking to Dane about just before Clawson arrived. Her friend had told her about an awkward conversation with Gwen where he'd "kind of lost my temper". He mumble-mouthed some things about not feeling quite right and that he regretted what he'd done--it hadn't made a lot of sense. He said that he was going to try to find his dad's GoPro--the whole point of their plan--and he'd need her help. Then he had to sign off, since Ryan and George had shown up and he would have to deal with them. Now she was helping him out again. What was wrong with her? She needed to sort out her priorities. It felt like things were growing in complexity, quickly getting out of hand. She didn't want to think about the consequences of what might happen if Clawson caught Dane snooping around. While Harmony might not bear the brunt of the Amleths' wrath, Dad wouldn't be happy about what they were doing. Not only that, but what, exactly, was she supposed to say to Clawson that wouldn't get him instantly suspicious? She walked toward the office, the conversation clearly an uncomfortable one. There was a heat in Clawson's voice, though she couldn't hear anything distinctly, that was clear to her. Swallowing hard and willing her heart to not thunder too loudly in her ears--the nerves of trying to trick a murderer (a maybe murderer; they didn't know for certain) making it hard for her to think clearly--she peeked her head around the corner of the door. "Hey, Dad?" Both men froze, then turned toward her. "Yeah, Harmony?" She swallowed again and stapled a smile to her face. "Hey, I just realized that I can't go home yet because I came with you today, remember?" "Oh, man." He shook his head and gestured at the paperwork. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but this…this is kind of a bad time…" "Do you need me for anything else?" said Clawson in a voice that only thinly veiled how pissed he was. "No, I don't think so," said Dad with a sigh. "It's just…it'll take some time to clean this all up. You know, if you had just--" Clawson stood abruptly. "Fix it, Marshal. That's all you need to do." It had only been a few minutes since she'd texted Dane; he was probably in the middle of his search. If Clawson left now, it would only take another five, maybe seven minutes before he was back to the Lodge. Desperate, Harmony didn't know what else to do but ask, her heart in her throat and her palms sweaty, "A-are you leaving?" Clawson glanced at her. "Yeah, I've gotta go." "So…Dad?" She cleared her throat and summoned her courage. "Can I go with Clawson?" She put out a hand and leaned back, as if to better see the man. "That is, if it's okay with you. I know it's sort of out of your way." Clawson's jaw audibly gritted together. "It's okay with me," said Dad. "In fact, it would help a lot. I could get this stuff done sooner if I don't have to run her home. Would you mind helping me out?" Harmony couldn't decide if the rush that fluttered her stomach came from relief that her dad had vouched for the idea, or fear that she was climbing into a car with Clawson Amleth. The fact that he didn't know she suspected him was her only solace, and it was a thin one. Still, Dane needed her help. She had to do something, and this was the only thing that she could think to do. "All right, fine," said Clawson in that growl-like voice he'd used earlier. "I can do that really fast." Harmony let out a breath that she'd been holding and forced that smile on her face again. "Thank you so much. I'm sorry to make your night harder." He shook his head. "No, it's no trouble. It helps out Marshal, which means that it helps me out. Entirely selfish." He, too, forced a smile on his face that she saw through: He was not happy about this. Mouth dry, she leaned over Dad's desk and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Love you, Daddy." "I love you, too, sweetheart. I'll see you at home." "Yeah." She didn't add, "If I live that long", as it probably wouldn't have gone over well with either male in her company. "Bye." Dad flashed a smile, but was already back in his world of words and laws, his face wrinkled with concentration. "Come on," said Clawson, stomping his way to the front. "I do need to get home quickly." "I'm sorry," said Harmony again, apologizing mostly out of instinct--she'd seen her fair share of "alpha males" who didn't brook being contradicted and saw apologies as effeminate and demeaning. In this case, it seemed the best way to keep what was clearly an agitated man from getting too upset. "I really appreciate it." He grunted an acknowledgment and the two of them climbed into his BMW M3, which sat low to the ground--so low that, if he were to take it much farther up the road past the Lodge, he'd bottom out on the dirt- and gravel roads--and made Harmony feel like she was about to land on the parking lot's pavement. Stretching all the way out, she pulled the heavy door closed as Clawson fired up the engine and spun the wheel, spitting them out of the parking stall and facing SR 85. "You're…where?" "Seventeen eighty-two west and third south," said Harmony. Like most Mormon-colonies-turned-towns, Noah was built on a grid system, with everything being on the compass rose in relation to Main and Center Street. While it meant that the streets were unimaginatively named, it also meant that finding an address was a breeze. Three hundred south was actually north of where they were, so he turned right onto SR 85, gunned the engine, and accelerated so quickly that Harmony had to clutch the door handle to keep herself from flinching in fear. Clawson didn't bother signaling as he changed lanes and sped up, the blocks slipping by with a dizzying speed underneath the sparse oasis of light coming from the streetlamps. Harmony fished out her phone and opened up the texts. She tapped in a message to Dane, then turned off the screen, all the while her heart thumped inside her chest. "Who you texting?" The engine's purr was audible, though muffled, and almost blocked out Clawson's question. "Huh?" She looked at her phone. "Oh, just… Gwen." "Madsen?" Harmony swallowed and forced that smile onto her face--for the first (and, likely only) time, she was grateful for the number of awkward conversations she'd had to endure with clueless guys at parties or clubs, because it meant that she could smile without meaning it with almost no effort--before saying, "Oh, yeah. She's a great girl." Inwardly, she berated herself for such a stupid saying. "She's a great girl." Who said something like that, honestly? Clawson said, "I think she's dating my son." She bristled at the use of the word. "Dane?" "Who else?" "I, um…I heard that things aren't going well for them…" She trailed off as Clawson slowed the car, waiting for a string of southbound cars to pass before turning left onto Three Hundred South. She could just barely see Trucker's Burgers and Fries about a block further up the road before the turn finished and they were into the residential area. He accelerated into the neighborhood, only slightly modifying his speed from the State Road. "Yeah," said Clawson, his voice distant. "I heard the same thing." Harmony thought of the conversation that she'd had with Dane. He told her about the small camera. Were Dane's suspicions true? Had Clawson been spying on him? Was that why the sheriff had looked so angry, why Clawson was so begrudging to help her out? Harmony couldn't say for certain, but it made sense. Every other block, a yield sign was posted to control the flow of traffic (inasmuch as traffic ever "flowed" through the acre-plus lots that made up the neighborhood), none of which Clawson cared about. He drove almost mechanically, so much so that, upon arriving on her block, Harmony had to almost shout "This is it!" to get him to stop in time. The brakes squealed just a little as he scuttled to a rest slightly past the driveway. "Wow," said Harmony, forcing that smile back on her face. "Your car is pretty impressive." By this point she wasn't even sure what to do, but she knew she had to do something; Dane counted on her. "How fast can this thing go?" "Dunno," said Clawson, fiddling with the gearshift. "Pretty fast, if necessary. Here you go." Harmony, defeated, gave him a timid thanks, then got out of the car. The door was hardly closed before the BMW whipped around in a tight circle--an impressive feat, she had to admit--and growl its way back toward SR-85…and the Lodge. Pulling free her phone, she drafted another text: He's headed your way from my house. I tried to stall him, but it was no use. You have about ten minutes. Make them count. She looked over the words, then tapped the Send button. "Good luck, Dane," she whispered to the cold November air. He would need it. Chapter 11
Paul Madsen Back in his college days, before he hit the academy, Paul Madsen had played defensive end. Having grown up in rural Utah, there wasn't a lot else to do for a boy whose body became the size of a man before his brain caught up, except get into trouble with the law. He'd tried that on occasion, but once he'd found football, he hadn't really needed the adrenaline release of shoplifting anymore. Not only did football give him an outlet for his energy, it also did a great job of feeding his largest addiction: Anger. He'd heard the phrase rageoholic once (in the context of Westboro Baptist Church leader Fred Phelps, as it turned out) and thought that fit him pretty well. Nothing felt quite as sweet, nor as spicy, as an honest-to-god righteous rage. It purified, it consumed the dross of the soul, he always thought. It made him cleaner. Never, in all his years as a police officer and then--after paying his dues, taking his knocks, making his concessions--with his time in the sheriff's office, had Paul Madsen been so angry. He was beyond "seeing red", beyond the throbbing vein in his forehead, beyond wanting to punch something. He wanted to kill. He wanted to grab that prissy son of a bitch and shove his revolver right down Dane's throat and blow the kid's brains out through his stupid-ass manbun. "Paul?" Clawson powered off the phone, which was fine; the image on the screen had said Feedback Error: Please Check Camera for the past minute or two, having gone dark when Dane started firing the gun. They stood at the edge of Huntington Reservoir, on a rock that jutted into the water--the only place with a steady 4G connection--the cold wind whipping across the water doing nothing to cool off Paul's face. "You okay?" "I will be soon." Paul clambered off the rock and began stomping toward the SUV. "Hey! Wait!" Behind him, he could hear Clawson scramble down. Paul didn't care. He groped for his keys, the tackle and rods abandoned. He needed blood; he needed vengeance. Clawson huffed up next to him. "Paul, what do you think you're going to do?" "I'm going to kill him." "You can't." "Did you see what he did to my daughter? To the sheriff's daughter?" Clawson grabbed him, which was the wrong thing to do. Paul shrugged Clawson's hand free, then swung at him, connecting his fist against the rancher's cheekbone. A dull thump echoed through the cold air--nothing loud, nothing as dramatic as what he always saw in movies. Just the sound of flesh smacking into flesh. A flash of pain rippled through his knuckles and into his forearm, but he hadn't punched as hard as he possibly could or anything. And he knew it was stupid to punch a face--mostly bone, with almost as much a chance of hurting himself as injuring Clawson--but he wasn't really interested in thinking things through. Now wasn't the time to sit and navel-gaze; he was a man of action, and act he was going to do. Clawson stumbled backward, but Paul didn't see how he recovered. He had already resumed his trek back