Praise for The Divideâ€œThis beautifully written novel includes everything a readercould want. . . . The characters truly come to life, and thereader gets to know them as intimately as friends and family.The Divide will keep you up late reading just one morepage.â€â€”The Sunday OklahomanÂâ€œCompellingly readable.â€â€”The Times (London)Ââ€œ[Evans] reminds us that the destruction of all thatâ€™sfamiliarâ€”whether by human hands or by natureâ€”eventuallyceases to be the story. What remains is how peoplesurvive.â€â€”The Washington PostÂâ€œWhile Evans reveres his backdrop, he ultimately is moreinterested in getting the reader to go inward than outside. InEvansâ€™s hands, thatâ€™s a journey worth taking.â€â€”USA TodayÂâ€œWhen the frozen body of a young woman is discovered ina remote creek in the Rocky Mountains, the heartrending story
of a family in crisis begins to unfold. Reaching back in time,members of the seemingly perfect Cooper family present theirversion of the events, emotions, and twists of fate that foreveraltered the benign course of their collective lives. Sure to be arunaway success, this lyrical novel runs the gamut fromdevastation to despair to deliverance.â€â€”BooklistÂâ€œ[Evans] handles male and female characters, kids,parents, and grandparents with equal confidence. And thescenes portraying marriage breakup and its fallout areunsettling and convincing.â€â€”The Sunday Times (London)Ââ€œ[Evans] gracefully transports us to the golden, sun-warmed open spaces of Montana as well as its cold,unforgiving mountain ranges.â€â€”The Edmonton Journal (Alberta)Ââ€œA compelling novel.â€â€” The Vancouver ProvinceÂâ€œBoth tragic and redemptive. As with Evansâ€™s othernovels, the landscape figures as prominently as thecharacters. . . . This is an engaging story that Evansâ€™sfans will want to read.â€â€”Library Journal
ALSO BY NICHOLAS EVANS The Horse Whisperer The Loop The Smoke Jumper
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of thispublication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.Â PUBLISHERâ€™S NOTEThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authorâ€™s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal andpunishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, anddo not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authorâ€™s rights is appreciated. eISBN : 978-1-101-04364-6 http://us.penguingroup.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTSI am greatly indebted to the following for their kindness,patience, and help with my research: Charles Fisher, GlenysCarl, Blaine Young, Bruce Geiss, Alexandra Eldridge, Buck &Mary Brannaman, Daisy Montfort, Andrew Martyn-Smith, JillMorrison, Dennis Wilson, Sarah Pohl, Barbara Theroux, DougHawes-Davis, Dan Pletscher, Tom Roy, Elizabeth Powers,Sara Walsh, Jake Kreilick, Jeff Zealley, Gary Dale, RogerSeewald, Rick Branzell, Sandi Mendelson, Deborah Jensen,Sonia Rapaport, Richard Baron, Pat Tucker & Bruce Weide,Fred & Mary Davis, and George Anderson. Many thanks also, for support of several crucial kinds, toRonni Berger, Aimee Taub, Ivan Held, Rachael Harvey,Elizabeth Davies, Gordon Stevens, Larry Finlay, CaradocKing, Sally Gaminara, Carole Baron, and Charlotte Evans.
And after he had made all the other creatures of the earth, only thendid the Creator make man and woman. And he fashioned their bodiesthat they should know each otherâ€™s flesh but their souls that theyshould forever be strangers. For only thus divided might they find theirtrue path. â€”CALVIN SASHONE, Creative Mythology
ONEThey rose before dawn and stepped out beneath a moonlesssky aswarm with stars. Their breath made clouds of the chillair and their boots crunched on the congealed gravel of themotel parking lot. The old station wagon was the only carthere, its roof and hood veneered with a dim refracting frost.The boy fixed their skis to the roof while his father stowed theirpacks, then walked around to remove the newspaper pinnedby the wipers to the windshield. It was stiff with ice andcrackled in his hands as he balled it. Before they climbed intothe car they lingered a moment, just stood there listening tothe silence and gazing west at the mountains silhouetted bystars. The little town had yet to wake and they drove quietly northalong Main Street, past the courthouse and the gas stationand the old movie theater, through pale pools of light cast bythe streetlamps, the carâ€™s reflection gilding the darkenedwindows of the stores. And the sole witness to their leavingwas a grizzled dog who stood watch at the edge of town, itshead lowered, its eyes ghost-green in the headlights. It was the last day of March and a vestige of plowed snowlay gray along the highwayâ€™s edge. Heading west acrossthe plains the previous afternoon, there had been a firstwhisper of green among the bleached grass. Before sunsetthey had strolled out from the motel along a dirt road andheard a meadowlark whistling as if winter had gone for good.
But beyond the rolling ranch land, the Rocky Mountain Front, awall of ancient limestone a hundred miles long, was stillencrusted with white and the boyâ€™s father said they wouldsurely still find good spring snow. A mile north of town they branched left from the highway ona road that ran twenty more with barely a bend toward theFront. They saw mule deer and coyote and just as the roadturned to gravel a great pale-winged owl swerved from thecottonwoods and glided low ahead of them as if piloting thebeam of their lights. And all the while the mountain wallloomed larger, a shadowed, prescient blue, until it seemed toopen itself and they found themselves traveling a twistingcorridor where a creek of snowmelt tumbled through stands ofbare aspen and willow with cliffs of pine and rock the color ofbone rearing a thousand feet on either side. The road was steeper now and when it becametreacherous with hard-packed snow the boyâ€™s fatherstopped so they could fit the chains. The air when they got outof the car was icy and windless and loud with the rush of thecreek. They spread the chains on the snow in front of the rearwheels and his father climbed back into the driverâ€™s seatand inched the car forward until the boy called for him to stop.While his father knelt to fasten the chains, the boy stamped hisfeet and blew on his hands to warm them. â€œLook,â€ he said. His father stood and did so, brushing the snow from hishands. Framed in the V of the valley walls, though far beyond,the peak of a vast snow-covered mountain had just been set
ablaze by the first reach of the sun. Even as they watched, theshadow of night began to drain from its slopes below adeepening band of pink and gold and white. They parked the car at the trailhead and they could seefrom the untracked snow that no one else had been there.They sat together beneath the tailgate and put on their boots.The owner of the motel had made sandwiches for them andthey ate one apiece and drank steaming sweet coffee andwatched the shadows around them slowly fill with light. Thefirst few miles would be steep so they fitted skins to their skisto give them grip. The boyâ€™s father checked the bindingsand that their avalanche transceivers were working and whenhe was satisfied that all was in order they shouldered theirpacks and stepped into their skis. â€œYou lead,â€ his father said. The journey they had planned for that day was a loop ofsome fifteen miles. They had made the same trip two yearsbefore and found some of the best skiing either had everknown. The first three hours were the hardest, a long climbthrough the forest, then a perilous zigzag up the northeast sideof a ridge. But it was worth it. The ridgeâ€™s south face wasa perfect, treeless shoulder that dropped in three consecutiveslopes into the next drainage. If all went well, by the time theyreached the top, the sun would just have angled onto it,softening the top half-inch of snow while the base remainedfrozen and firm. These backcountry ski trips had become their yearly ritualand the boy now looked forward to them as much as he knew
his father did. His snowboarding friends back home in GreatFalls thought he was crazy. If you wanted to ski, they said, whynot go someplace where thereâ€™s a ski lift? And in truth, ontheir first trip four years ago in the Tetons, he feared they wereright. To a twelve-year-old it had seemed like a lot of effort forprecious little funâ€”too much up and not enough down. Attimes he had come close to tears. But he kept a brave faceand the following year went again. His father was away from home on business much of thetime and there werenâ€™t many things they ever got to dotogether, just the two of them. Sometimes the boy felt theybarely knew each other. Neither of them was much of a talker.But there was something about traveling together throughthese wild and remote places that seemed to bind themcloser than words ever could. And little by little he had come tounderstand why his father enjoyed the uphill as much as thedown. It was a curious formula of physical and mental energy,as if the burning of one fueled the other. The endless rhythmicrepetition, sliding one ski past the other, could send you into akind of trance. And the thrill and sense of achievement whenyou reached that far-away summit and saw a slope of virginspring snow reveal itself below could be close tooverwhelming. Perhaps he came to feel this way simply because eachyear he had grown stronger. He was taller than his father nowand certainly fitter. And though not yet as wise in hismountaincraft, he had probably become the better skier.Perhaps that was why today, for the first time, his father wasletting him lead.
For the first hour the trail was darkly walled with lodgepolepine and Douglas fir as it rose ever higher along the southernside of the winding canyon. Even though they were still inshadow, the climb soon had them sweating and when theypaused to gather breath or to drink or to shed another layer ofclothing, they could hear the muted roar of the creek far below.Once they heard the crashing of some large creaturesomewhere in the timber above them. â€œWhat do you think that was?â€ the boy said. â€œDeer. Moose, maybe.â€ â€œWould the bears be waking up yet?â€ His father took a drink from his canteen, then wiped hismouth with the back of his glove. This was prime grizzlycountry and they both knew it. â€œGuess so. Days have been warm enough this pastweek.â€ An hour later they had stepped out of the trees and into thesunlight and were picking their way across a gully filled withthe crazed debris of an avalanche, jagged lumps of frozensnow and rock skewered with trees sundered from their roots. They reached the ridge a little before ten and stood side byside surveying in silence all that unfolded below and aroundthem, mountain and forest quilted with snow and the flaxenplains beyond. The boy felt that if he squinted hard enough hemight even defy science and all the worldâ€™s horizons andsee the backs of their own two selves, tiny figures on somedistant snowy peak.
