Angels Fall

  telling me what you saw."

  "He got down, and he grabbed her by the hair and he slammed her head down, I think. It looked like… he strangled her." Replaying it, Reece rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, prayed she wouldn't be sick. "He strangled her, and her feet were beating the ground, and then they weren't. I ran. I screamed, I think, but it's so loud with the rapids, it's loud."

  "It's a long distance, even with the glasses. You're sure about this?"

  She looked up then, her eyes swollen and exhausted. "Have you ever seen someone killed?"

  "No."

  She pushed herself up, reached for her pack. "I have. He took her somewhere, carried her body away. Dragged her away. I don't know. But he killed her and he's getting away. We have to get help."

  "Give me your pack."

  "I can carry my own pack."

  He pulled it away from her, sent her a pitying look. "Carry mine, it's lighter." He shrugged out of it, held it out to her. "We can stand here and argue about it. I'll still win, but we'll waste time."

  She put on his pack, and of course he was right. It was considerably lighter. She'd brought too much, but she'd just wanted to be sure…

  "Cell phone! I'm an idiot."

  "That may be," he said as she dug into her pocket. "But the cell phone won't do you any good here. No signal."

  Though she kept walking, she tried it anyway. "Maybe we'll hit a spot where it'll get through. It's going to take so long to get back. You'd make it faster alone. You should go ahead."

  "No."

  "But—"

  "Who'd you see killed before? '

  "I can't talk about it. How long will it take to get back?"

  "Until we get there. And don't start that are-we-there-yet crap."

  She nearly smiled. He was so brusque, so brisk, he pushed her fear away. He was right. They'd get there when they got there. And they'd do what they needed to do when they did.

  And the way his stride ate up the ground, they'd be there in half the time it had taken her to do the trail in the first place. If she managed to keep up with him.

  "Talk to me, will you? About something else? Anything else. About your book."

  "No. I don't talk about works in progress."

  "Artistic temperament."

  "No, it's boring."

  "I wouldn't be bored."

  He shot her a look. "For me."

  "Oh." She wanted words, his, her own. Any words at all. "Okay, why Angel's Fist?"

  "Probably for the same reason as you. I wanted a change of scene."

  "Because you got fired in Chicago."

  "I didn't get fired."

  "You didn't punch your boss and get fired from the Tribune? That's what I heard."

  "I punched what could loosely be called a colleague for cribbing my notes on a story, and since the editor—who happened to be the asshole's uncle—took his word over mine. I quit."

  "To write books. Is it fun?"

  "I guess it is."

  "I bet you killed the asshole in the first one you wrote."

  He glanced at her again, and there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. Eyes of such an interesting green. "You'd be right. Beat him to death with a shovel. Very satisfying."

  "I used to like to read thrillers and mysteries. I haven't been able to… for a while." She ignored the protesting muscles in her legs as they continued the descent.

  She was supposed to walk differently now. going down inclines. Keeping the weight forward, stepping onto her toes rather than her heels. As Brody was.

  "Maybe I'll try one. of yours."

  He gave that disinterested shrug again. . "You could do worse."

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  THEY WALKED AWHILE in silence, across the meadow, around the marshy pond. She'd seen ducks, she remembered, and the heron. And the poor, doomed fish. Her body felt numb, her mind hazed.

  "Brody?"

  "Still right here."

  "Will you go with me to the police?"

  He stopped to drink, then offered her the water bottle. His eyes were cool and calm on hers. Green eyes. Dark, like the leaves in late summer.

  "We'll call from my place. It's closer than going all the way around the lake into town."

  "Thanks."'

  Relieved, grateful, Reece continued to put one foot in front of the other in the direction or Angel's Fist.

  To keep centered, she ran through recipes in her head, visualizing herself measuring, preparing.

  "Sounds pretty good." Brody commented, and jerked her out of the visual.

  "What?"

  "Whatever you're making in there." He tapped a finger to his temple, "Grilled shrimp?"

  No point, she decided, absolutely no point in being embarrassed. She was way beyond that. "Brined grilled shrimp. I didn't know I was talking to myself." She kept her gaze straight ahead. "It's a problem I have."