to the SUV. The rapid sound of Clawson gaining ground didn't register as an attack until he took the hit. The force of the tackle rocked Paul's head backward painfully, and the air flew from his lungs. Of course, he knew how to land when tackled, how to turn just-so to prevent breaking something. Some tricks became instinct with enough practice: This was one of them. Part of his mind--an old one, dusty from disuse and neglect--flared a moment's rage at the fact that someone had just horse-collar tackled him. As he fell into the gravel, a small flurry of individual pains spiking into him, the shock at being hit and of crunching into the parking area's stone-strewn lot combined to wake him up, if only a bit. Struggling to get up, to get his breath back, the pain helped cut through his fog of rage and pull him into reality. Reality? What was going on? He realized that he was thrashing, kicking up small clouds of dust and stone, grinding his arm and hip into the ground, screeching obscenities in clouds of spittle. Clawson held him tightly, pinning him and keeping him from getting back up. He stopped fighting, though his heart still thundered and his breath never seemed deep enough. "Okay," he said at last, "okay. You can let me go." "Can I really?" "Yeah." He nodded. His throat hurt. Hell, everything hurt. He was too old for this kind of thing. Maybe in his early days as a cop he could have taken a hit like this and bounced back up, but he had expanded his borders, as it were, and though he liked to think there was still a wall of muscle behind the soft exterior, he knew better; he'd be feeling this trip to the ground for the next couple of days. "You sure?" "Yeah." Clawson released him, groaning as he rolled onto his back. Paul pushed himself onto one knee, then looked around. A couple, dressed in fleece jackets and woolen hats, stared at them from a good thirty yards away. "What are you looking at?" Paul snapped at them. The apoplexy of the moment may have left, but that didn't mean residual rage wasn't available. The couple took it as a cue to find a different path to walk romantically down. "The hell was that, man?" "You saw." He grunted as he leveraged his way to his feet. "You saw what happened." "Yeah." "So?" He extended a hand, helping Clawson to his feet. "You think that I'm just going to see that and leave it be?" "Naw," said Clawson, wincing as he dusted himself off. "But you clearly weren't thinking." "Yeah? And you were?" "Not at all. I'd like to smack the kid upside the head for daring to touch my gun." Paul snorted. "Yeah. Sure. That's his great crime." "I didn't say that. I'm mad as hell about what he did to your daughter." Those words sent a spike of anger through Paul, who managed to set aside the rage long enough remember that he didn't need to lose control. After all, he was the authority here, not Clawson, not Dane…him. Sheriff Paul Madsen. He was the authority in this town. Thinking that made him feel slightly better…but only slightly. "But that doesn't mean I think we can go storming in and assaulting it." "I'm within my rights to split his face in half." Clawson held up a hand, as if yielding the point. "When it comes to rights, I'll defer to you, Sheriff." Paul sniffed, then hocked a loogy onto the gravel. "Do you have some sort of plan?" "Plan? Not really. I think we should head back to town, let me get my car, and then we'll go sort this all out." "You're awfully calm." Clawson's voice lowered, and Paul could sense a dangerous edge. "People act differently than how they feel all of the time." He eased himself into the passenger's seat. "Come on. We're burning daylight." Paul took one last glance at Huntington Reservoir. He should probably snag the fishing gear before he left. Who knew when he'd be able to come back for it? After stowing his equipment, he hauled himself into the SUV and fired up the engine. "You're a pissant, did you know that?" he asked as he slammed the gearshift into Drive. "Why? 'Cuz I kept you from doing something stupid?" "You tackled from behind. Only pussies do that." "I'm not particularly fast, Paul," said Clawson, massaging his arm where he'd fallen. "Or as young as I used to be." Paul snorted at that, which effectively ended their conversation as they worked they way out of the canyon and toward civilization. Once they'd reached Fairview, both his and Clawson's phones chirped. They were back within cell range. Paul pulled his out and read the text from his daughter: Where are you? He dropped the phone into the center console and focused on the road. He toyed with the idea of running his lights to get them there quicker, but the two-lane road was essentially empty; he could go as fast as he wanted. "Hi, honey," said Clawson, which struck Paul as strange. He glanced over, then saw that Clawson had put his Bluetooth headset in his ear, the small device glowing a soft blue into the silver streaks of his hair. Paul had always thought that hands-free devices were stupid, but Clawson loved his. "No, we were in the canyon. Where are…Really?" He looked at Paul, who glanced from his friend's slightly worried face to the road in front of him. Twilight was slipping away rapidly by now--it had to do with the damn daylight savings time, always screwing up the time it got dark--and Paul knew better than to be distracted by anything on the roads right now. Deer were known to spontaneously jump out of the scrub oak on the side of the lightless street and throw themselves into the cars. More than one person Paul had personally known had struck a deer at that time of night, and a neighbor of his had been impaled by antlers when the deer's head broke through the windshield and stabbed him in the shoulder. "What?" asked Paul, twitching the wheel a bit to keep the SUV between the mustard and the mayonnaise. "You're almost back to the Lodge? Well, I'm still a ways out. What was that? Yeah, I'm with Paul. Yeah, I'll tell him. Look…I think Dane isn't feeling very good." Clawson paused for a long moment, then said, "Well, he just was acting kind of weird today when Paul stopped by to check on him. No, I've been working with Marshal all day. Yeah, it's fine…not really, no. But, yeah, just…take care, okay? I don't know what's bugging him, necessarily." Paul's peripheral vision caught Clawson grimace. "Yeah, it's a real mystery why your stepson might be acting like a prissy little bitch, isn't it?" he mumbled to himself. It was important to feed the flames of his anger only samples of his true wrath, he knew; he had to keep it kindled, and throwing a swear on the fire was as good a tactic as any. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, not at all appalled that he wished it were Dane's neck he throttled. Soon. He'd be there soon enough. His foot pressed down a bit more on the accelerator. The landscape blurred by as Clawson fumbled through the final throes of the conversation with his fiancé. Paul entertained dark thoughts and nursed his grudge. It felt good. Before he expected it, the faint-but-familiar outline of Noah grew on the horizon. He glanced down, then immediately eased off the gas; he was going almost a hundred miles an hour. "Damn, man!" said Clawson, stiffening in his seat while checking the seatbelt's clasp. "Good thing you're a cop!" "Yeah, I got a bit distracted," said Paul. He pressed on the brakes until he settled into a safer seventy-five. Technically, that was still ten over the posted, and was asking for a deer to step out into the road and get greased. But they were still a solid fifteen minutes from the Lodge, and he worried about his daughter. He thought of calling her, but before he could reach out and pick up the phone, Clawson said, "You know, you haven't apologized for punching me in the face." "You haven't apologized for grinding me into the dirt." Clawson snorted. "As if they're comparable. I fell down too, you know." It was Paul's turn to snort. "Well, you shouldn't have hit me from behind." Their conversation remained at this level of superficiality until he arrived at Roman Realities, LLC. The light on the outside of the tiny office building was on--as were the lights inside--when Paul pulled into the same parking spot he'd used earlier that day, before they'd headed out to go fishing. And, now that he thought about it, they hadn't even tried to fish. They'd sent his daughter over to the Lodge, then stood on that rock and watched that train wreck of a conversation. For some reason, that pissed him off even more. And that felt good. Clawson popped the door open, turning on the cabin light. Holding it ajar with one hand, he said, "Okay, I'll follow you up to the Lodge. We'll talk to Dane together…" Clawson trailed off as the Roman girl came running around to his side of the car. Paul watched in mute dismay as she said to Clawson, "I'm glad you're here. Dad said that he needed you to see something." "See what?" asked Clawson, his voice sharp. The girl shrugged, then glanced nervously at Paul. He stared back, carefully considering what she looked like beneath her black turtleneck and skinny jeans. A white knit-cap framed her dark hair and the Asian tilt of her eyes was definitely a turn on. "He was trying to call you, but you didn't answer." "I was talking to my fiancé," said Clawson irritably. "All right. I'm here, may as well do what he needs. How long will it take? Hello? Harmony!" The girl had been staring back at Paul's gaze with a mixture of fear and dismay--at least, so far as Paul could tell (and he could usually tell these things; it was part of being a sheriff, reading people was)--and hadn't heard Clawson's call. She shook herself and said, "Um, I'm not sure. Fifteen, twenty minutes." "I'm going to go ahead," said Paul. "If it's all the same to you." Clawson chewed his lip, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, go find Gwendolyn. Leave the rest to me." Paul gritted his teeth, but decided that his friend was probably right. Besides, if Paul saw Dane by himself, he'd probably do something that he would only claim to regret. "Okay. I'll call you before you go to bed, tell you what's up." Clawson nodded, then swung himself out of the SUV. He followed Harmony into the office, leaving Paul in the quiet, idling peace of his car. A moment later, he dropped the SUV into reverse, edged out of the parking spot, and then spun his tires as he gunned it onto the main road. He drove up the street that led to the lengthy slalom to the Lodge, blowing past the stop sign next to the school. The likelihood of hitting a deer was higher on this road than on State Road 85, but staring at the Roman girl had given him a horny flash that fed in to his anger. And though he wanted to take it out on Dane, it was better if he could just find his daughter and get her back home. The car made a gentle chiming sound, which drew his attention to the dashboard--and immediately back up to the road. Almost standing on his brakes, Paul's SUV sent up a shriek of rubbery smoke as he forced the SUV to a stop as an entire herd of deer pranced their way across the pavement. Two of them had had to leap to one side just to prevent getting hit. Three, four, five…a grand total of eight deer ran away, their legs flickering tree-like shadows in his headlights. Paul sat with his heart thundering and adrenaline coursing through him. This was different than the anger-adrenaline he'd felt at the Reservoir. This was the realization that he'd almost run over a deer. It fed into his anger, yes, but the stupid animals didn't know how close they'd come to being roadkill. Wiping his face, he eased off the brakes and, at a more temperate pace, headed toward the Lodge. As he neared the house, he scoured the long driveway for any sign of his daughter's car. Gritting his teeth, he rolled on, not bothering to stop. He supposed she could have driven back home--logically, that's where he should have gone. But there was something about thinking that the last time he'd seen her--albeit on a phone's tiny screen--she'd been at the Lodge, that she'd been in danger. It was natural to start there. Pulling off the road, he fished free his cell phone, then swiped until he got to his daughter's number. The phone thought for a moment, then started the call. A few moments later, her voicemail picked up. Grimacing, he punched the End Call spot on the screen and dropped the phone back into the console. Fifty-fifty that she had gone somewhere other than home. She'd just been through a trying experience…maybe she'd wanted to blow off some steam? Paul decided to trust his sheriff's instincts and, since he was already in the foothills, he decided to check some of the places nearby where she could have driven to. With a screech of the abused tires and a flare of pebbles, Paul Madsen pulled back onto the main road and headed toward the mountains. Chapter 10