The shoulder below them looked as good as they hadhoped. The sun was just upon it and it glistened like whitevelvet strewn with sequins. They took off their skis andunhitched the skins from which they carefully brushed the snowbefore stowing them in their packs. There was a cold breezeup here and they put on their jackets, then sat on a bench ofrock and drank coffee and ate the last of the sandwiches whilea pair of ravens swirled and called above them against thelazulite sky. â€œSo what do you think?â€ his father asked. â€œLooks pretty good.â€ â€œIâ€™d say this is about as close to heaven as a mancan get.â€ As he spoke one of the ravens banked before them, itsshadow passing across his face. It landed a few yards fromthem along the ridge and the boy tossed a crust of breadtoward it which made the bird flutter and lift again, but only fora moment. It resettled and with a cocked head inspected thecrust, then the boy, then the crust again. It seemed almost tohave summoned the courage to take it when its mateswooped in and snatched it instead. The first bird gave araucous call and lifted off in pursuit and the boy and his fatherlaughed and watched them tumble and swerve and squawktheir way down into the valley. As with the climb, the boy led the descent. The snow felt asgood beneath his skis as it had looked. The sun had meltedthe surface just enough to give purchase and he quickly foundhis rhythm. He spread his arms and opened his chest to the
slope below as if he would embrace it, savoring the blissfulswish of each turn. His father was right. It was as near toheaven as you could get. At the foot of the first of the three slopes, where the gradientleveled a little, the boy stopped and looked back to admire histracks. His father was already skiing down beside them,carefully duplicating each curve, keeping close and preciselyparallel, until he arrived alongside and the two of themwhooped and slapped each otherâ€™s upheld palms. â€œGood tracks!â€ â€œYours are coming along too.â€ His father laughed and said he would ski the next slope firstand that when he got to the next level he would take somephotographs of the boyâ€™s descent. So the boy watchedhim ski down and waited for the call and when it came helaunched himself into the sunlit air, giving all he had for thecamera. From where they stood next, at the foot of the second slope,they could see all the way down into the drainage, where thesun had yet to seep. They knew from the last time they hadskied here that the creek that ran along the bottom was aseries of pools and steep waterfalls. It had been warmer thenand there had been a lot less snow and, except for somecrusted ice at the pool edges, the running water had beenexposed. Now, however, it lay buried beneath all the heapedsnow that had funneled into the creek and all they could seewere contours and ominous striations.
His father looked at his watch, then shielded his eyes topeer at the sun. The boy knew what he was thinking. Half theslope below them was still in shadow. The air down therewould be colder and the snow not yet transformed. Maybethey should wait awhile. â€œLooks a little icy,â€ his father said. â€œItâ€™ll be okay. But if youâ€™re feeling chickenletâ€™s wait.â€ His father looked at him over his sunglasses and smiled. â€œOkay, hotshot. Better show me the way then.â€ He handed the boy the camera. â€œMake sure you get some good ones.â€ â€œTheyâ€™ll only be as good as your skiing. Wait till Iholler.â€ He put the camera in his jacket pocket and grinned at hisfather as he moved off. The snow for the first few hundred feetwas still good. But as he came closer to the rim of the sunlight,he felt the surface harden. When he turned there was almostno grip and no swishing sound, only the rasp of ice against thesteel edges of his skis. He stopped where the sun met theshadow and looked up the slope where his father stoodagainst the sky. â€œHow is it?â€ his father called. â€œKind of skiddy. Itâ€™s okay.â€ â€œWait there. Iâ€™m coming.â€
The boy took off his gloves and pulled the camera from hispocket. He managed to get a couple of shots with the zoomas his father skied down toward him. The third picture he tookwould later show the exact moment that things began to gowrong. His father was starting a right turn and as he transferred hisweight the edge of his left ski failed to bite and slipped sharplydownhill. He tried to correct himself but in the processstepped too hard on his uphill ski and it skidded from underhim. His body lurched, his arms and ski poles scything the airas he tried to recapture his balance. He was sliding now andhad twisted around so that he was facing up the slope. For amoment he looked almost comical, as if he were pretendingto ski uphill. Then he jerked and flipped backward and fell witha thump onto his back and at once began to gather speed. It briefly occurred to the boy that he might try to block hisfatherâ€™s slide, or at least check or slow it, by skiing into hispath, but even as he thought it, he realized that the impactwould surely knock him over and that he too would be carrieddown the slope. In any case, it was already too late. His fatherwas accelerating so fast there would be no time to reach him.One ski had already come off and was torpedoing away downthe mountain and now the other one came off and the boymoved quickly and reached out with a pole, almost losing hisbalance. He managed to touch the ski but it was traveling toofast and rocketed past him. â€œStand up!â€ he yelled. â€œTry and stand up!â€ It was what his father had once called to him when he was
falling. He hadnâ€™t managed to stand and neither could hisfather now. As he careered past, facedown now and spread-eagled on the ice, his sunglasses scuttling alongside like aninquisitive crab, he shouted something but the boycouldnâ€™t make it out. The fatherâ€™s ski poles, one ofthem badly bent, were still looped to his wrists and trailedabove him, flailing and bouncing on the ice. And still he wasgaining speed. The boy began to ski down after him. And though he wasshaky with shock and could feel his heart thumping as if itwould break loose from its roots, he knew how vital it was notto fall too. He kept telling himself to stay calm and tried tosummon all the technique he had ever learned. Trust thedownhill ski, even though it slips. Angulate. Chest away fromthe mountain, not into it. Finish each turn. Angulate, angulate!Look ahead, you idiot, not down at the ice, not down at yourskis. There was no grip at all now, but after a few first tentativeturns he found he could control the slide of his skis and hisconfidence began to return. Mesmerized, he watched the darkand diminishing figure sliding away and down into the shadowof the valley. Just before he disappeared from view, his fathercried out one last time. And the sound was high-pitched andchilling, like an animal frightened for its life. The boy slithered to a halt. He was breathing hard and hislegs were shaking. He knew it was important to remember theexact point at which his father had vanished, though why hehad vanished, he couldnâ€™t yet figure out. Maybe there wassome sudden drop you couldnâ€™t see from above. He tried
to picture the last time they had skied the slope butcouldnâ€™t recall whether the lower part of the drainage grewsteeper or leveled out. And he couldnâ€™t help thinking aboutwhat might happen when his father hit the bottom. Would thesnow heaped in the creek bed cushion his fall or would it befrozen like rock and break every bone in his body? In all hisfretting, the boy had already lost the mental note he had madeof precisely where his father had disappeared. In the shadowbelow everything looked the same. Maybe there were somemarks on the ice that might lead him to the place. He took adeep breath and eased himself forward. On the very first turn his downhill ski skidded badly and healmost fell. His knees were like jelly and the rest of him waslocked with tension and it took him some time to trust himselfto move again. Then, a few yards down the slope ahead ofhim, he saw a dark streak maybe six inches long on the ice. Ina barely controlled side slip he made his way toward it. It was blood. And farther down the slope there was more.There were scuff marks in the ice too, probably where hisfather had tried to kick a grip with the toes of his boots. Had the boy been able to ski this same slope in good snow,it would have taken him no more than four or five minutes. Buton sheet ice with legs atremble, all he could manage was aside slip so tense and fearful that it took the best part of halfan hour. So slow was his descent that the sun overtook himand he watched the band of shadow retreat below him and thetrail of blood turn vivid on the pristine snow. Now, in the glare, he could see that the trail disappeared
over a sudden rim and that there was something lying there.And drawing closer, he saw his fatherâ€™s sunglasses,perched on the edge of a last steep section of mountain, as ifthey had stopped to watch the climax of the show. The boystopped and picked them up. One of the lenses was crackedand an arm was missing. He put them in his pocket. The slope below him fell sharply some two hundred feet intothe valley bottom which even as he watched was filling withsunlight. He peered down, expecting to see the crumpled formof his father. But there was no sign of him nor sound. Just adazzling white silence. Even the trail of blood and scuffing had vanished. Therewas a sudden rushing of air and the pair of ravens swoopedlow over his head and down toward the creek, squawking as ifthey would show him the way. And as the boy watched theirshadows cross the creek he saw one of his fatherâ€™s skisand a dark hole in the rumpled blanket of snow. Five minutes later he was down there. There was a crater,some ten or twelve feet across, its edges jagged where thefrozen snow had cracked and given way. He wasnâ€™t yetclose enough to see into it. â€œDad?â€ There was no answer. All he could hear was a faint trickle ofwater somewhere below him. Cautiously, he maneuvered hisskis sideways, testing the snow with each small step,expecting that at any moment it might collapse and swallowhim. It seemed firm. Then he remembered his avalanchetransceiver. This was exactly what it was for, to help you locate
someone buried in the snow. He took off his gloves andunzipped his jacket and pulled the transceiver out and startedfiddling with the knobs. But his hand was shaking and hishead so blurred with panic that he couldnâ€™t remember howthe damn thing worked. â€œShit! Shit! Shit!â€ â€œHere! Iâ€™m here!â€ The boyâ€™s heart lurched. â€œDad? Are you okay?â€ â€œYeah. Be careful.â€ â€œI saw blood.â€ â€œI cut my face. Iâ€™m okay. Donâ€™t come too nearthe edge.â€ But it was too late. There was a deep cracking sound andthe boy felt the snow tilt beneath his skis and in the next instanthe was falling. He caught a brief glimpse of his fatherâ€™sbloodied face staring up at him as the lip of the cratercrumbled and then he saw nothing but the white of the snowcascading with him. The next thing he knew, his father was hauling him out of thewreckage, asking him if he was hurt. At first the boy didnâ€™tknow the answer but he said he didnâ€™t think so. His fathergrinned. â€œGood job, son. You just made us a way out.â€ He nodded and the boy turned and saw what he meant. The
collapse had created a kind of ramp for them to climb. Theysat staring at each other, his father still grinning and dabbinghis cheek with a bloody handkerchief. There was a long gashbut it didnâ€™t look deep and the bleeding had almoststopped. The boy shook his head. â€œDidnâ€™t think Iâ€™d find you alive.â€ â€œHope you got that picture.â€ â€œWow, Dad. That was some fall.â€ The walls of the hole in which they sat were layered withshelves of bluish-white ice, which their two falls had shattered.It was like being in the cross section of some giant frostedwasp nest. The floor felt firm and when the boy brushed awaythe snow he saw they were on solid ice. His skis had come offwhen he fell and lay partly buried in the snow. He stood andgathered them up. His father slowly stood too, wincing a littleas he did so. The sun was just creeping in on them. â€œI guess we ought to have a look for my skis,â€ he said. His pack was lying on the ice just next to where the boy hadbrushed away the snow. A shaft of sun was angling onto it. Theboy stooped to pick up the pack and as he did so, somethingcaught his eye, a pale shape in the translucent blue of the ice.His father saw him hesitate. â€œWhat is it?â€ â€œLook. Down here.â€ They both kneeled and peered into the ice. â€œJesus,â€ his father said quietly.