  "I don't see a problem, except now I in hungry, and shrimp's not in big supply around here."

  "I just need to think about something else. About anything else. I just need—oh boy, oh crap." Her chest went tight and her breath short, The anxiety attack simply whiped out a hand to squeeze her throat. As her head went light with it, she bent from the waist, gasping. '"Can't breathe. Can't."

  "Yes. you can You are. But if you keep breathing like that you're going to hyperventilate and pass out on me. No way I'm carrying you back, so cut it out." His tone was flat and matter-of-tact as he hauled her up straight. Their eyes locked. "Cut it out."

  "Okay." There were gold rims around his pupils, around the outer verge of his irises. It must be what made his eyes so intense.

  "Finish cooking the shrimp."

  "The what?"

  "Finish cooking the shrimp."

  "Ah, um. Add half the garlic oil to the bowl of grilled shrimp, toss. Transfer to a platter, garnish with lemon wedges and divided bay leaves, and serve with grilled ciabatta bread and the rest of the garlic oil."

  "If I get my hands on some shrimp, you can pay me back for this and make me a plate of that."

  "Sure."

  "What the hell is ciabatta bread'"

  She couldn't have said why that made her laugh, but her head cleared while they walked. "Also called Italian slipper bread. It's good. You'll like it."

  "Probably. You planning on fancying up Joanie's?"

  "No. It's not my place."

  "Did you have one? Your own place? Restaurant? The way you handle the kitchen, it's obvious you've handled one before," he added when she said nothing.

  "I worked in one. I never had my own. I never wanted my own."

  "Because? Isn't that the American dream? Having your own?"

  "Cooking's art. Owning the place adds business. I just wanted to…" She'd nearly said create, but decided it sounded too pompous. "To cook."

  "Wanted?"

  "Want. Maybe. I don't know what I want." But she did. and as they walked through the cool forest, she decided just to say it. "I want to be normal again, to stop being afraid. I want to be who I was two years ago, and I never will be. So I'm trying to find out who I'm going to be for the rest of my lite."

  "The rest is a long time. Maybe you should figure out who you're going to be for the next couple weeks."

  She glanced up at him, then away. "I might have to start with the next couple of hours."

  He only shrugged as he dug for his cell phone. The woman was a bundle of mystery wrapped in nerves. It might be interesting to peel off some of the layers and get to the center of it. He didn't think she was as fragile as she believed herself to be. A lot of people wouldn't have managed the long hike back without breaking down after seeing what she'd seen.

  "Should get a signal from here," he said and punched in some numbers. "It's Brody. I need the sheriff. No. Now."

  She wouldn't have argued with him, Reece decided. There was steely authority in his tone simply because it held no urgency or desperation. She wondered if she'd ever regain even a portion of tha
t kind of control and confidence.

  "Rick, I'm with Reece Gilmore, just about a quarter mile from my place on Little Angel Trail. I need you to meet us at my cabin. Yeah, there's trouble. She witnessed a murder. That's what I said. She can fill you in on that. We're nearly there."

  He closed the phone, shoved it back in his pocket. "I'm going to give you some advice. I fucking hate advice—giving or getting."

  "But."

  "But. You're going to need to stay calm. You want to get hysterical again, cry, scream, faint, wait until after he's finished taking your statement. Better, wait till you're out of my cabin altogether because I don't want to handle it. Be thorough, be clear and get it done."

  "If I start to lose it, will you stop me?" She actually felt his scowl before she glanced up to see it. "I mean interrupt me, or knock over a lamp. Don't worry, I'll pay for it. Anything to give me a minute to pull myself back?"

  "Maybe."

  "I can smell the lake. You can just see it through the trees. I feel better when I see water. Maybe I should live on an island, except I think that might be too much water. I have to babble for a minute. You don't have to listen.

  "I've got ears." he reminded her, then veered off to take the easiest route to his cabin.

  He approached it from the rear where it was tucked in the trees and sagebrush. She imagined he could see the ring of mountains from any window.

  "It's a nice spot. You have a nice spot." But her mouth went dry as he opened the back door. He hadn't locked it. Anyone could come in through an unlocked door.