Gwendolyn Madsen Gwen knocked on the door again. There was a light on in the hallway--she could see that through the crystal window on the front door--but more than that, she knew because Dad said that Clawson was watching. Dane was in the house, though what he was up to they didn't know. Gwen swallowed against a lump of fear and nervousness in her heart. She'd told Dad that she didn't think it was a good idea, that Dane didn't need to be bothered if he was feeling depressed. Besides, she'd added, she didn't want to see him. This, of course, wasn't true, but Dad had taken it as she thought he would: A recognition of her own powerlessness in the face of Dane's previous behavior. Dad wasn't entirely wrong; she was nervous about that. But more than anything, she didn't know if she could really see Dane as anything other than who he was--broken, sad, and in need of help. Gwen never really considered herself a manic pixie dream girl, but she did care about Dane. Seeing him hurt made her want to do something to draw him out of the darkness in which he hid. That meant facing him. Having her dad watch the proceedings, though, definitely made her uncomfortable. Really, though, what she needed to do was see if she could get Dane out of the house in a way that wouldn't make Dad suspicious that it was her idea. Nothing had come to her yet, but, then again, if Dane didn't answer the door, it wouldn't matter what her plan was… A shadow played against the light in the hallway, the shape distorted by the prism of glass in the door's window. The house creaked as the footsteps came closer. The deadbolt slid to one side; the door opened a crack. Gwen nearly gasped. Dane's face was gaunt with a deep worry that seemed to radiate out of his eyes. Tears streaked into his beard. His brow was rumpled and pale, with a slight sheen of sweat on it. "Oh, my god, Dane! What happened! What's wrong!" He didn't answer, but stepped back to let her inside. Before the door was shut, a hard embrace encircled her. Gwen responded in kind, wrapping her arms about him and holding him tightly. It took a few moments before she realized that he held something in his right hand. Pulling back a bit, she bit off a cry and said, "Dane…why are you holding a gun?" He turned away, moving toward the expansive front room. Gwen followed, her heart hammering in her chest. She was used to seeing men with guns around her--she lived with the sheriff, after all--but she was not used to seeing Dane look so forlorn and desperate holding a pistol. Swallowing back her conflicted feelings, she sat next to him on the leather couch as he set the gun aside on a cushion (which made her feel marginally safer), their legs barely touching at the knees. "Can you talk to me?" She dipped her head as if to catch his eye, which he studiously avoided. "Please, Dane, I can't help if you don't let me in." "I don't know if I want you to," he said softly. "Don't want me to what?" "Come in." Those two words chipped at her heart and she had to fight to keep the tide of tears from rising into her eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, Gwen reached out and put a consoling hand on top of his. "Why not, Dane?" He didn't answer immediately. In fact, she had to ask him a couple more times before he would. "It's too much." "What is?" "Life. This." He gestured at the room. "I don't know if I can…" He hesitated. Gwen availed herself of the lull in his confession to scout out the room with her eyes. Dad said that Clawson had a mic-enabled home security system that would allow them to listen in to the conversation. If Dane whispered the whole time, though, would the mic be able to hear them? She supposed it depended on where the camera was. She scanned the corners, but didn't see anything beyond motion sensors. Dropping her gaze back to his, she almost jumped to see his intense scrutiny. "Why did you leave me?" "I…" The words wanted to come out, they really did. As soon as she'd gotten the call from Dad that he wanted her to go talk to Dane, that he and Clawson were ready to observe, she'd been running over in her mind what she would say to Dane when this inevitable question came up. She'd thought she had something upon arriving at the Lodge, but now that the question sat in the room like a leaden weight, she couldn't remember even the first word of her explanation. "I…" "Was it your father?" he asked, his voice still low and pain-ridden. "Did he put you up to it?" "Dad?" She blinked, then glanced up again at the motion sensor. Then she saw it, above the mantlepiece--a small camera, the fine-mesh grill covering the microphone a blur at this distance on top of the lens. She shook her head as her eyes drifted back. "No, he…" Dane followed her gaze, then looked at her pointedly. She could almost see him processing what he inferred. This had a strange double effect on her; on one hand, it was remarkable to see him make the inductive leaps that put him on the right path. On the other, it was terrifying to see how quickly his mind worked. She felt the blood drain from her face--a feeling that she'd thought was only authorial hyperbole, but now that it had happened to her, she understood exactly what was meant--and she was glad that she was already sitting down. "Where is your dad?" Swallowing, she answered honestly. "I don't know. At home, I think." Dane snorted. "Well, that's a lucky thing. He should stay there." "What do you mean?" "Well, my father went out of his house, and look what happened to him." Gwen felt it hard to breathe, hard to talk. She sat, uncertain of what to say, when Dane surprised her by asking, "Did you ever love me?" Breaking contact with him, she stood and walked toward the fireplace, being careful not to stare at the small camera. She pretended to look at the framed pictures that stood at attention on the mantle. "It's not…so simple, Dane." "No," he said in a voice with much more understanding in it than what Gwen had expected from him. "No, I suppose it isn't. I thought I loved you." She thought back to their night together six weeks back, enfolded in his arms, entranced by his smell and his presence. The feeling of their closeness, his warmth as he'd pulled her close, the gentle whisper of his breath on the back of her neck. "You…you made me think that you did." "Well--" and now he sounded disgusted, though at her or himself she couldn't rightly tell "--I…wish you hadn't." The heat of tears pushed up her face so quickly that she felt lightheaded. A gentle cry cracked her self-control and the sobs began to leak out of her, tear-accompanied. "Even…" She could hardly speak, the knot of embarrassment and loss threatened to choke her. "Even after we…" He didn't bother looking at her, choosing instead to stare at the gun in his hand. It was at that moment she realized in what danger she'd placed herself. She was in the house all alone with a man who was clearly unwell. A glance to the exit--far away, too far away, and Dane was between her and the door. Panic started to erode her emotional worry. Drawing in a breath, she fought to put her tears away. "You know something?" She put as much forced lightness into her question as she could manage. It was enough to get his to her. She summoned her courage: She couldn't contain it any longer. With her back to the camera, she mouthed, I'm pregnant. "What?" he asked. Inwardly, Gwen felt the smallest flicker of hope. Maybe her dad had missed that she hadn't spoken aloud. Maybe she still had time to keep that reality away from him while she figured out what to do next. The timing, she knew, was less than ideal, but when else would she be able to get him alone? After this, she doubted that her dad would ever knowingly let her get within a mile of Dane Amleth. Besides, she felt ready to burst with the news--not that she knew what she felt herself about pending motherhood. And--she could only admit this to herself in the dark moments of greatest honesty--she hoped that the revelation would change Dane's mind. She knew it was crazy; since when had pregnancy made a man want to get back together? "You…" He arose, meeting her gaze for a brief moment then his eyes flicked over her shoulder. From where they stood, it was possible that Clawson and Dad wouldn't be able to see that small motion. She gave him the shallowest nod that she could muster. "You dumped me…" "I didn't want to." He didn't speak for a long moment. Though Gwen couldn't see inside his head, she could tell that he was pondering something, coming to a conclusion. When he met her eyes again, there was a sadness--and a hollowness--that robbed her of her breath. "So you're leaving me alone. This--" and she knew he meant what was slowly growing inside of her "--comes along and then it's all over?" "I didn't want to," she repeated, meaning the words even more. "Then why? What was your thinking? You couldn't be around a guy like me?" "That wasn't it…" "What, then, am I not good enough for you? Not worthy?" She shook her head, tears diamonding from her eyelashes. "No, no, that isn't it at all." "What was it, then, that made you leave me…right when I needed you most?" Those words caught her hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. She stared at him, mouth working soundlessly. How could she tell him? It wasn't him, it was Dad…and Lenny, and the fear of being like Mom--a teenage bride who had dreams that never came to pass, a life sacrificed for her husband and son, her daughter a sometime afterthought? How could he possibly understand that her relationship with him reminded her so much of her own mother's life and death that she sometimes wanted to scream? It didn't make sense in her own mind, to say nothing of trying to explain it to him. She couldn't drag him through that sort of thing, not when he was already struggling with so many problems of his own. It didn't seem fair. "I wanted to be there for you," she said, taking a step forward, most likely to comfort him, when he moved with such speed and ferocity that she yelped in surprise. Dane straightened, the pistol he'd set on the couch now in his hand. He pointed it at her. The strain of so many different emotions crashing over her so quickly was enough to make her want to scream, but the sudden, deadly panic took precedence. Holding out her hands as tears coursed her cheeks, she sobbed, "No, Dane! No, don't…I didn't mean to hurt you!" "It wasn't what you meant, Gwen. It's what you did!" The shot burst out loudly--far too loudly, making her ears buzz and head ring--and Gwen shrieked in fright, hands up in a desperate bid to make him remember that she was unarmed, she didn't deserve