It was a human hand. The fingers were splayed, the palmupturned. The boyâ€™s father paused a moment, thenbrushed away a little more snow until they saw the undersideof an arm. They looked at each other. Then, without a word,they got to work, brushing and scraping and pushing away thesnow, creating a window of ice through which, with everystroke of their gloves, they could see more of what layencased. Tucked beneath the upper arm, half-concealed by a nakedshoulder and peering shyly up at them with one blank eye, theynow could see a face. From the swirl of hair, captured as if ina photograph, it looked like a young woman. She lay at anangle, her legs askew and slanting away into the darker icebelow. She was wearing some kind of crimson top or jacketthat was rucked and twisted and seemed to have torn awayfrom her arm and shoulder. The fabric trailed from her as ifshe had been frozen in the act of shedding it. Her flesh wasthe color of parchment.
TWOSheriff Charlie Riggs looked at his watch. He figured he hadabout fifteen minutes to get through the stack of paperworkthat lay menacing him from the only clearing in the jungle of hisdesk. If he didnâ€™t get away by two, he wouldnâ€™t beable to drive into Great Falls and be back in time for hisdaughterâ€™s tenth birthday party. He had to go to GreatFalls to pick up her present, which he should have doneyesterday, but as usual a dozen damn fool things had poppedout of nowhere and he hadnâ€™t been able to. The presentwas a custom-made, hand-tooled saddle that heâ€™dordered in a fit of extravagance a couple of months back. Howhe had ever believed he could afford it, he had no idea. Thethought of how much it was going to cost made him wince. He heeled his chair closer into the desk, shoved aside acouple of stale coffee cups and picked up the first file. It was adraft of yet another report on the use of methamphetamine inMontana. The door to his cramped little office was open andout in the dispatch room all the phones seemed to be ringing.Nobody was answering them because it was Lizaâ€™s dayoff and the new girl, Mary-Lou (who hadnâ€™t really gottenthe hang of things yet), was at the counter talking with old Mrs.Lawson, whose dog had again disappeared. The old biddyseemed to have left her hearing aid at home because Mary-Lou was having to shout and say everything twice. Through thewindow he caught sight of Tim Heidecker, one of his not-so-sharp deputies, parking his truck. It was odds on that as soon
as the boy stepped inside heâ€™d come barging in with awhole bunch of dumb questions. Charlie slipped from behindhis desk and quietly closed his door. It was ten to two already. It wasnâ€™t so much his daughterâ€™s disappointmentthat he worried about. He and Lucy got along just great and heknew sheâ€™d understand. What bugged him was that hewould be handing yet another weapon on a plate to hermother. He and Sheryl had been divorced nearly five yearsnow and she had remarried, happily, by all accounts, thoughhow anyone could be happy with the slack-jawed jerksheâ€™d shacked up with was a mystery. What continued toamaze Charlie was how, even after all this timeâ€”and eventhough it was she, not he, who had walked outâ€”Sheryl couldnever resist the slightest opportunity to take a jab at him. Andshe seized on anything that involved Lucy with thinly disguisedglee. It wasnâ€™t enough that Charlie should have been alousy husband, he had to be a useless father too. The use of methamphetamine is on the increase, he read.Well, well. Who would ever have guessed? He oftenwondered how much the people who wrote these darnedreports got paid for restating the blindingly obvious. Hell, youcould spend five minutes on the Web or go down to thebookstore and find out how to make the stuff in your ownkitchen. Maybe he was just getting too old and cynical. â€œIâ€™m sure heâ€™ll show up, Mrs. Lawson,â€ Mary-Lou was saying out at the counter. â€œWhat was that?â€ â€œI said, â€˜Iâ€™m sure heâ€™ll show up.â€™â€
He heard Tim Heidecker answering one of the phones. Thechances of his being able to handle whatever it was on hisown were about a million to one against. Sure enough, withina minute there was a knock on the door and, before Charliecould hide, it opened to reveal the boyâ€™s irritating face. â€œHey, Chiefâ€”â€ â€œTim, Iâ€™m real busy right now. And please donâ€™tcall me Chief.â€ â€œJust got a call from the Drummond place, you know, upthere on the Frontâ€”â€ â€œI know where the Drummond place is, Tim. Can you tellme later, please?â€ â€œSure thing. Just thought you ought to know.â€ Charlie sighed and let the report flop on his desk. â€œTell me.â€ â€œCouple of skiers just showed up out there, say theyfound a body up Goat Creek. Young woman, frozen in theice.â€ÂÂÂNed and Val Drummondâ€™s ranch was a small spread thatlay close by the north fork of the creek. Beyond them, apartfrom one or two cabins that only got used in summer, there
was only wilderness. It took the best part of an hour for Charlieand Tim Heidecker to drive out there and the best part ofanother to interview the two skiers. They seemed goodpeople and were well aware how lucky theyâ€™d been. If theyhadnâ€™t managed to find that other ski, the father wouldhave had a hard time getting out. His son would have had tocome down alone to raise help. But they were smart and wellprepared, which was more than could be said for a lot of theidiots who got into trouble up there and had to be rescued. The father was able to pinpoint on the map wheretheyâ€™d found the body. Charlie had brought out a couple ofsnowmobiles on the trailer and for a while he toyed with theidea of going up at once to take a look. But the sun wasalready getting ready to disappear behind the mountains andwhen it did, the light would go fast and the temperature wouldplummet. If it was frozen into the ice like they said it was, thebody wasnâ€™t going anyplace. Better leave it till morning,he figured, work out a plan and go up with all the right gear. Inany case, he wanted the father to come along too and thoughVal Drummond had done what she could to patch it up, thatcut on his face needed stitches. They all sat drinking mocha coffee in the Drummondâ€™sdark, log-walled kitchen. Charlie had known Val since theywere kids and had always had a soft spot for her. In facttheyâ€™d once had a little romantic moment after a high-school dance. Even now he could picture it clearly. In her earlyforties, she was still a fine-looking woman, tall and athletic inthat kind of horsey way. Ned was shorter and ten years olderand talked too much, like people with a lot of time on their
hands tended to, but he was okay. Val had volunteered todrive the boyâ€™s father to the medical center to get somestitches and had said he and his son were more thanwelcome to stay the night. Both offers had been gratefullyaccepted. Everyone agreed to meet at eight the next morningwhen they would go up and check out the body. Just as they were saying their good-byes, with a sinkingfeeling in his gut, Charlie remembered Lucyâ€™s party. Therewas no signal on his cell phone up here so he asked Valquietly if he could use the landline. She showed him into theliving room and left him there. Charlie figured the party wouldstill be going on but there was no way he was going to getthere before it finished. He dialed Sherylâ€™s number andsteeled himself. â€œHello?â€ She always sounded quite pleasant until she knew who wascalling. â€œHey, Sheryl. Listen, Iâ€™m really sorry. Iâ€”â€ â€œNice of you to call, at least.â€ â€œSomething cropped up and I couldnâ€™tâ€”â€ â€œSomething more important than your daughterâ€™stenth birthday party? I see. Well, there you go.â€ â€œCan I speak to Lucy?â€ â€œTheyâ€™re all busy right now. Iâ€™ll tell her youcalled.â€ â€œCanâ€™t you justâ€”â€
â€œAre you bringing the saddle over?â€ â€œI . . . I didnâ€™t have time toâ€”â€ â€œOkay. Fine. Iâ€™ll tell her that too.â€ â€œSheryl, pleaseâ€”â€ â€œNothing changes, does it, Charlie? Iâ€™ve gotta go.Bye now.â€They heard the snowmobiles long before they saw them. Atlast the headlights eased into view, strobing through the treesfar below them, then climbing the steep slope out of the forestand bouncing up alongside the creek toward them, the yellowbeams shafting the dying blue light of the valley. The closest they had been able to park the search-and-rescue vehicle was at a trailhead nearly three miles down thevalley. It was a converted school bus decked out with a lot offancy equipment. Ordinary radios werenâ€™t reliable in thesesteep canyons so the bus had one with a 110-watt booster,powerful enough to relay messages between those in themountains and the sheriffâ€™s office thirty miles away.Everything they needed had to be ferried up from the trailheadby snowmobile. The two that were heading up toward themnow were bringing chain saws, blowtorches, and somepowerful lamps so Charlie and his men could go on workinginto the night.