  When she didn't follow him in, he turned. "You want to stand outside and talk to Rick? The sheriff?"

  "No." Screwing up her courage, she stepped through the doorway behind him.

  Into the kitchen. It was small, she noted, but laid out well enough. He cleaned like a man. A terrible generalization, she thought, but most of the men she knew who weren't in the business cleaned kitchen surfaces only. Do the dishes—maybe—swipe the counters and you're done.

  There were a couple apples and an overripe banana in a white mix-ing bowl on the stone gray counter, a coffeemaker, a toaster that looked older than she was and a notepad.

  Brody went immediately to the coffeemaker, filling the tank, measuring the grounds before he'd taken off his jacket. Reece continued to stand just inside the door as he flipped it onto brew, then reached in a cupboard for a trio of white stoneware mugs.

  "Um, do you have any tea?"

  He shot a drily amused glance over his shoulder. "Oh sure. Let me just find my tea cozy."

  "I'll take that as a no. I don't drink coffee; it makes me jittery. More jittery." she amended when he cocked a brow at her. "Water. Water'd be fine. Do you leave the front door unlocked, too?"

  "No point in locks out here. It somebody wanted in. they'd just kick the door down or break a window. When she actually paled, he angled his head. "What? You want me to go check the closet, look under the bed?"

  She simply turned away from him to unshoulder his backpack."I bet you've never been afraid a day in your life."

  Got a rise out of her, he thought, and preferred the edge of insult and anger in her tone to the shakes and quivers. "Michael Myers."

  Confused, she turned back. "Who? Shrek?"

  "Jesus, Slim, that's Mike Myers. Michael Myers. The creepy guy in the mask. Halloween? I saw it on tape when I was about ten. Scared the living shit out of me. Michael Myers lived in my bedroom closet for years after that.

  Her shoulders relaxed a little as she pulled off her jacket. "How'd you get rid of him? Didn't he keep coming back in the movies?"

  "I snuck a girl into my room when I was sixteen. Jennifer Ridgeway. Pretty little redhead with a lot of… energy. After a couple hours in the dark with her, I never gave Michael Myers another thought."

  "Sex as exorcism?"

  "Worked for me." He moved to the refrigerator, got her out a bottle of water. "Let me know if you want to try it."

  "I'll do that." Sheer reflex hail her catching the bottle he lobbed lightly to her. But she nearly bobbled it, and her shoulders went to stone again with the brisk knock on the front door.

  "That'll be the sheriff. Michael Myers doesn't knock. Want to do this in here?"

  She looked at the manhole cover—sized kitchen table. "Here's good."

  "Hang on a minute."

  When he went to answer, she twisted the top off the bottle and gulped down cold, cold water. She heard the low murmurs, the heavy tread of men's boots. Calm, she reminded herselt. Calm, concise and clear.

  Rick came in. nodded at her with his eyes level and unreadable. "Reece. Got some trouble, I hear."

  "Yes."

  "Let's sit down here, so you can tell me about it."

  She sat, and she began, struggling to relay the details without bogging it down, without skimming over anything relevant. In silence, Brody poured coffee, set a mug in front of Rick.

  As she spoke she ran a hand up and down the bottle of water, up and down, while the sheriff took notes, watched her. And Brody leaned back against the gray counter, drinking coffee, saying nothing.

  "Okay, tell me, you think you could identify either one of them?"

  "Her, maybe. Maybe. But I didn't see him. His face, I mean. His back was to me. and he had a hat. I think they both had on sunglasses. She did, at first. She had brown hair, or black. But brown, I think. Long brown hair. Wavy. And she had on a red jacket and a hat. Cap."

  Rick swiveled to look back at Brody. "What did you see?"

  "Reece." Brody moved back to the pot, topped off his mug. "She was about a quarter mile up the trail from me when she stopped. Couldn't have seen the spot where this happened from where I was sitting if I'd been looking that way."

  Mardson pulled on his lower lip. "You weren't together."

  "No. Like Reece said, she went by where I was working, we had a couple of words, and she kept going. I headed up maybe close to an hour after, ran into her running back. She told me what happened, and I hiked back up to where she'd been."

  "You see anything then?"