this. A framed picture burst behind Gwen's left shoulder, sending a geyser of drywall and shattered glass over the living room floor. Instinctively, she cowered, dropping low. Another shot echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Another explosion of wall and picture frames. Gwen dropped to her knees, her arms over her head. A third--a final shot--crashed into the fireplace. Gwen looked up, eyes wide with fear. "W-what…?" He dropped the gun and kicked the weapon beneath the sofa. Then he walked up to her-- --and past her. He stared at where the third bullet had struck. "This was it, then?" he asked in a soft voice. The ringing of the bullet was still loud enough in her ears that Gwen almost missed the question. She gave him an incredulous expression. "You shot at me!" "I didn't." "You did!" Fury at survival--not that she hadn't wanted to, but that her adrenaline could do nothing but feed into a sudden flash of anger--fueled her next words. "You shot at me, you piece of sh--" "Gwen," said Dane, his face tight with a concern that she didn't recognize, a distraction in his expression that softened--though not pushed away--some of her anger. "I'm so, so sorry." Then he did the wrong thing: He kissed her. She pulled away, scooting backwards. "What the hell is wrong with you?" His face, drooping in confused shock, would have been funny had not the situation been so bizarre. "Gwen…" "I'm leaving, Dane. I'm sorry--" "Wait! We have to…" He opened and closed his fists, as if gripping something that kept slipping. "You're really pregnant?" She shrugged as she heaved herself off the floor, drying her eyes with the back of her sweater's sleeve. "That's what the test said." "And it's from…" "When you took Fall Break here, yeah." She sighed. "I didn't mean for it to happen any more than you did. I…" She stopped. She thought of saying something about having forgotten to take her pill for a few days--she'd been sick and out of the habit, then, just as she got feeling better, Dane arrived--and discussing what it might mean for them, but in the end, she could only say, "I don't want to lose what we had. But…" Gwen gestured at the bullet holes in the wall. "I can't…" "That? No, I--" Dane part laughed, part snorted his disbelief. "No, I did that because…because we were being watched." He hesitated. "Weren't we?" She looked at him for a long time, then said, "Goodbye, Dane." Despite his protests, she gathered herself and headed for the door, her head throbbing and her throat sore. Dane's pleas echoed in her ears as she stepped off the porch and headed to her car. Night was coming, and soon, but she didn't really want to go home. She needed to think. As she backed out of the immense driveway, she spun the wheel to the right, aiming her car eastward, and headed toward the mountains. In her rearview mirror, she could see another vehicle approach the Lodge and turn in. She decided she didn't care what it was. Gwen needed some space. And she was going to get it. Chapter 9
Dane Amleth The Lodge was, to Dane's surprise, empty when he got home. He and Harmony had discussed everything that had happened that morning over lunch at the Café on Center--a favorite haunt of theirs from back before either of them could drive. During their conversation and planning, Dane had thought more than once that it was too bad they hadn't fallen in love. Falling for the realtor's daughter was a lot safer than the sheriff's daughter--bad move on Dane's part. There had been a time, maybe, when Harmony might have been open to it, might have thought there was something there. Whenever that had happened, however, Dane hadn't been ready. By the time he could even consider it, the possibility had fled. Instead, he had a best friend, even if they hadn't had a chance to see much of each other in the past few years. But that was life, he knew: Growing up was much less trying to figure out how to get a job and pay taxes, and much more coming to grips with the losses of friendships that had seemed perpetual. The glass shards in the hallway glinted, and for a moment, Dane considered sweeping it up--more for his mom's sake than anyone else's--but he couldn't quite seem to manage it. Instead, he sat down on the couch, shoes still on, though he'd taken off his black leather jacket and hung it by the door. The room was spacious, with large bay windows to let in the November afternoon's sunlight and allow him to see the withering trees that populated the front yard. A massive gas fireplace--cold and quiet now--took up much of the far wall. Above it, a flat screen TV hung, the blue lights of it and the sundry electronics that gave it life glowing with a disinterested aura. The leather couch, which probably had cost more than Harmony's first semester's tuition, creaked beneath his weight as he settled himself in the overstuffed upholstery. Despite having gone over the plan with Harmony for what felt like hours, despite having come to some sort of resolution through their work, Dane felt empty and defeated. It wasn't Clawson, necessarily; it was this monster inside of him, a brooding cloud that covered whatever sun of happiness his mind could muster. The memory from how he'd treated Gwen (Harmony, unsurprisingly, told him he needed to talk to her and apologize; Dane didn't disagree) ran through the gutters of his guilt like a sewer, tainting everything. His father's death, his mother's rapid engagement…it all just added up to an enervation that left him feeling physically drained despite the fact he wasn't moving at all. The energy that had galvanized him during Paul's visit and the unexpected arrival of Ryan and George had evaporated as easily as a puddle in Utah's arid air. In some ways, sitting was all that could be expected of him, and even that felt too much. While these sentiments swirled through him, a thought arrived: Maybe he could execute his and Harmony's plan now, while the house was empty. That thought didn't stay long, however; he didn't know how much time he'd have if he jumped the gun. "The gun?" The Amleth was one that believed in the Second Amendment; they had guns here. At last motivated, Dane stood and walked directly into Clawson's home office. This was the one area of the Lodge that hadn't been taken over by Clawson in the past few days, in part because it was already his. After his move from Salt Lake to Noah, Clawson had taken residence in the basement apartment. Papa Dane had given his brother a spare suite on the ground floor so that he, Clawson, could do some of the business related to Elsinore Ranch that Dane Sr. was sick of doing. Clawson's office, therefore, was lived in; a large mahogany desk with a black mat in the center where his laptop sat, screen closed. A telephone, a lamp, a black-wire bin for his paperwork, and a handful of knickknacks from sundry places he'd visited--a stone Kokopelli statue, likely from a gift shop near Zion National Park; a red rock he'd taken from St. George's famous Red Hill's Desert Garden; a souvenir Eifel Tower that could light up, should one bother to do so; and a taxidermized flock of different birds (how many he'd personal trapped Dane couldn't say)--did an admirable job of cluttering the space. His high-backed leather chair was carefully tucked in. Dane got the sense that Clawson wanted things a particular way. In the corner of the office was a metal filing cabinet. On top of that and secured with long nylon straps, was Clawson's handgun safe. In the basement, the family kept their entire hunting rifle collection--at least twenty of them--in a couple of massive Elite safes. Going downstairs, though, seemed like too much effort, and he knew that Clawson kept the key to the safe in his desk. It was only a matter of scrounging about in the center drawer for a minute before he found the barrel key. "We don't have kids in this place," Clawson had said to Dane Sr. when Jenny pointed out Clawson's lackadaisical philosophy, "and I'm not going to get murdered by an intruder just because I can't get to my guns. A locked up gun is as useless as no gun at all." Dane popped the safe's door open with a deft twist of the key. He stared inside. Two pistols sat next to each other, their dark metal sucking in the dim light from the windows. Surprised at the steadiness of his hands, Dane pulled out one of them, hefting it in his palm. It was his uncle's ASP 9, one of the few things that he had shared with Dane upon moving in. In retrospect, it was likely more of a pique of avuncular interest more than any genuine attempt at making a relationship, but he had shown it to the teenaged Dane with a broad smile on his face. "This thing," he had said in a conspiratorial tone, "is a spy gun." He had flipped it so that Dane could take it in nervous hands. "Plastic grip, see? That way, you know how many shots you have in the magazine without having to eject it. Got rid of the iron sights so that it's easier to conceal. Like a snake in the grass, you see? That's why it's called the ASP." "Really?" Dane had asked, equally impressed and intimidated. He'd grown up around guns--most everyone in Noah had two or three--but he'd also been taught to respect them. The gun was deceptively light--much lighter than what he was used to with the Beretta he'd fire with his dad when they'd go out to the foothills to blow away potguts and empty cans--and had the familiar deadly heft he'd come to expect from a handgun. "That's why they called it that?" Clawson had looked slightly embarrassed and said, "Yeah, of course. Remember, though, I spent over $3,000 on that thing. It's not a toy." "I know. I'm not an idiot." "Right. Just making sure you knew." He'd locked it up then, in the same safe from which Dane took it now. How easy it would be. "I should just do it, you know," Dane said aloud, startling himself. The cold emptiness of the room had enveloped him, the silence becoming too loud. Unpacking his heart with words suddenly seemed the only thing that he could do: Talk himself off the ledge. Instead, he said, "Why does it matter anyway? What's the point? No one would miss me." He snorted, looking around the room as he stood with a pistol in one hand and suicide in his mind. "What am I saying? Of course they would. For a while. Who knows? Maybe Mom would die of grief and then, at the double funeral, Clawson would propose to Gwen at my graveside. One up himself, you know?" Dane shook his head and looked out at the world, the blue of the afternoon slipping into the endless gray of an hours-long twilight. "What a horrible place." He looked over the familiar acres, the distant grazing horses, the farmland that sat mostly fallow. Elsinore Ranch no longer worked the land next to it, profiting instead from other farms that Papa Dane had purchased over the many years until he became one of the wealthiest men around. A fortune that maybe Clawson had killed for. Probably had. And what did it matter? Dane felt the cold reassurance of an answer in his hand. What was there to fear? Why stick around for another year, another month, another day, another minute? Everyone died at some point; why not do so on his own terms? Dane was surprised to realize tears were trickling down his cheeks and the faint smell of gunsmoke was tickling his nose. He had the muzzle against his teeth. He didn't remember moving. With a gasp, he pulled the gun from his lips, spitting. No. No, he couldn't do that…he wouldn't. But why? The thought wouldn't leave him. "I'm not…" The tears made it hard for him to talk, his throat was too tight. Yet he felt he had to get the words out or he would explode. "I'm not suicidal." Yes, you are. He didn't know where the voice was coming from--and it was his voice, he wasn't so naïve as to assume differently--but he knew he had to deny it. "No, I'm not…" You are. Let's leave. They'll be sad for a while, but you won't be. Dane stared at the gun for a long time--longer than anyone would rationally consider it--before saying, "But I don't know." Don't know what? "What comes next." You're studying philosophy, Dane. You know there's nothing that comes next. Darkness. And silence. Everything becomes silence. Dane drew in a deep breath. Silence--including of the words in his mind, his mind that was trying to kill him. Yes. Even this voice would go silent. It's easier this way. For everyone. The tears didn't stop as he thumbed off the safety of the ASP. They continued to drip down as face as he brought the pistol up to his temple. They dripped off his chin as his finger curled around the trigger. He took a breath--his last breath, it would be the last one, no more taste of air, smell of leaves, no more--and closed his eyes. Another tear fell out. The doorbell rang. Chapter 8