He had a team of ten, three of them his deputies and therest search-and-rescue volunteers, apart from the ForestService law-enforcement guy who meant well but was youngand new to his job and mostly got in the way. Protocol,however, dictated he be there because the girlâ€™s bodyhad been found on Forest Service land. They had worked inshifts, going down to the bus every few hours for rest and foodand drinkâ€”all except Charlie, who stayed with the body thewhole time. They brought him food and hot drinks every nowand then, but he was tired and cold and by now more than alittle grouchy at having to wait almost an hour for theequipment. They had been at it all day. First, they had cordoned off thewhole area, then systematically searched it, photographingand videotaping the scene from all angles. They hadnâ€™tfound a single clue as to how the body might have come to bethere. With all that snow and ice Charlie hardly dared hope forone. Maybe when the thaw came they would find something.Clothes or a shoe or a backpack, maybe. Even footprints inan underlayer of snow or mud, if they got really lucky. The two skiers had brought them here at dawn and showedthem where the body was. Floating down there in the ice, shewas as ghostly a sight as Charlie had ever witnessed and asthe county coroner as well as sheriff heâ€™d seen his fairshare of bodies over the years. The skiers hadnâ€™t hungaround longer than they had to. The father had fifteen stitchesin his cheek, which had bruised up like a beetroot. He waskeen to get home. The boy had looked pale and still a little inshock. Heâ€™d be going home more of a man than he left.
It wasnâ€™t until the early afternoon that they were ready tostart trying to cut the girl out. It turned out a whole lot trickierthan Charlie had figured. The body would have to be drivenover the mountains to the state crime lab in Missoula, ajourney that would take a good three hours. With warmerweather forecasted, they all agreed that the best way topreserve it was to keep it encased in ice. Until now they hadbeen working with spud bars, carefully chipping the ice awayfragment by fragment so as not to miss any item of evidencethat might be frozen there. But it was like mowing a hayfieldwith a pair of scissors and Charlie decided that unless theychanged their method, they would be here for weeks. The snowmobiles were coming up the last hundred yardsbeside the creek now, both of them towing sleds stacked withthe equipment. Charlie and those who had been waiting withhim walked over to meet them. The headlights flashed on theyellow-green fluorescent vests that they were all wearing overtheir black parkas. As night was falling, so was thetemperature. Even in his insulated boots his feet felt numb.What heâ€™d give to be at home in front of the fire with thenew book heâ€™d just started. As he trudged through thesnow, he took off his gloves and tried to blow some warmthback into his fingers. His mood wasnâ€™t much improved byseeing Tim Heidecker climbing off the first snowmobile. â€œWhat took you so long?â€ â€œSorry, Chief. Snowmobile got stuck down the creek.â€ â€œWhy didnâ€™t you radio?â€ â€œWe tried. Couldnâ€™t get anyone to hear.â€
â€œWell, letâ€™s get moving.â€ They had brought him some hot soup and some candy barswhich made him feel a little more benign. He stood sippingthe soup and issuing orders every now and then while theyrigged up the lights to the little generator and positioned them.Above him the mountains dimmed to looming shapes againsta sky that slowly filled with stars. Soon the crater into which the skiers had fallen was acocoon of light in the enfolding night air. Its floor had beenbrushed of all snow and through the burnished black ice theyoung woman, with her swirled hair and her arm stretched outand her torn red jacket trailing behind her, looked like aleaping dancer captured in obsidian. It took another six hours to cut her out. One of the chainsaws jammed and twice they had to radio down for moreblades. And because the ice crazed and went opaque whenthey cut into it, they kept having to stop and to use theoxyacetylene torches to melt it so that they could see whatthey were cutting into. They sliced a wide trench parallel towhere the young woman lay and placed a sled there andbegan to lever her onto it with wooden poles. But hersarcophagus of ice was too heavy and there was a terriblecreaking and cracking and one end of the sled broke throughand tilted into the running water of the creek below. For a fewlong and perilous minutes, it seemed as if she was going toslide off and disappear through the hole but the men managedto slip ropes around her and hold her safe until they got thepoles beneath the sled and propped it up and righted it.
They trimmed more ice from around her to lighten the loadbut the block was still too big for a body bag, so they radioeddown for tarpaulins and wrapped it up like a parcel andfastened it with duct tape and ropes. And just before midnightthree snowmobiles and half a dozen men, all straining at theropes, succeeded at last in hauling the sled and its black-shrouded cargo from the hole. Getting her down to the bus took another hour and it wasnearly three by the time they had her loaded into the back ofCharlieâ€™s truck, insulated with blankets and sheets ofcardboard. A couple of his deputies volunteered toaccompany him over to Missoula but Charlie declined.Theyâ€™d been working their butts off for almost twenty-fourhours, and he thanked them all and ordered them off to theirbeds. He felt himself in that strangely energized state that laybeyond tiredness and, for some reason he didnâ€™t fullyunderstand, he wanted to be alone. He drove down through Augusta and turned right onto Route200 at a lonely crossroads where only a month earlier he hadhelped lift two dead teenagers from a wrecked car. Twostraight roads met in the middle of nowhere and there wereeven traffic lights but it remained a place where peopleregularly managed to die. The memory unsettled him and gothim musing about the dead girl who lay behind him, still frozenin her ballerina leap. The image had imprinted itself in hismind and he tried to clear it but couldnâ€™t. He kept wondering who she was and how she came to bethere. He remembered a suicide up there once, not far fromGoat Creek, a boy of seventeen who had taken off all his
clothes and neatly folded them and placed them in his packalong with a rambling poem heâ€™d written that tried toexplain why he had to kill himself. Heâ€™d thrown himself offa cliff and his remains were found a month later by some bowhunters. Maybe this young woman was another such case. Ormaybe she had fallen by accident. No hikers or skiers hadbeen reported missing but that didnâ€™t necessarily make itsuspicious. Most likely sheâ€™d been on her own and wasfrom somewhere far away and hadnâ€™t thought to tellanyone where she was going. These things happened.Hopefully the body was in good enough condition to get an ID. Charlie wondered about her parents or some other lovedone and what they must be going through, the daily agony ofnot knowing where she was. He couldnâ€™t help imaginingthe same thing happening to Lucy. His only child just vanishinglike that and he and her mother not knowing if she were aliveor lying murdered at the bottom of a ditch. How would hehandle it? Hell, it would drive any parent insane. He crossed the Continental Divide at Rogers Pass andstarted the winding descent toward Lincoln. But so lost was hein the dark meanderings of his head that he took a bend toofast and almost ran into a pair of white-tailed deer. Hestamped on the brake and the truck slithered and snakedacross the road. He heard the body sliding forward behindhim and as he skidded to a sideways stop across the verge, itslammed into the back of his seat with such force that hisneck whiplashed and he saw stars. Charlie sat for a few moments, collecting himself andwaiting for his heart to settle down. If the road hadnâ€™t been
gritted, heâ€™d have been flying off it into the treetops. Hedrove the rest of the way at forty miles an hour with an oldiesradio station on full blast to keep bad thoughts at bay, his neckthrobbing to the beat. The state crime lab was a smart brick building just offBroadway on the way to the airport. Heâ€™d had his officephone ahead to make sure there would be someone there toadmit the body and to warn them it was a heavy one. They hadobviously gotten the message because the two guys whocame out to meet him looked like Olympic weight lifters. â€œSo this is our Jane Doe,â€ one of them said as thethree of them struggled to load her onto the gurney. â€œMan,talk about on the rocks. You got more ice than body here.â€ â€œFreshness is our byword,â€ Charlie said. They wheeled her straight into the cold room and Charliesigned a form and wished them good night. The eastern sky was paling to shades of pink and dovegray as he drove back into town. There were one or two carsand trucks about now. He briefly considered driving home butconcluded it wasnâ€™t wise. Now the job was done,tiredness was falling heavily upon him and his neck hurt likehell. He found a motel near the interstate and took a roombarely bigger than a pool table. But it had a bed and that wasall he cared about. He shut the beige plastic blind, shed hisjacket and boots, and crawled under the covers. Then heremembered he hadnâ€™t turned off his cell phone andwearily went to get it from his jacket. The screen showed thathe had voice mail. He got back into bed, lowering his neck
carefully onto the pillow. He switched off the bedside lamp andaccessed the message. It was Lucy. She said she hoped he was okay and that shewas sorry he hadnâ€™t been able to get to her party. She toldhim she missed him and loved him very much. It was dumb,Charlie knew, and not at all like him, and it was only becausehe was so ragged with tiredness. But, alone in the darkness, ifheâ€™d allowed himself, he could easily have wept.