Paul Madsen The smell of burning rubber accompanied the sound of skidding tires as Sheriff Paul Madsen flung his patrol car into one of the empty parking stalls in front of Marshal Roman's real estate office. The day was cool and crisp, which went a short way to calm the heat of Paul's temper. He didn't bother pulling the keys out of the ignition after turning off the engine, letting them dangle from the steering column instead. The door chimed its incessant reminder about this, which he ignored. Stomping his way across to the entrance, he let hauled the door hard enough by the handle to make it rattle when it hit its full extension. "Damn thing," he mumbled. Marcie Rall, the round-and-friendly secretary, looked up, surprise folding her doughy face. "Sheriff Madsen! Wh-what…is there anything wrong?" "Clawson. He here?" "In the back. I'll go--" "I'll do it." He breezed past the secretary, past Roman's kid--Paul remembered seeing her talking to Dane for a bit after the funeral a four days back, which he'd taken as a sign that maybe he'd heard wrong about Dane and Gwendolyn being a thing…which he was clearly mistaken about. Paul's attention shifted from the Roman girl and to the office door which was swinging open just as he arrived. "…interference, if you know what I mean," Clawson was saying. "You done here, Clawson?" asked Paul, his tone sharp and commanding. Even before his academy days, before he knew that his true calling in life was law enforcement, Paul had had a strong presence. He hadn't become a sheriff because of it, but he'd beaten out the competition for the job because he knew how to use it. Authority, he'd learned, was a powerful tool, one that required a lot of finesse and care. Fortunately, most people wanted to be controlled, wanted to be ruled. He was as red-blooded American as a person could find--Utah's red-state tendencies were a touch too pinko for him--but he knew that freedom wasn't what people truly craved: They wanted a strongman to keep them safe. Protection over liberty. The mark of his tenure as sheriff, though, was acting in a way that didn't remind people of that truth. In this particular case, the brusque, no-time-for-nonsense version of a sheriff worked better than any other. True, his anger at Dane Amleth, Jr. made this an easier choice, but Paul was a professional; he could use the right kind of authority in whatever way the situation called for. "Uh, yeah," said Clawson, shooting a stray glance at Marshal, who--as always--looked mousy and afraid. "We're done." "I'll call you if there's any development," said Marshal. The realtor gave Paul a curt nod. "Sheriff." "Roman." The realtor nodded again, then turned into his office, closing the door behind him. "What's going on, Paul?" "We need to fish." Clawson hesitated a moment, then glanced down the hallway. The office building wasn't large; they could easily see that no one was nearby. Still, Clawson lowered his voice as he asked, "Is everything okay?" "Peachy. Let's go." "Okay." He reached into his pocket. "Oh, look, they're already at the Lodge. Okay, yeah, we should give the place a bit of a wide berth for now. You want to head to Huntington Reservoir?" "Fine. I've got gear in the back already." This was not new; Paul always had his fishing gear in the back of the SUV. It was one of the perks of living in this part of Utah, to say nothing of the benefits of the office. Noah didn't see much in the way of crime--pulling over people speeding through the town on their way north to Utah County or south down to Manti made up most of his law enforcement work, along with calming down domestic disputes as they cropped up--which left him with plenty of time on his hands. Sure, there was paperwork that he could catch up on at the office, but he wasn't in the mood to do that now. And who was going to make him? "Let's go, then," said Clawson, gesturing for him to take the lead. The Roman girl, Paul noticed, watched them with those empty expressions that Millennials all seemed to have. She probably wanted to 'eat the rich' or some other liberal crap. He wondered if that was a pumpkin spice latte that she held in her Styrofoam cup. Punk kid. He wished he could remember her name. It was something to do with music. He couldn't really remember. Sheriff Madsen made it a point to know as many people as he could, but it wasn't worth his effort to learn the kids' names--they grew up, grew ungrateful, and left their roots behind. Good riddance, then. The fewer people he had to worry about, the easier his job was. Paul and Clawson climbed into the SUV and started their way northward up State Road 85. They drove in silence for a good five minutes before Clawson said, "Care to tell me what's got you so pissy? You're like my ex." "What's that supposed to mean?" asked Paul in as calm a voice as he could muster. Considering how furious he was at Clawson's stepson, that was, in Paul's considered opinion, pretty impressive. "It means you're acting like you're menopausal," said Clawson. "Why are we going fishing?" "Because it's a nice day and I want to fish." "But you talked to Dane, didn't you? That was your plan. Talk to him first, before sending your daughter in. See if you could figure out why he treated her that way." "I think your kid is a damn psycho." Clawson looked out the passenger window, resting his teeth on his thumb. "Not really my kid, is he? Not yet, anyway." "Whatever you want to call it, the kid's loco. He said all sorts of…" Paul thought back to the conversation he'd had with Dane. It had been so…weird. That was the only way to classify it. Of course, over the course of Paul's career, he'd had his fair share of weirdos. Noah was hardly a hotbed of crime. There hadn't been a murder there since before the millennium switched over (and he thanked the god he didn't believe in for that mercy), and despite a rash of robberies and burglaries in the early Obama days, the place was pretty damn safe. Still, that didn't mean that nothing bizarre happened. The sole bar in town could get rowdy, especially on the weekends. Once, he'd been forced to take down an exhibitionist who'd decided to streak the crowd during the high school's Homecoming game. That had been an unpleasant job. Dane's conversation, though, was different. It had felt so unpredictable and, to be honest, Paul had felt the power dynamic shift away from him to the young Amleth so rapidly that it had left him a touch confused. Not that Paul would tell Clawson that. Instead, he told him about the knocked over vase, the book, and the weird answers to Clawson's questions. "I was about ready to redecorate his throat with his teeth, Claw, I gotta be honest." "Yeah," said Clawson, his gaze distant. Paul had known Clawson long before the latter had headed north for school and business and life. Since Clawson's return a few years back, he and the rancher had gained a good friendship and special understanding of each other's unique situations. That expression, however, Paul had only seen a handful of times before. "So, what are we gonna do?" Clawson shifted in his seat so that he could look at the sheriff more fully. "Do?" "Yeah," said Paul in the kind of voice he used when he was talking to someone clearly stupider than he. Not bothering to click the blinker on, he swung right and headed eastward toward the canyon that would eventually take them to the reservoir. "He broke my girl's heart. Then he mouthed off to me." Clawson pinched the bridge of his nose, as if battling a headache. "That's why I called in those two." "Those two?" "Yeah. I can't remember their names. Ryan and Joe or something like that. They used to be Dane's friends. They've been--" He paused, diving a hand into his down-vest pocket and pulling out his cell phone. "Speak of the devil." "That them?" Clawson nodded as he swiped the answer slider on the screen. "Hello? Yup. Uh-huh. Okay, but…No, I don't remember Ricky…he went where? You didn't follow him? Well, why the hell am I paying you if you're not going to do the damn job?" Paul only listened with half an ear. Parcels of a conversation like this didn't really interest him, and he was still irritated to think that Clawson's great plan was to sic a couple of old friends. How was that supposed to help? Clawson gave a couple of ayups and uh-huhs, then tapped the phone off. "Pissants." "What's up?" "I thought that maybe we could get some eyes on Dane. He's been acting suspicious--not just from what happened with your daughter, but in general, I mean." "Anything in particular?" Clawson made a disgusted sound. "You know, I mean…yeah his dad's in the ground. They were pretty close, for the most part. But he gives me these looks." Clawson shivered, as if the memories of the expression were enough to chill him. "And I just get this vibe that he's up to something." He shook his head. "I'm too new in the house--I've lived there for a couple of years, you know, but it's different now." Paul snorted. "I still can't believe you popped the question at your brother's funeral." Clawson made that same disgusted sound, which made Paul's nerves jangle. "It put pressure on Jenny to say yes. That's what matters." "Weird play, Claw." "Maybe. We'll see how it pans out." "Did these friends get any information? Figure anything out?" Clawson shook his head, which Paul tracked from the corner of his eye. "Sounds like he gave them some grief, too, then drove off. They don't know where." "So?" drawled Paul. "You think we should just leave it alone?" "Hell no. The kid's doing something. I think we can figure it out. But…" He hesitated, and Paul sensed that he was coming to some conclusion. "I think we'll have to use your daughter after all." "I was afraid you'd say that." "Yeah." Clawson looked out the window for a long minute, the autumnal scenery blurring by in gray-and-brown streaks. "I was hoping to avoid it. Nothing doing." "'Salright, she's a strong girl." He snorted. "For a girl, I mean." "I hear ya." "We'll send her over later tonight. That work?" "Yeah," said Clawson, his voice as distant as his gaze had been earlier. "Yeah, I think so. We'll keep Jenny out of the Lodge when we do, though. We don't need a woman's interference, if you know what I mean." Paul grunted. He did. Women tended to meddle, in his experience. Still, he missed his wife. She'd been a great woman--pretty, quick to do his bidding, great in the sack. It didn't hurt as much anymore, however, now that so many years had passed. He shook his head as if trying to cast off the gloom of such thoughts. He still wanted to punch Dane's mouth through the back of his head, but hearing that Clawson was also struggling with the kid made Paul feel better, somehow. Well, if nothing else, here was a chance to get things moving again. If Gwendolyn couldn't get to the bottom of his behavior--confront him with his sin, as it were--then there was always that impromptu tooth-extraction option. And, to be honest, he wouldn't mind toeing that line of excessive force. He'd like to see the little punk make a case for that. For the first time that day, Paul felt something approaching a smile creep across his face. Chapter 7
Dane Amleth The second floor of the Lodge was comprised of more bedrooms than the Amleth family could have needed--making the guest house, in Dane's opinion, a complete waste of time and money. Still, sometimes it was nice that there were so many rooms. Right now, for example, he could sit at the desk in his own room and stare vaguely into space, letting his mind wander and, when he grew tired of the view from the window that overlooked the road, he could go to a different bedroom and do the same thing, except from there. He looked down at the notebook in front of him. A habit he had developed in his first year at college, whenever too many thoughts were ricocheting through his brain, Dane would let his mind unwind on the page. He sometimes spent a specific amount of time--or a certain number of pages--to purge his discontent. Other times, he'd let his hand wander as much as his mind, which usually led to strange doodles or scribbles deep enough to tear through the paper. This time, he had written words, but he didn't recognize them: He'd written them without thinking, without guiding his hand. He'd written, Kill him. Revenge is no sin--and besides, you don't even know if you believe in that stuff. It's been four days since the funeral. The engagement hasn't changed. Get on with it. He slammed the book closed and shoved it away, his heart tattooing his ribcage with an unfamiliar staccato. Where had those words come from? He knew he'd written them--they were in his handwriting, and besides, he didn't believe in supernatural explanations--but…had he meant them? Kill Clawson? His innermost honesty said, "Yes," but he could quash that quickly enough. This wasn't some wergild in Nordic days. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." The world didn't work like that. Besides, what could he do? He'd found a strap for Dad's GoPro out in the forest. What did that mean? No one would see that and think, "Well, logically, some foul play is happening here. A cut strap? Clawson must be the murderer!" Even Harmony, when the initial shock that her hypothesis was correct had worn off, didn't think it meant much beyond circumstantial evidence. "You need something more," she'd said, and she was right. The previous pages in his notebook had a couple of his ideas scrawled down, including Beat it out of him and Get him super drunk and tape his confession. Nothing really clicked for him though; Dane had played football (in Noah, everyone played football) on the high school team and had kept up with his exercises. He wasn't a heavyweight champion of the world, but he could throw a few punches that his opponent wouldn't soon forget. Clawson, however, was significantly larger than Dane, and if Dane was right that his uncle had framed the murder as an accident, then Dane would be remiss to underestimate how committed Clawson would be to protecting his secret. No, he needed something more concrete. He needed… He didn't know. Something. Irritated, Dane stood up, glancing outside at the driveway up to the Lodge. To his surprise, Sheriff Madsen had pulled in and was now climbing out of the vehicle. No one was at home--his aunt-mother was in Provo, a good sixty miles or more away, looking at wedding-related purchases; uncle-father was in town with Marshall Roman to do something related to the Ranch's business; real-father was dead in his grave, possibly because of a brother's bullet. Madsen had nothing to do with being here. Except… Dane's heart plunged. He had done a lot of avoiding the painful topic of Gwen's sudden break up. He knew he shouldn't let it get to him, but it was one more thing when he really didn't need any more things at all. The day was cold and sunny outside, but he could feel the dark edges of depression creeping along the side of every thought. He sighed. The last thing he needed was to talk to Gwen's dad. Especially with the things he'd texted her after she dumped him. It was, for lack of a better phrase, a dick-move. Apologizing was necessary, but just the thought of taking up that difficulty was enough to make him want to crawl into bed and never get up again. "Man, this world sucks," he said to himself. Downstairs, the door rattled with an authoritative knock. Sighing, Dane started to move toward his bedroom door, then paused, frowning. He had pulled that strap out of the dead leaves, but as Harmony had pointed out, there should have been an entire crime scene set up there. At least some indication that Clawson's story was true. But there wasn't anything. Dane had found the strap, which Clawson probably accidentally left behind…which meant that no one went through at to piece together what actually happened. And one of Clawson's best friends was knocking on the door below--for a third time, now. Dane started to move. On an impulse, he snatched a novel as he rushed past the bookshelf next to his door. He didn't bother looking at the cover. "Coming!" he shouted, thundering down the steps as loudly as he could, his mind racing. He needed to figure out how deeply the conspiracy went. To do that, he needed Sheriff Paul Madsen to-- "Talk to me," Dane said, throwing open the door with such violence that Paul flinched. "Good Lord, boy, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?" Dane wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Seems like a bad thing to give a person. What can I do you for?" "Uh," said the sheriff, obviously thrown off his guard by both the response and the way Dane had opened the door. Inwardly, Dane smiled. He could use this. A plan was starting to form. Outwardly he said, "I'm fresh out of uhs, but I have a couple of ums lying around. Come in! I'll put some tea on." "I, uh…" Whatever Paul was going to say, Dane didn't hear. Instead, he skipped down the hallway from the front door. As he passed a low table, he reached out and, with a delicate flick of his wrist, knocked a glass vase to the ground. It shattered, spilling its crystalline guts all over the hardwood, with the fake plant that had lived in it for as long as Dane could remember, crumpled in a limp, pathetic pile. "Dane! What are you doing?" Dane stopped where he was, then turned slowly, giving Paul a confused look. "Getting you tea. Like you asked." "I don't drink tea." "Bless your heart! You finally converted! If I've said it once, I've said it a million times, those Mormons are conquistadors, you have to be careful lest they conquer you." "I'm not Mormon," said Paul, his round face hardened with his scowl. He wasn't wearing his sheriff uniform, sporting instead jeans, a yellow-leather jacket, and a baseball cap with the letter A on it. "Well, there'll be time for that after you die, if I understand their doctrine right." He tipped his head to one side and painted a vacuous smile on his face. "Care for that tea now?" Paul grimaced. They were still a good twenty feet apart, but Dane could see the sheriff's hands opening and closing as if he was trying to grab someone--probably Dane's neck. Best to keep a healthy distance. "I'm not here for tea, young man. I'm here to talk to you about my daughter." "Oh, good! I was just upstairs. You know. Alone. Reading." He held up the book, then glanced at the cover. "Well, would you look at that?" "At what?" said Paul, who had started toward Dane but was keeping his eyes focused on the glass shards on the floor. "It's the great millennial treatise." He tossed the book to Paul, who caught it instinctively. "You should take its advice." Paul looked at it, his face slightly empurpling. "No thanks," he said, setting down the copy of No Country For Old Men on the spot that the glass vase had recently occupied. "Not a reading fellow?" "I like what I like, Dane, but that's not what I'm here to talk to you about." Dane snorted, turning and heading for the back of the kitchen, the large doors through which he'd seen his mother and Clawson stumble two nights ago. "Well, no man should be faulted for liking what he likes, am I right?" "Look, boy, I'm tired of playing games--" "Uno?" The word drew Paul up almost as if he'd been slapped. "Excuse me?" "I think we have the cards around here somewhere…" "No, I don't want to play a damn game of Uno, son, I want to talk to you about my daughter!" "Wouldn't that make her my sister?" asked Dane as he breezed through the garden, flicking at the dead leaves that most tenaciously clung to the vines. "Bit of a Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia vibe, if you ask me." Paul continued to follow Dane, whose heart pounded hard while his mind worked harder. He needed to get something out of Paul without giving anything of his own, but that would prove difficult. Sheriff Madsen may be an idiot, but he wasn't stupid…though that thought made Dane start to giggle, which turned into full-bore laughter as he rounded the side of the Lodge and headed toward the driveway. "Enough with your stupid-ass jokes. Why'd you send those texts to Gwendolyn?" Dane stopped--he had to. He'd hurt Gwen. He had. And Paul was clearly there as a father, not a sheriff, anxious to help protect his daughter. Dane couldn't fault him for that, at least. "Well?" asked Paul, his hands out in the vintage expression of frustrated expectation. "Are you going to answer me?" Dane stared for a long moment. "What kind of man do you think I am?" "A punk-ass kid, who's been coddled his whole damn life and thinks he's better than everyone else." "Like my father?" "Pretty much." Dane closed the distance between himself and Paul until they were an arm's length apart from each other. "Which one?" It was Paul's turn to stare for a moment while Dane pinned him with a glare. Inside, Dane was trembling. His outside expression, however, was firm, cool, unflappable. He couldn't read the man's soul, but he thought he saw a phantom of confusion followed by an expression of satisfaction as he said, "The dead one." "Nah, the living one, I think. He's much more proactive, wouldn't you say? Someone to emulate." And there it was, so quick that had Dane not been trying to see it, he would have missed it. The slight emphasis he'd put on the word "proactive" had meant something to Paul. He'd reacted. It wasn't a lot. But it confirmed that Dane's suspicions weren't completely off the mark. At least, he hoped so. Paul glowered, then stomped toward his SUV, throwing his shoulder into Dane's and knocking the younger man back. "Stay away from my family, you hear me?" He yanked open the car door. "Sheriff's orders." He got in, slammed the door shut, and peeled out. The ghost of gasoline and a snarl of the engine accompanied him. Dane stood, watching until the sheriff had turned down the road that would take him into town, then slouched against the side of the house, his knees trembling. That was, he admitted to himself, a simultaneously terrifying and thrilling experience. Dane's life had never been one of immense rebellion or attitude. He'd normally done what he needed with as little attention brought to himself as he could--his dad was Dane Sr., which was enough attention already. Still, there was an illicit joy in what he'd just done, a recognition of his own self. Standing up to Paul, even hiding behind the erratic behavior, had been liberating in a way that few things had been. Idly, he wondered what it was that had made Paul feel that Dane wasn't worth the effort any more. The