be counted in the number of ghastly new outfits that hungunworn in her closet. It was her last day in Venice and she didnâ€™t want towaste it waiting for a virtual stranger, a man at least twentyyears her junior who, in any case, had probably forgotten allabout her. She had planned to spend the day browsing theshops, buying gifts for a few people back home. And to getthis done in time to meet the young man, she had risen,breakfasted, and left the hotel before eight. They had met the previous morning on the ferry to Torcello.Her tour group had split up for the day and only a handful hadwanted to make the hour-long trip across the lagoon. Theywere mostly retired couples or pairs of friends, either fromNew York City or New Jersey. All were a good ten years olderthan Sarah and she had little in common with any of them.There was too much moaning about the hotel food and howexpensive everything was. All week she had kept herdistance, politely declining offers to include her. Her bestfriend Iris, with whom she had booked the trip, had cancelledat the last moment because her mother had a stroke. Sarahprobably should have cancelled too. But sheâ€™d never beento Venice and was reluctant to miss the chance. On the ferry she chatted for a while with the merrywidowsâ€”two women from Newark who never stoppedlaughingâ€”and then escaped aft to find a seat where shecould quietly read her book and gaze out across the greenwater at the vaporettos chugging by. The young man had come on board when the ferry stopped
at the Lido. He took a seat across the aisle from her, facingthe same way. He was probably in his mid- to late twenties,conservatively dressed in a white shirt and pressed charcoalpants. He caught her looking at him and gave her a beautifulsmile. She smiled back politely and quickly looked down ather book, hoping the glow she could feel in her cheeksdidnâ€™t show. Out of the side of her eye she saw him pull asketchbook from his black leather bag. He flipped through ituntil he found the page he was looking for and then took out apen and set to work. Sarah could see it was a precise drawing in black ink of anold palazzo. There were patches of crumbled stucco andornate scrollings at the windows. He was filling in the detail,perhaps from memory or perhaps simply from his ownimagination. Whichever it was, the work was impressive.Again he caught her looking and graciously showed her whathe was doing. They began talking. In robust, if flawed, English,he told her he was from Rome and that he came to Veniceevery spring to visit an aged aunt. The picture was of herhouse. â€œShe must be very grand,â€ Sarah said. â€œI make it look much grander than it is. She like that.â€ â€œYou draw very well.â€ â€œThank you, but I know I am too technical. I am a studentof . . . architettura.â€ â€œArchitecture. My husband was an architect.â€ â€œOh. He is no longer?â€
â€œNo, I mean, he is an architect. Heâ€™s just no longermy husband.â€ When they reached Torcello, they found themselves walkingtogether along the path that wound from the dock to theancient church of Santa Fosca. The early spring sun was hotand reflected brightly on the white cement. Sarah took off hersweater and tied it around her hips like a teenager. She waswearing a sleeveless pink T-shirt and a white linen skirt. The young man said he had come that day to drawTorcelloâ€™s famous bell tower. He seemed to know a lotabout the history of the island. It was settled, he said, in thefifth century, much earlier than Venice itself. It had once been athriving place, with a population of twenty thousand. Butmalaria had driven people away and most of the buildings hadfallen into ruin and disappeared. These days only a few dozenpeople lived there. Outside the church, he showed her the crudely carved stonethrone that was supposed to have belonged to Attila the Hun. â€œDo you think he really sat on this?â€ she said. â€œNot for very long. It looks not very comfortable.â€ â€œMaybe thatâ€™s what made him so mean.â€ They went inside the church. It was cool and dark and filledwith a reverential hush. They stood in awe for a long timebefore a golden mosaic of the Madonna and Child. Hewhispered to her that in his opinion it was the most beautifulthing to be seen in all of Venice, except perhaps for theScuola Grande di San Rocco. He asked her if she had been
there yet and, when she said no, offered to show it to her thefollowing day. Flattered and amused by the attention of thishandsome, diffident man who, with his perfect skin andperfect teeth and clear brown eyes, was young enough to beher son, she agreed. They arranged to meet. She left himsettling down to draw the bell tower and only when they shookhands to say good-bye did they tell each other their names.His, appropriately, was Angelo. And now here she was, waiting as agreed, like a fool,outside the Scuola Grande or whatever the damn place wascalled, being giggled at by a bunch of schoolgirls whoprobably, given that she was smoking and trying too hard tolook chic in her shades and her little navy Armani dress, hadher down as some sort of superannuated hooker. Shechecked her watch again. Heâ€™d had twenty-two minutes(those two extra minutes a pathetic defiance of her ex-husband) and that was enough. She squashed her cigaretteunder her shoe, stuck out her tongue at the most insolent ofthe schoolgirls, and strode off. Three minutes later she heard her name being called andlooked back to see Angelo running over the bridge she hadjust crossed. She waited for him to reach her and gave himher coolest smile. Through his panting he managed to explainthat his aunt had been taken ill that morning. Bless him, Sarahthought, surely he could do better than that. But he seemed sogenuinely contrite and distressed for having kept her waitingthat she couldnâ€™t help but forgive him. Okay, she was apushover, but what the hell? He was a lot better company thanthe merry widows, who had probably written her off anyway as
too damn snooty. The Scuola Grande was filled with Tintorettos. The upperhall was vast and dark and sumptuously furnished in red velvetand polished walnut that gleamed in the pooled light of thewall lamps. There were perhaps fifty or sixty people there andall, even the schoolgirls who were now there too, stoodpeering in silent wonder at the paintings that adorned thewalls and ceiling. The pictures themselves were dimly lit andSarah had to put on her glasses to make out the religiousthemes they depicted. Angelo was as diligent and informed a guide as he hadbeen the previous day on the island. He whispered to her thatthe place was built in the early fifteen hundreds and dedicatedto San Rocco, the patron saint of contagious diseases, in thevain hope that he might save the city from the plague.Tintoretto, Angelo said, had spent almost a quarter of acentury decorating it. It was the kind of information that couldeasily have been plundered from any guidebook and the cruelthought occurred to her that perhaps he made a habit ofpicking up female tourists of a certain age. The most renowned of Tintorettoâ€™s paintings, TheCrucifixion, was in a small adjoining room and they stoodthere for a long time staring at it. Sarah had never known quitewhat to make of religion. Her mother was a lapsed Catholicand her father a lapsed atheist, now teetering in his seventiesover the edge of agnosticism into an as yet amorphous realmof belief. Benjamin had always denounced any form ofreligious belief as a convenient excuse for not thinking. Andthough Sarah was less zealous in her skepticism, her attitude
on thisâ€”and so many other issuesâ€”had been infected byhis. So perhaps it was, again, some futile, half-consciousattempt to excise his influence, to mark herself out as anindependent mind, that she allowed herself to be so moved bythe painting. It was a tumult of suffering and beauty, eachcluster of characters busy in its own drama. And the nailedChrist, winged and crowned with light against the stony skyand gazing down from his cross at his executioners, radiatedsuch serenity that Sarah found herself filled with a confusedand nameless longing. Behind her glasses her eyes began to brim but shemanaged to keep the tears from spilling. She was sure,however, that the young man at her side noticed. He had beensaying something about Tintorettoâ€™s habit of putting a self-portrait into his pictures but he broke off and walked away afew paces to study another painting. Sarah was grateful. Ifheâ€™d tried to touch or comfort her she would certainly havelost control and started to sob. And she had done enoughcrying these past few years. It mystified, even slightly angered,her that a mere picture could bring her so close to the brinkand she used the anger to chastise and compose herself. Stepping again into the sunlight was a relief. They woundtheir way to the Grand Canal just in time to catch a vaporettoto the Rialto Bridge where Angelo said he knew a good littlerestaurant. Venetians ate there, he said, not tourists. It turnedout to be a modest place, halfway along a narrow alley. White-coated waiters, all of whom seemed to Sarah curiously small,
scurried between the tables with trays stacked with freshseafood and steaming pasta. The one who took their orderdid so with a curt politeness. She told Angelo to choose for her, that she liked almosteverything. He ordered a salad of sweet tomatoes, basil, andbuffalo mozzarella and then some grilled whitefish whosename meant nothing to her but which, when it arrived, lookedand tasted a little like striped bass. They drank a whole bottleof white wine which he said was made from grapes that grewalong the eastern shore of Lake Garda. It was cool andcreamy and Sarah drank too much of it and began to feel alittle light-headed. She had never felt comfortable talking about herself. It wasa subject about which she felt there was nothing to say thatcould possibly be of interest to anyone. Of course, afterBenjamin left, she had gotten a lot better at it. Iris and thehandful of close friends who rallied around her hadnâ€™tgiven her much of an option, urging her to explore with themthe failure of her marriage, examining every wretched cornerand wrinkle of it until there seemed to be nothing left to sayand they all grew sick of it. And yet long before that, almost as long as Sarah couldremember, when she and Benjamin had beenâ€”at least, asfar as she was concernedâ€”happily married, she haddeveloped a simple technique to avoid revealing too muchabout herself. She would ask questions instead and soondiscovered that the more direct and startlingly personal thequestion, the more likely it was that the person asked(especially if it happened to be both a stranger and a man)
would start talking about himself and forget to ask heranything. And this was what she was now doing with Angelo. She asked him about Rome, about his studies, about whatkind of architecture interested him; about his aunt (whosesickness, surprisingly, seemed to be authentic); and finallyeven got him talking about a German girlfriend called Claudiato whom someday he hoped to be married. At which point, thedisparity between his confessions and her almost totalreticence became so great that he placed his palms upon thewhite crumb-strewn tablecloth and demanded a few answersfrom her. He asked if she worked and she told him about selling thebookstore and what a relief it was after all these years to befree of it. â€œYou didnâ€™t like it?â€ â€œI loved it. Books are my great passion. But smallindependent stores like we were have a hard time competingnowadays. So now I donâ€™t sell them, I just read them.â€ â€œWhat are your other great passions?â€ â€œMmm. Let me see. My garden. Knowing aboutplants.â€ â€œAnd now you have sold the bookstore, you can enjoy allthese things. You are . . . How do they say? A lady ofpleasure.â€ â€œI think what you mean is a lady of leisure.â€ Sarah smiled and looked at him over the rim of her glass
while she took another slow sip of wine, realizing as she didso that she was flirting. It was about a hundred years sinceshe had felt like flirting with anyone. She thought sheâ€™dforgotten how to. But she was enjoying it and, in that moment,had he asked her if he might come back with her to her hotelroom for a shared siesta, she might even have found herselfsaying yes. â€œSo you were married,â€ he said. â€œCorrect.â€ â€œBut no longer.â€ â€œCorrect.â€ â€œFor how long were you married?â€ â€œA lifetime. Twenty-three years.â€ â€œAnd you live in New York.â€ â€œOn Long Island.â€ â€œAnd you have children?â€ She nodded slowly. Here it was. The most compellingreason to avoid questions. She felt pleasure draining from herthrough the hole he had just unplugged. She cleared her throatand replied quietly in as level a tone as she could. â€œOne of each. A boy and a girl. Twenty-one and twenty-three.â€ â€œAnd what do they do? They are students, yes?â€ â€œUh-huh.â€
â€œAt college? â€œYes. Kind of. Can we get the check?â€ She needed to leave, to be outside again. And alone. Andshe saw that, of course, he was puzzled by this abrupt changein her. How could the mere mention of children so snap awomanâ€™s mood? It was the subject above all others towhich they normally warmed. The poor boy would misinterpretit, naturally. He would probably assume she was embarrassedto admit that she had children not much younger than himself.Or conclude that she wasnâ€™t really divorced at all, just outfor a good time and that the mention of children had strucksome chord of guilt. She felt sorry for him and sorry too forfracturing what had been so easy and pleasant between them.But she couldnâ€™t help it. She stood up and took a creditcard from her purse and placed it on the table in front of him,ignoring his protest. Then she excused herself and walked offto find the restroom. Outside, bewildered, he asked her if she would like to visitanother gallery and she said no and apologized, pretendingthat the wine had made her feel unwell, that she wasnâ€™tused to it. She thanked him for being so sweet and such a fineguide and for all the wonderful things he had shown her. Hevolunteered to accompany her to the hotel but she said that, ifhe didnâ€™t mind, she would rather go alone. She saidgood-bye and offered him her hand and he looked so forlornthat instead she put both hands on his shoulders and kissedhim on the cheek, which only seemed to confuse him more.When she walked off he looked quite bereft.