vase? The book? Confined to his thoughts, Dane almost didn't see the car--a rust-and-red Honda Civic from the end of the last century--until it pulled into the driveway. He felt his face grow hot. "Hell's bells," he said under his breath. "Like I need this." The reflection of the trees that lined the approach prevented him from seeing who drove, so it wasn't until the doors popped open almost simultaneously that he could tell who was there. His jaw slackened. "Ryan? George?" The first--a redhead with a splash of freckles that went from his hairline to below his blue polo shirt's collar--simply laughed, his teeth almost as white as his skin. The second--the one who'd been driving--giggled as he tugged free a worn leather jacket and slipped it on. He shook back his long hair, which went about to his shoulders, then faced Dane, a smile parting his pimple-free face--which was a large departure from what Dane remembered. Walking forward, he clasped first Ryan and then George in sharp hugs--with a mandatory double-slap on the back--before stepping back and saying, "Wow. I was not expecting this! I…" He shook his head, mind reeling. A small part of his mind itched discontent, but he ignored it. Old friends, unexpected or not, were a welcome distraction from the darkness in him that kept waiting to pounce on him again. Having George and Ryan back--the Three Amigos, they'd been called by good old Ricky J, back before Ricky had wandered free of mortality--was just what he needed. "Well, hey, we just, y'know, happened to be passing by…" said George with his attendant giggle--sounded the same to Dane's ears, even though years had passed since they'd last seen each other. "Right through town," said Ryan, jumping onto his friend's words as if George couldn't finish a sentence on his own, "you know, like--good old days, remember?" "That's what I said to him," said George. "Right. We were like, 'Hey, let's go see what Dane is up to!' And George was all, 'Sounds good, man, we got some time.' So we headed up the Bends." Ryan held out his hands, indicating as much themselves as the Lodge and all of Elsinore Ranch. "It's great that you dared coming to hell, then," said Dane, the itch returning, albeit small and easy to dismiss. "I'm quite flattered, honestly." "Hell?" asked George, his smile wilting at the edges. He fired a confused look at Ryan, who said, "What do you mean?" "You've heard the idea that the mind's its own place and can there make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven…surely you've…" Dane held his hands out toward his friends, who gave him bemused looks. "No, well. Think a thing and that's how it is. Feels like hell here. You want to come into my inferno?" He gestured to the Lodge. "I've got the place to myself. Just like old times." "Of course," said George, and the three of them went in through the front door. "What happened?" asked Ryan when they entered and were greeted by the smashed vase. "Oh, my dad died, I don't know if you heard, and--" "I meant about this," said Ryan, pointing. Dane turned and saw the expression on both Ryan's and George's face. They were shocked, it seemed, but not at what Dane had just said. The vase mattered more to them… The itch flared and, for a moment, he indulged it. Did they already know about his dad? That wasn't so strange; it was important local news. They didn't live far, did they? Now that he thought about it, he had no idea what they did for their careers. He'd gone off to college, but they were going to stay in Noah for a year or two. Did they ever move on? But if they did know about his dad, why had they waited for so long to come over? And they'd said that they'd "happened to be passing by"; so if they knew about Dane Sr., why say that this was happenstance? He shoved the itch away. He'd scratched it. Fair enough. There was no need to dwell on the questions. People did things--random things, sometimes, out of character things (hadn't he knocked over the vase and insulted the sheriff?)--all the time. It didn't mean they were… Spies …doing anything wrong. He forced a frown onto his face and said, "Oh, that? The wind, I'd guess." "The wind?" asked Ryan, clearly incredulous. "It was a bit of a blowhard," said Dane, waving his friends in. "Come in, come in. Let's not stand in the entryway. Do you want something to drink? We've beer, some soda, I think there's maybe some apple juice if you really wanted…" He trailed off as he led them through the front room and into the kitchen beyond. When they arrived, he gestured at the barstools that sat beneath the kitchen island. "I can maybe find something sharper." "No," said Ryan, his normally pale face slightly flushed. His ears almost glowed with red straight up to the tips. "No, we're good." "Yeah," said George, nodding. "We're good." "You don't mind if I do, do you?" asked Dane, reaching into the fridge and grabbing the first thing that came to touch his fingertips. "Not at all," they said in chorus. George laughed and Ryan worked in a smile. Popping open the top of sparkling mineral water (which Dane detested, but he'd picked it and he wasn't about to stop drinking it now), he sat across from them and spun the bottle cap on the granite countertop. "Man," said Ryan, looking around at the gleaming silver appliances and the white-and-brown motif of the kitchen. "It's like we never left." "Right?" said George, giggling at the end of the word like a verbal question mark. "Remember that time that old…what was his name? The Mexican. He worked here for, like, forever?" "Ricky Jimenez," said Dane, somewhat surprised to hear they remembered the old farmhand, too. "He'd been one of my dad's first employees. By the end, he stayed in the guest house." "The end?" asked George. "Yeah, at the end of high school was when Ricky J got…what was it, Dane?" "Cancer." "Right. Cancer." Dane swallowed some water. "Of the jaw." He gestured with the bottle. "Too much chew." George shook his head. "Man, rough way to go." "He was laughing to the end, though," said Dane. "Having a laugh at the expense of death. Something poetical about that, I'd say." George giggled. Ryan looked slightly embarrassed. "But what were you saying?" asked Dane, eager to get them talking again. Every time the conversation felt like it was going to stall, the itch in his mind grew. "About him?" "Oh, yeah, the time that we…" George cleared his throat. "I guess remembering a prank we pulled on Jimenez now that he's dead is kind of in bad taste. I don't know." "No, it's fine," said Dane, waving a hand. "We only ever distract ourselves from the certainty of death. No worries. Remind me what we did." "Well, we found that beehive, remember?" asked George. "Out by the Butte?" Ryan lit up at the comment, his face splitting into that same all-toothed grin he'd managed earlier. "Oh, yeah!" Dane nodded. He didn't remember the details, but this sounded familiar. "And, well, we wanted to slip it into his locker, but he had the key on his keyring all of the time." As the memory returned, Dane laughed--to his ears, a too-sharp, too-jovial sound, but it seemed to encourage George's story. Ryan slapped the table. "That's right! We distracted him with…what was it? Like, a glue or something?" "No, that was a different time," said Dane. "I remember it specifically. The glue was an April Fool's joke." George nodded, picking up the narrative. "Right. We had to get him away from the keys. You--" and he pointed at Ryan "--waited until he was at the padlock when you came up, frantic, saying that…" He hesitated. "I don't know, something like…" "That you fell and maybe had broken your leg." "Right." George twitched back his long hair. "Right, so I was there, by the tree--" and he pointed at the backyard's orchard "--and you two came running up while Dane here--Captain Dane to the rescue!--came in and filched the keys that Ricky-Ricardo left behind." George snorted. Dane laughed, though it was more qualified than it had been before. It was a good trick--the beehive had fit inside of Ricky's locker without any problem, and no one got hurt. George was still narrating. "When he opened it up, he started swearing up a storm--" "'¡Hijos de puta!'" said Ryan in a surprisingly accurate Mexican accent. He and George fell into gales of laughter, throwing more ranch-hand familiar words. That observation made the itch flare again. Dane sipped his water, thinking. "He ran around like a madman, howling and slapping at himself," said George, his laughter fading into the conversation. "Aw, man. That was amazing." "It worked like a charm, too, my man," said Ryan, tapping the counter in front of George and drawing Dane's thoughts out. "The way you played it as if you were really in trouble. He totally bought it. Good, good stuff." "Yeah," Dane said, his mind rolling about. "Say, guys…It's great that you did this for Clawson--" Ryan and George's laughter died immediately. Their faces were as clear and open as if they spoke: Dane's assumption was right. "We didn't--" "No, it wasn't--" They stuttered as they spoke over each other, looking abashed and embarrassed. Ryan's redheaded-flush returned. George's giggles kicked into overdrive. Dane held up a hand. "You're here. I know Clawson sent for you. What I don't know is why you're bothering to come by." The two of them shared an uncomfortable look. Ryan quirked his eyebrows at George, who said, "He was worried about you. He wanted us to come and distract you." "Distract me?" said Dane, to himself but the others heard him. "Yeah," said Ryan, "just to…take your mind off of things. You've been having a hard time." "Distraction…" whispered Dane, no longer paying attention to what George was saying. That was what he needed. That was the piece he'd been missing. He needed to get in touch with Harmony. "Guys," he said, stopping George mid-excuse. "Thanks for coming. I just remembered something that I need to do. So, I have to go." He stood. "Um…bye." Despite their protests, Dane left them in the kitchen and headed out of the Lodge toward his car. It was still early in the day, but if he wasn't mistaken, she could be found at the real estate office… As he drove away, he could see Ryan and George, standing on the edge of the driveway, watching him in mute dismay. Chapter 6