Back at the hotel, the lobby was quiet. A young Britishcouple was checking in. They had the shy felicity ofhoneymooners. Sarah collected her key and walked towardthe elevator, her heels clacking sharply on the white marblefloor. â€œMrs. Cooper?â€ She turned and the concierge handed her an envelope. Shepressed the elevator button and while the cables clanked andwhirred behind the glass door, she opened the envelope. Itwas a message from Benjamin in Santa Fe where he nowlived with that woman. He had phoned at eight that morningand again at ten. He wanted her to call him back. It wasurgent, he said.
FOURBen and Eve had been in bed watching an old Cary Grantmovie on the TV when Agent Kendrick called. It was a littleafter nine. Eve had lit candles and the flames were catching adraft from somewhere, sending shadows tilting and wobblingon the rough whitewashed walls and across the paintings andswaths of cloth that hung there. Pablo was asleep in hisbedroom next door. Ben had only a short while ago looked inon him and stumbled through toys to tuck another blanketaround his skinny shoulders. The boy shifted and murmuredfrom some unknown corner of a dream, then settled again, hislong dark curls spread like an aura on the pillow. It was Saturday and theyâ€™d had the kind of perfectspring day that seasoned residents of Santa Fe took forgranted but Ben continued to find miraculous. The dry desertair laced with the scent of lilac and cherry, the sky a cleardeep blue and the lightâ€”that vivid, washed, almost shockingNew Mexican light with its shadows sharp across adobewalls, the kind of light that could make even a color-blindphilistine want to pick up a paintbrushâ€”still, after four yearsof living here, could induce in him something close toeuphoria. The three of them had driven out in the Jeep for a latebreakfast at the Tesuque Village Market then browsed thestalls of the flea market, Pablo running ahead of them like ascout, finding things and calling them to come and look. Eve
bought an antique dress in purple and brown and orangeswirls, cut on the bias. There was a hole under one arm andshe haggled the woman down to thirty dollars and whisperedas they walked away that it would be easy to fix and was worthat least a hundred. In the mellowing sun that afternoon in the little backyard, thecherry tree groaning with an absurd overload of pinkblossoms, they barbecued tuna steaks and sweet redpeppers and zucchini while Pablo played chasing games withthe little Swedish girl from next door. Eveâ€™s house wasone of an enclave of six that stood on the south-facing side ofa valley of sage and pinyon that funneled down into thetownâ€™s west side. It was on one floor and made ofcracked adobe, its angles rounded and its doors of ancient,grizzled pine. Both house and yard could have fit three timesover into the house on Long Island where Ben had lived allthose years with Sarah and where she now lived alone, but healready preferred it. He liked its spare, worn functionality, theway it belonged to the land that surrounded it. He liked it toobecause it was Eveâ€™s and even more because itwasnâ€™t his. It made him feelâ€”as Pablo also made himfeelâ€”unencumbered, that his association was entirely of hisown choosing. And this, of course, made him feel younger andmore footloose than a man of almost fifty-two years deserved. Just when the food was ready to be served the childrencame running up the path, all excited, saying thehummingbirds were back. They had seen one down byEveâ€™s studio where the yard became more jungle thangarden. Eve asked them what kind they thought it was. It was
too early for the rufous, she said, and from what they wereable to tell her they concluded that it must have been a black-chinned. After supper, with Pablo bathed and in his pajamas,they rummaged for the feeder jars in the closet and filled themwith sugar water then hung them from a low branch of thecherry tree. Pablo wanted to wait up to see if the birds would come andwhile Eve took a bath Ben sat with his arm around him on thecouch, reading Treasure Island and breathing the warm,sweet smell of him, another manâ€™s child he had come tolove as his own. The boy was nearly eight but small and skinnyand looked younger. The hummingbirds never came and whenit was dark Ben carried him slack and sleeping to his bed. It was Eve who answered when Kendrick called. And Benknew from her face and from her voice what kind of call it was.She handed him the phone and muted the TV. She sat up andswung her legs out of the bed and Ben reached out to try tomake her stay. She always moved away and found somethingto do when his other life called. When he had once mentionedthis she said it was only to give him space, but he suspected itwas also to protect herself. She whispered now that she wouldmake them some tea and be right back. Special Agent Dean Kendrick worked out of Denver andhad become Benâ€™s main contact with the FBI. There hadbeen others with whom he had talked during the past threeand a half years that Abbie had been on the run and manymore, he was sure, who had watched him and followed himand bugged his phones and e-mails and monitored his bankaccounts, faceless men and women who probably knew more
about his habits than he did himself. The ones whose names he knew and whom he had calledfor news every few weeks were civil enough though rarelyfriendly. But Kendrick was different. He seemed genuinelysympathetic and had almost become a friend, though Ben hadonly ever met him once. They even called each other by theirfirst names now. Maybe he was just better at his job than theothers. He certainly made Ben feel more at ease and, ofcourse, if he felt that way, he might more likely let somethingslip, some secret snippet of information that might help themcatch and convict his daughter. Ben only wished he had sucha secret. â€œBen, howâ€™re you doing?â€ â€œIâ€™m fine. How are you doing?â€ â€œIâ€™m okay. Do you have someone with you?â€ It seemed an odd question, given that heâ€™d just spokenwith Eve. â€œYeah. Weâ€™re just watching a movie. Why?â€ â€œIâ€™ve got some news. About Abbie. They were goingto get one of our guys in Albuquerque to drive up and tell youin person but I thought youâ€™d rather hear it from me.â€ He paused. Ben was way ahead of him. â€œIâ€™m afraid itâ€™s not good news.â€ But still his heart chimed. What was good news or badnews when it came to Abbie? And good or bad for whom?She hadnâ€™t called any of themâ€”not him, nor Sarah, nor
even her brother Joshâ€”in almost three years now. If the FBIhad caught her that would surely qualify as good news,wouldnâ€™t it? He swallowed. â€œUh-huh?â€ â€œThey found her body up on the Front Range inMontana, west of Great Falls. Sheâ€™d been there awhile.Ben, Iâ€™m really sorry.â€ Cary Grant was about to get beaten up by two heavies. Hewas trying to charm his way out but it wasnâ€™t working.Benâ€™s brain felt closed. His daughter dead? He could seeit almost dispassionately as a concept but it wasnâ€™tsomething he was going to let into his head. It wasnâ€™tpossible. Eve appeared in the doorway with two mugs ofgreen tea. She stopped there and stood very still, herloosened hair raven against the pale of her shoulders, steamcurling from the mugs, the candlelight dancing in the creasesof her peach satin robe. Watching with those still brown eyes,knowing. â€œWhat kind of condition . . .â€ Ben couldnâ€™t allow himself to finish the thought. His littlegirl decaying, a carcass picked at by savage animals. No. â€œI mean, are you sure itâ€™s her?â€ â€œA hundred percent. Fingerprints and DNA. Ben,Iâ€™m so sorry.â€ There was a long silence. Ben felt as if he were watchinghis world unhinge and twirl slowly away from him. Eve put
down the tea and came to sit beside him on the bed. She laida cool arm around his shoulders. Kendrick waited and whenBen was ready they talked some more. About practical things,from which Ben began to fashion a fragile shield from theshock. Kendrick delicately asked if he should let Sarah know,but Ben said he would do it himself and that, in any case, shewas in Italy. From his weekly phone call to Josh two days ago,he knew she wasnâ€™t due home until Monday. Kendrick said once more how sorry he was and that hewould call again in the morning. They could decide then whatto do about funeral arrangements and what to tell the media.There would, of course, have to be some sort of statement. â€œYes,â€ Ben said. â€œOf course.â€ Ben thanked him and hung up and sat there staring at theTV. The credits were rolling. He found the remote and killedthe picture. And only then did he start to weep. An hour later, lying with his head still cradled on Eveâ€™sbreast, her nightgown patched with his tears, they began todiscuss what was to be done. Ben wondered if it might bebest not to tell Sarah until she got back. Spare her all thoselong hours on the plane with no one to comfort her, cloisteredalone with her grief. Maybe he should fly to New York andmeet her off the plane and tell her then. But Eve, clearer-headed than he and, as a mother, wiser in such matters, saidhe couldnâ€™t leave it that long. Sarah had a right to be toldstraightaway and would hold against him any failure to do so. In Venice, they calculated, it was now six oâ€™clock in themorning. Too early to call. Let her sleep, Ben thought. Give her
two more hours without the pain. Without this new pain. Hewould phone at midnight. They could then decide between thetwo of them how to break the news to Josh and thegrandparents and whoever else needed to know. While they waited, he told her what Kendrick had said aboutreleasing the news to the media. A couple of years ago, AbbieCooper, little rich girl turned ecoterrorist, wanted all acrossAmerica for murder, had been big news. There had beenwhole TV shows devoted to her, with dramatizedreconstructions of what she was alleged to have done. Formonths Ben had to field half a dozen calls a week fromreporters, mostly trying to follow up on some new angle. Butas time went by and there was still no arrest, they seemed tolose interest and the circus had moved on. Maybe theywouldnâ€™t make too much of a meal out of her being founddead. Or maybe they would. At midnight, when he called Venice, he was told thatSignora Cooper had already left the hotel. And when he calledagain two hours later she still hadnâ€™t returned. Theywaited, fading in and out of sleep, holding each other while thecandles burned low and guttered and one by one died. Once,while Eve slept on beside him, facing away from him, a curveof hip warm against his belly, he woke and wept again while aslice of moon traversed the window. He was jolted from his sleep just before seven. Eve wasstanding beside the bed, handing him his ringing cell phone. â€œItâ€™s Sarah,â€ she said. He saw the name on the little screen and so disoriented
was he by sleep that for a moment he wondered why shemight be calling. Then the leaden reality reassembled. Theirdaughter was dead. Eve was already dressed. Sunlight flecked with dust wasslanting in through the window behind her. He sat up and tookthe phone and she kissed his forehead and walked out. Shehad left a mug of coffee on the bedside table. He could hearPablo calling from the kitchen. He pressed the green buttonon the phone and said hello. â€œBenjamin?â€ Her voice sounded tight and throaty, barely recognizable.She was the only one in the world who ever called himBenjamin. â€œSweetheartâ€”â€ She had reprimanded him more than once for calling herthatâ€”Whatever I am to you now Benjamin, Iâ€™m ,certainly not your sweetheartâ€”but it was hard to break ahabit of so many years. This time she cut in on him before theword was fully uttered. â€œWhat is it?â€ she said. â€œIs it Abbie? Have theyfound her?â€ It startled him that she should know. But it was only todiscuss their children that they ever talked nowadays. ThenBen realized that by found, she meant alive. He swallowed,still struggling to clear his head. â€œSarahâ€”â€
â€œFor heavenâ€™s sake, Benjamin! Tell me!â€ â€œSheâ€™s dead.â€ â€œWhat?â€ It was more an intake of breath than a word. How could heblurt it out like that? Kendrick had broken the news to him withso much more finesse. He stumbled on. â€œThey found her body. In Montana. Somewhere in themountains.â€ â€œNo. Abbie. Oh, no. No . . .â€ She began a low, moaning wail and then tried to saysomething but couldnâ€™t. And because the sound was soharrowing he began to talk, just to keep it from his ears. Hetalked and went on talking, trying to seem calm and clear,telling her what he knew, about the DNA and the fingerprintsand where the body was being kept and about the decisionsthat they were going to have to make, until she screamed athim and told him to stop. At that his voice cracked and he lostcontrol, as if all his words had emptied and weakened him. And, separated by so many thousand miles and by distanceof another kind far greater, they sobbed as one but each alonefor the young life they had together spawned and loved andseparately lost.ÂÂÂ
The funeral home, so Ben had been told, was only a shortdrive from Missoula Airport and he had already resolved thathe would go there as soon as his flight got in. He hadnâ€™ttold Sarah he was going to do this and he knew he shouldprobably wait until she arrived from New York so they could gothere together. But when he landed and switched on his cellphone there was a message from her saying she was havingto take a later flight. She wouldnâ€™t be getting into Missoulauntil the evening, by which time the funeral home would beshut. That meant going there with her tomorrow. Hecouldnâ€™t wait that long. Despite Kendrickâ€™s assurance that the identificationwas one hundred percent certain, there lingered in Benâ€™smind just a sliver of doubt that they might have made amistake. Heâ€™d once read about a case where this hadhappened. Someone had mixed up two sets of samples andput the wrong names on them. He had to see her, see with hisown eyes that it was Abbie. He had brought only hand baggage and was one of the firstoff the flight. The chirpy young woman at the Hertz deskwelcomed him like an old friend but that was probably just howthey were trained. â€œOn vacation?â€ she asked. â€œNo, Iâ€™m here . . . to see my daughter.â€ â€œThatâ€™s nice. Sheâ€™s at UM, right?â€ â€œShe was, yes.â€ It took her only a few minutes to process the paperwork.
She told him the bay number of the car and handed him thedocuments and keys. â€œSo, youâ€™re all set. You have a great time.â€ Ben thanked her and went out through the double glassdoors. The sky was vaulted in slate-colored cloud and the airfelt warm and restless as if at any moment it might rain. Abbieused to say the weather in Montana was like ForrestGumpâ€™s box of chocolates: You never knew what you weregonna get. He remembered that first visit to Missoula, morethan five years ago, when he and Sarah had flown here withher to check out the university. It was late October and whenthey arrived it was eighty degrees. They woke the next day toa foot of snow and had to go out and buy warmer clothes. At astore on North Higgins they had bought Abbie a cerisePatagonia ski jacket that cost more than two hundred bucks.God, sheâ€™d looked so beautiful that day. So confident, sofull of joy. Ben stopped himself. He mustnâ€™t think about her thatway. There was too much to be sorted out, importantdecisions to be made, people to talk to, the sheriff, the localFBI people, find out what they thought had happened. If he lethimself remember her like that, all aglow and happy, then hewould be sure to lose it and be unable to think straight. Aboveall, Sarah would need him to be strong. He didnâ€™t want tolet her down, give her yet another reason to hate him. The car was a little silver Japanese thing. He had to shift theseat all the way back to get his legs under the steering wheel.Sarah would probably think he was being cheap and should
have rented something bigger. They hadnâ€™t seen eachother in more than a year and he already felt dread welling inhis stomach. He started the car up, reversed from the parkingbay and slowly headed out toward the highway. The second time they had spoken on the phone, beforeSarah flew home from Italy, she had fully regained composure.She was cool, almost businesslike. Not a tear was shed byeither of them. Ben had been expecting a discussion but itwas more like listening to a series of announcements. Thebody would be shipped back to New York, she said, and thatwas where the funeral would be, where all Abbieâ€™s lovedones lived. The all excluded Ben, of course, but he let it pass.And it would be a burial, which was how Sarahâ€™s familyhad always done these things. Ben had been planning tosuggest a cremation, with the ashes scattered here inMontana, the place Abbie had so often said she loved best inall the world. But he wasnâ€™t going to get into a fight aboutit. There was more to come. Sarah had already phoned Joshin New York. He was, she informed Ben, â€œdevastated butokay.â€ How to break the news to their son was another thingBen had been expecting to discuss. He was furious. He hadbeen all set to fly to New York to do it in person and nowwished he hadnâ€™t waited. Moreover, Sarah had alsoorganized for the boy to go stay in Bedford with her parents.Indeed, they had already driven to the city to collect him.Sarah would see him, albeit briefly, when she got back, thenfly on to Missoula. Josh, she said, would not be coming withher.
Ben had thus been thoroughly preempted and excised. And,as usual, he swallowed his anger and said nothing. It was atechnique Sarah had used over and over again since he lefther and she now had it honed to perfection, excluding himfrom important decisions about their children with such acasualâ€”sometimes even friendlyâ€”aplomb, that tocomplain seemed churlish. The underlying message wasalways the same: By leaving, he had revealed his total lack oflove for them and had thereby forfeited all rights ofconsultation. Sometimes she did it so brilliantly, he couldnâ€™t help butbe impressed. And though it surprised him that she shouldchoose to do it now, in their shared desolation, he realizedlater that she had in fact surpassed herself. For now he wouldhave to call Josh in the enemy camp of his former in-laws.George and Ella Davenport had always considered himunworthy of their golden daughter and his desertion hadvindicated their contempt. Ben was now properly consigned tosome lower stratum of cheats, liars, and neâ€™er-do-wells. Immediately after he had finished listening to Sarahâ€™slist of decisions, he called Joshâ€™s cell phone. â€œHey, Joshie.â€ â€œHi.â€ â€œI was going to fly over and tell you about Abbie, butMom says she already told you.â€ â€œYeah.â€ â€œHow are you doing?â€
â€œOkay, I guess.â€ There was a long pause. Ben thought he could hearwhispers in the background. â€œAre you with your grandma and grandpa?â€ â€œYeah. Weâ€™re in the car.â€ â€œOh. Right. Well, say hi to them for me.â€ â€œOkay.â€ â€œMom says youâ€™re not coming out to Missoula.â€ â€œWhatâ€™s the point?â€ His voice was so flat and colorless that Ben wondered if theboy had taken too many of those antidepressant pills heâ€™dbeen on for the last few months. Or perhaps he was just dazedby the news or embarrassed to talk in front of Ella andGeorge. Ben cursed himself for not going to New York. It washe who should be with his son at this time, not those two. â€œWell, I guess youâ€™re right. Listen, will you call mewhen youâ€™ve got a moment to yourself?â€ â€œOkay.â€ â€œBye, then. I love you, son.â€ â€œYeah. Bye.â€
The Valley View Funeral Home andCrematoryâ€”â€œServing Missoulaâ€™s Bereaved Since1964â€â€”stood between a used-car lot and a sinister-looking bar called Mountain Jackâ€™s. It was skirted by athin strip of lawn doing its best to appear elysian. Ben parkedin the otherwise empty lot and, thrusting his hands into hisjacket pockets, walked toward reception. The building was allPalladian pillars and swirled cream stucco, a curious hybrid oftemple and hacienda that at any other time would have madethe architect in him smile. Beyond it, away to the west,lightning flickered against the gunmetal shroud that hadlowered itself over the mountains. The air smelled of wet dustand just as he reached the cover of the portico a first fewplump raindrops began to smack and speckle the asphalt. The reception area was a hushed expanse of mushroom-pink carpet and magnolia walls, decorated with elaboratearrangements of fake flowers and framed prints. Away in thefar corner, a muted TV was entertaining a coffee table and apair of empty couches in blue velour. Ben pressed thesoundless button at the reception desk and while he waitedwandered with soundless footsteps, inspecting the pictures.All were landscapes and all featured water of some kindâ€”ariver, lake, or ocean. There was a unifying, bland tranquility tothem, nothing too poignant or risky, no sunsets or stormyskies, not a hint of hell or eternal judgment. He wondered ifthey ever censored the pictures to suit the special sensibilitiesof their clients. Maybe they had already done it for himbecause there sure wasnâ€™t a single snowy mountain onthe walls.