Gwendolyn Madsen Easing her way down the stairs from her bedroom, Gwen put a hand against her head, almost as if to test her temperature. Was she going insane? In her other hand she held her phone, though it hardly registered in her mind what it was. The words rattled her brain, and after last night, when she'd tried to talk to Dane but he'd rebuffed her…well, these texts just added to that, didn't they? Shaking her head as if to clear it, she walked from the foot of the stairs, and turned toward the door of her dad's home office. He didn't often work from home, but he hadn't left so far today--in fact, ever since the funeral two days ago, he had spent more time at home. Of course, part of it was that Lenny was gone, which always threw off their routine. She missed her brother--even if he had been a jerk to her before leaving--if only because the house felt so empty otherwise. In that sense, it had been a relief that Dad kept some of his office hours here at home instead of at the "station"--a small office adjacent to city hall where two cells made up the jail and the parking lot shared space with the firefighters' cars. Dad didn't really complain about that too much anymore--when she was young, Gwen remembered him grousing about it with her mom--and since the internet was solid enough at home, he could do a lot of work remotely. That was the case today, and, without Lenny around, she had no one else to talk to. Under normal circumstances, Gwen wouldn't interrupt her dad during the day, but with everything going on…she just couldn't handle it on her own. She needed some help with-- Her thoughts cut abruptly off as she stopped at the door, hand floating over the handle. How Dad talked--the low, insistent tone that had always meant to her that something was wrong or someone was in deep trouble--sliced through her own preoccupations and froze her in place. She listened, leaning forward ever so slightly. Even still, she only caught portions of what he was saying. "…become interested in what happened." Another voice spoke, one that she recognized immediately, despite the fact that Dane's uncle Clawson hadn't been a large figure in Dane's life up until fairly recently. Coming from the fact he had spent so much time up north, she figured. Still, he had a gravelly gravity to how he talked, which was easy enough to identify, even through the thickness of the door. "I just want to be sure you can do it." "Oh, don't…" Dad must have stood or turned or something, because Gwen lost the weft of his words for a moment. "…to cover up. I have my feelers out, you know, and that'll be--" Gwen's sudden sneeze attack hit her with such surprise force that she nearly leaped in fright. The nasal blast convulsed her startled body, and she kicked the door open inadvertently. "Who the hell--" Clawson stood up like a guilty thing, then relaxed as he recognized Gwen. The familiar office--with its large oaken desk in the center, a laptop docking station, and a few of Dad's favorite trophies mounted on the wall in lieu of bookshelves--felt off with Clawson's presence. She hadn't expected him there. "Oh." "What's wrong Gwen-baby?" asked Dad, his eyes narrowed. Gwen's mind blanked. Had she just overheard--what, exactly? Certainly nothing wrong…but why did Clawson look so guilty? And why was Daddy only now releasing his grip on the butt of his service revolver? Yes, they'd sounded conspiratorial, but that didn't mean anything, did it? And so what if they were whispering about things? It didn't have anything to do with her. Nothing at all. She put the strange behavior out of her thoughts and held up her phone. "I, um…I'm having some problems--" "I'll go," said Clawson, shifting his weight away from the stuffed armchair in which he'd been sitting, angling to scoot past her to the door. "--about Dane." Clawson stiffened and shot a quick look at the sheriff. "My Dane?" Gwen sniffed, then snapped a sharp nod. "Yeah." The thought that Dane was Clawson's made her stomach clench. Gwen normally kept pretty aloof of people's conversations when she worked her shift at the drive-in diner in town--Trucker's Burgers, Shakes, and Fries--but she couldn't help overhearing the baffled conversations by people waiting for their cheeseburgers who opined about how strange it was that the Amleths were getting married already. Much of the town had been at the funeral, though not quite as many had gone to the luncheon. Many were audibly (albeit figuratively) kicking themselves for having skipped the potatoes and missed the proposal. Still, there was a difference between hearing people gossip and Clawson say something so…paternal about Dane. He wasn't really Dane's stepfather. Not yet, at least. "Let's hear it," said Dad, pulling her out of her revulsion. Clearing her throat, she thumbed on her phone. The blue-bubble field, intermittent with gray comments, glowed in her hand. She had screenshot the important parts of the conversation, as she didn't want her dad to see everything that she and Dane had said to each other. Nevertheless, she hesitated; there was something almost…dishonest in showing her dad this way. "What is that?" "Just…I took screenshots. You know, in case he deleted his texts." "What do they say?" "Read it." She swallowed and glanced at Clawson, who had returned to his spot and now looked over Dad's shoulder. A cold moment passed. Gwen chewed a fingernail--a habit she hadn't done since she was a kid. Her mind kept ping-ponging from what she'd overheard to what her dad was looking at to the bathroom upstairs. The whole swirl of everything was enough to make her want to scream. She could feel her face heating up and a panicky surge in her chest that made her want to sob or vomit…maybe both. "What is this even mean?" asked Dad, his face a mixture of smooth edges and sharp wrinkles. He glowered at her, then the phone, as if both had somehow offended him. "'I think you're a dumb slut, that's what.' 'How could you do this to me? You stupid bitch.' He wrote this too you?" Hearing the words said aloud made it hurt worse; tears began to slide out from her eyes. She could only manage a nod. "What inspired this?" asked Clawson, who took the phone and started trying to scroll. Instead, he dismissed the pictures. Gwen snatched the phone back and held it close to her chest. "I…I don't know," said Gwen honestly. "I didn't see him…" She knew she was ugly crying, her lips downturned and jaw slack. Tears melted the mascara she'd been putting on when the texts had come through. Swallowing hard, she struggled to get her voice under control. "I didn't see him yesterday until last night, when he came in to Trucker's just as I was closing up. He was…really upset. He wouldn't say why, but…I can guess." "Why?" asked Dad, his jaw tight. "What do you guess?" "I…I decided that I would…you know…do what you asked of me." "What?" Clawson glanced at the sheriff. "What'd you ask of her?" "Just to leave Dane alone," said Dad. "I'm worried about her, that's all. I worry a lot." "You broke up with Dane?" asked Clawson, his face slack with shock. Gwen swallowed loudly and nodded, sending black-swirled tears off her chin and onto the hardwood floor of the office. The vacant stares of a half dozen forest animals regarded her from their places on the walls, making her feel small and insignificant and out of place. "Damn, girl, weren't you thinking?" "Hey, Claw, calm down on that." Clawson held up an apologetic hand to Sheriff Madsen, then refocused his attention on Gwen. "I mean, he's been through a lot in the past week. Maybe now is the wrong time to break up with him." "It's what you wanted, Dad!" She almost shouted the words, but managed to put enough of her genuine fluttered confusion into to keep it from savoring too much of insolence. "I thought--" "I didn't mean you should dump him last night," said Dad, his jaw working up and down as if he had a good scoop of chaw in his cheek. He shot Clawson a look. "Do you think this is what's going on with him, then?" "Maybe," said Clawson. Now it was Gwen's turn to be confused. "What do you mean?" Dad sighed, then deferred to Clawson with a gesture. Clawson rubbed a hand across his silver-shot black goatee and said, "Dane's been acting strangely at home. Just…pissy, you know, like he's got PMS or something. I was actually just chatting with your dad about it--you know, father to father talk, that sort of thing--when you came in." Gwen didn't respond to that. What she'd overheard didn't square with that idea. Clawson continued, "But seeing those texts makes me think that maybe he's giving his mom--and me--some attitude because of what you did." A puddle of guilt began to form in the base of her heart. "I didn't mean to," she began weakly. Her thoughts flitted upstairs again, then crashed back down to the office. She looked at her father, the pain at his misguided advice apparent on her face. "I thought you wanted me to do this!" "Okay, look." Dad put up a hand to Gwen in the traffic-cop pose that she'd seen from him anytime he was trying to moderate an argument between her and Lenny. He looked at Clawson. "I'm sorry, all right? I thought she was taking things the wrong way. That's my fault. But maybe we can fix this, right?" "I don't know," said Clawson, chewing his lower lip. "I don't like this. It feels…weird." He pulled out his own phone. "What are you doing?" asked Dad, but Clawson shook his head as he scrolled through for what he wanted. "Claw? What are you doing?" Clawson glanced up at him as he raised the phone to his ear. "I'm going to get some help on this, Paul. I'll get back to you." He gave Gwen a slight nod, but if he was going to say anything to her, he interrupted himself by saying in the phone, "Hello? Hey, yeah, it's me. Look, I've got something I need you to do…" The office door clicked shut behind him, cutting Gwen from the rest of his conversation. Dad shook his head and sat down in his chair with loud grunt. "Damn, Gwendolyn, this is a mess." "I'm sorry," she said. The swirl of confusion and frustration and embarrassment made her dizzy. Her tears had dried, if only because she couldn't tell what she was feeling any longer. "I didn't think…I didn't think he'd react this way…" Dad fingered his short hair and looked at her for a long, quiet moment. "Well, we'll fix it. Clawson's really motivated to keep the family together. We'll fix this." "Yeah." The word sat on her heart like a stone, pressing down. We'll fix this. He didn't mean that Gwen would fix it; no, she'd broken it too far for her to be involved. It was now a Dad Problem that he would solve. It was times like this that she missed her mom the most. Mom could always find the way to diffuse Dad's anger, to make him see things differently, to take her side. Whenever Gwen felt lonely or misunderstood, Mom had been there to help ease the burden. Until she wasn't. Just like with Dane. Gwen hated herself for not seeing how she could have said something condoling about losing a parent to Dane. He had needed her…and she'd thrown it back in his face. She hadn't wanted to--God knew how she trembled when she'd told Dane that they were done. He had stared at her, unspeaking, before making a cry that shocked her with its frustration and pain. Without a word, he'd stormed out of the diner, almost knocking over a garbage can in his haste to get out. That was the last thing she'd said to him before the texts. They were bitter, angry, filled with a vitriol she hadn't known Dane to have. That it was her fault that he felt that way made her wish that the earth would devour her; she could well drown with her sorrows. "Dad?" she said into the painful silence that enveloped them. "I'm sorry." "I know. We'll fix it." "How?" Before he could answer, the door creaked open and Clawson stuck his head in. "Look, I have to go. I have an idea, though. I think that if we can get Gwen over to the Lodge tomorrow to talk to Dane, we can maybe see what's going on with him." "Based on what you said, Claw, he's not going to want to listen to you. He won't talk with you there." "I know. I do, however, have this." He held up his phone. "I've a home security app that lets me listen in on any place of my house. We can listen in while you have Gwen talk to him. That way, we won't have to worry about missing something because Gwen forgets a detail." Dad nodded slowly, then glanced at Gwen. "Yeah," he said, "I think that's a good idea." Gwen, shocked, started to protest, but the glare her father gave her killed the thought. If she tried, he would just say, "We'll fix it, Gwendolyn," and that would be that. Swallowing hard against the knot in her throat, she stared down at the phone she cradled in her trembling hands. Why did it seem like everything was going wrong? "Okay. Tomorrow, then. At the Lodge." Clawson threw the sheriff a farewell wave, glanced at Gwen, and then was gone. "Anything else, Gwendolyn?" She looked at her dad, his face impassive and unapproachable. Her mind flitted upstairs. "No." "I think I'll go find Junior and maybe have a chat with him myself," said Dad in a way that sounded more like he was musing aloud than seeking any input from Gwen. She didn't trust her voice. Without another word, she excused herself. |