â€œMay I help you?â€ A young man with a friendly round face and a body thatseemed too long for his legs was heading across themushroom pink toward him. Ben introduced himself and sawa fractional retuning in the manâ€™s smile. He wasnâ€™toverdoing it, just finding the right calibration of professionalsympathy. This was the Jim Pickering both Ben and Sarahhad spoken with on the phone. â€œYour wife called to say you werenâ€™t going to makeit today.â€ â€œShe had to get a later flight. I flew up this morning fromAlbuquerque. Weâ€™re not married anymore.â€ He didnâ€™t know why he had volunteered that, but theman nodded, readjusting the smile again, just a touch moreconcern. â€œIs it inconvenient for me to see . . . ?â€ Bencouldnâ€™t finish the sentence. Should he say Abbie? Mydaughter? The body? â€œNot at all. Weâ€™re all ready for you.â€ â€œI just wanted to, you know, make sureâ€”â€ â€œI absolutely understand.â€ He asked Ben if he would mind waiting a moment andhurried off the way he came. He disappeared down a corridorand the silence reasserted itself. The place had the bestsoundproofing Ben had come across in a long time. Hecaught himself wondering what materials they had used. What
was the matter with him? Waiting to see his daughterâ€™sbody and thinking about goddamn acoustics? Jim Pickering came back and asked Ben to follow him. Asthey walked a sequence of corridors, he explained that theyhad embalmed the body, as Mrs. Cooper had requested, andthat the search-and-rescue people over the mountains hadmade the process a lot easier by keeping so much ice aroundher during recovery and transportation. The results, he said,were consequently a lot better in the circumstances than onemight have expected. Whether the man was making a modestprofessional boast or simply trying to allay anxiety, Bencouldnâ€™t decide. â€œWe didnâ€™t have any clothes, so she is in what wecall a hospital gown. And, of course, we didnâ€™t have anyreference for hair and makeup, so youâ€™ll see weâ€™vegone for quite a natural look. There is scope for some minoradjustment, should you wish. And the casket is only temporary.Mrs. Cooper didnâ€™t say whether you would be interestedin purchasing one from us or from the funeral home back east.We do have quite an extensive range.â€ â€œIâ€™m sure.â€ â€œWell, here we are. This is our viewing room.â€ He stopped in front of some white double doors, his handspoised to open them. He was looking at Ben for the signal toproceed. â€œAre we ready?â€ Ben nodded.
The room was about fourteen feet by ten, and lit with aroseate glow by four tall uplighters, their tops flared like lilies.The plain, pale wood casket stood open on a waist-high table.From the doorway, all Ben could see of its interior was a bandof pink satin lining. â€œIâ€™ll leave you,â€ Jim Pickering said. â€œIâ€™ll bejust along the corridor. Take as long as you need.â€ â€œThank you.â€ The doors closed quietly behind him. Ben stood there amoment, trying to conjure a trace of his earlier, absurd hopethat the body would be someone elseâ€™s. But he knew itwas Abbie. He could feel his blood pulsing fast and insistentin his ears and an icy weight turned in the pit of his stomach.He swallowed and stepped forward. It was almost three years since he had seen her. Her hairthen had been dyed black and cut short and spiky, as if toadvertise her anger. But now it was back to its natural reddishblond and longer and neatly combed so that it framed herslender neck and softened her. The face, with its pert noseand prettily arched eyebrows, was light-years from the hostile,screaming contortion that had haunted his head since thatterrible night. Death, perversely, had warmed her. The funeralmakeup had given her skin a clever, healthy luster. There waseven, in the tilt of her chin and in the dimpling at the corners ofher mouth, a curious immanence. As if something in a dreamhad amused her and at any moment she might smile or wakeand tell him what it was. And open those eyes. Gray-greenand flecked with hazel. He wished he could see them just one
more time. The only other body Ben had ever seen was hisfatherâ€™s, almost twenty years before. And the undertakersthen had gotten it all wrongâ€”his hair, his expression, the wayhe knotted his necktie, everything. They had plastered on somuch rouge and mascara and lipstick that he looked likesome frightful, unwigged drag queen. But in her white gown, like the bride she would never be, hisdaughter looked only serene and innocent and utterlybeautiful. â€œOh, sweetheart,â€ he whispered. â€œMy littlesweetheart.â€ He gripped the rim of the casket and bowed his head andclosed his eyes. And the sobs came quaking through him andhe didnâ€™t try to fight them. Alone now, he would allowhimself this, and later be the stronger for Sarah. How long he stood there, he couldnâ€™t tell. When hecould cry no more, he straightened himself and walked acrossto a little table where a box of tissues had been placed. Andwhen he had dried his face and composed himself, he walkedonce more to the casket and leaned in and kissed hisdaughterâ€™s cheek. She smelled of nothing and her fleshagainst his lips was as cold as stone.
FIVESarah let the waitress fill her cup with coffee for the third time,and tried not to watch the two men across the table finishingtheir breakfasts. The sight and smell of all that egg and baconand fried potato was making her feel queasy. Jet-lagged, she had taken a sleeping pill sometime aftermidnight and all it did was plunge her into a shallowsemicoma fraught with anxious dreams. She woke twisted inher sheets like a mummy and with a blurred and aching headthat two heavy-duty painkillers had failed to clear. Outside itwas still raining. It hadnâ€™t stopped since she arrived. Benjamin had met her when she got off the plane and haddriven her to the hotel in the ridiculous little car heâ€™drented. Why he had to be so cheap, she had no idea. But shehadnâ€™t mentioned it. On the flight she had given herselfstrict instructions to be civil. But, God, it was hard. Even thesight of him now, eating his breakfast and talking trivia withthis sheriff character, made her feel angry. He had grown hishair longer and bought himself some trendy little wire-rimmedglasses. All very Santa Fe. Benjamin had booked them adjoining rooms at the HolidayInn Parkside and after checking in last evening they hadborrowed an umbrella and walked over to a Japaneserestaurant on North Higgins. The food was fine but theconversation hideously stilted, perhaps because they wereboth trying so hard to avoid talking about Abbie. Benjamin had
seemed barely able to look her in the eye and kept asking allsorts of eager questions about Venice. She wanted to screamat him to shut up. Who on earth was he? This polite strangerwho had shared her life for all those years and was nowtreating her like a guest with whom heâ€™d gotten trapped ata cocktail party. She knew she was being unfair and that it was probably herfault that he behaved that way. Some curious defensemechanism seemed to have clicked on inside her brain.Being cold and brittle and angry with him was the only way shecould cope. Allow herself to be any warmer or more receptiveto comfort and she would lose her foothold and fall off theedge, spiral into the black whirlpool she knew was waiting forher below. Her little girl dead, lying cold in a box . . . No, shewasnâ€™t going to let her head go there. But when he put hisarm around her on their way back to the hotel she almost had.And again when he kissed her good night in the dingy corridoroutside her room and they went off to their lonely, separateking-size beds, so thinly partitioned they could hear eachotherâ€™s every shuffle and cough and flush of the john. Sheriff Charlie Riggs didnâ€™t have an office in Missoula,which was why he had suggested they meet for breakfast hereat The Shack. It was a place Abbie had once taken them to,tucked away on West Main and just another short, wet walkfrom the hotel. The sheriff had been there waiting for them, his rain-soakedStetson and a white plastic bag beside him on the bench ofthe little wooden booth. He stood to greet them, a tall man,even taller than Benjamin, but bulkier, with a bushy mustache
that was going to gray. His eyes were gentle and had in thema sadness that Sarah suspected was permanent, not merelycontrived for their benefit. He had those old-fashionedWestern manners that she had always been a sucker for,politely nodding when he shook her hand and calling hermaâ€™am. He declared at once how sorry he was about Abbie. â€œI have a daughter myself,â€ he said. â€œCanâ€™teven bear to think of such a thing happening.â€ â€œNot wanted for murder just yet, I hope,â€ Sarah saidwith a withering brightness before she could stop herself. Thepoor man winced and Benjamin looked away. â€œNo, maâ€™am,â€ the sheriff said quietly. They sat down and the two men chatted about the weatherand nothing much else until the waitress came and took theirorders. Then, leaning forward and talking in a low voice so asnot to be overheard, Sheriff Riggs had taken them throughwhat had happened. He told them about the skiers findingAbbie in the ice and how the autopsy at the crime labhadnâ€™t been able to establish either how she came to bethere or how exactly she had died. He asked if they had anyideas about why she might have been in that part of the worldand Benjamin said they hadnâ€™t. Abbie had suffered headinjuries, the sheriff went on, as well as a broken leg and adislocated shoulder. And there was water in her lungs, whichsuggested she might have drowned. The best guess at themoment was that the injuries had been sustained in a seriousfall, the cause of which remained unknown.