The Edge of Justice (18 page)

Finished with my packing, I have a brief conversation with McGee over the hotel's phone system. He wants me to take backup, either one of the other DCI agents or some local deputies in Johnson County. I explain there is no time—I'm leaving this minute. McGee reluctantly agrees to let me go but clearly isn't happy about it. I make him feel better by saying that I'm taking Oso, and that he will back me up. And I tell him I'll be back the next night, I hope. Thursday morning at the absolute latest, as that is when I'm due in federal court for the summary judgment hearing.

I tell Oso to heel, grimace as I sling the big pack over one shoulder, and walk out to the car. The old dog is almost dancing beside me with an excitement that this time I don't share.

I stop when I see the car. From the rear of it I can see a familiar ponytail in the passenger seat. When I open the driver's door, she says, “You can drag me out, but I'll make a scene and all those reporters by the pool will run over here. Besides,” she tells me, finally playing the trump card, “you do owe me.”

The hot wind whistles through the truck the entire ride to Buffalo. I keep the windows down so Oso can hang his massive head out and fling drool down the side of the Land Cruiser. We drive north past the ghost town of Bosler, then northeast through the jagged tear of Sybille Canyon. From the CD player I installed, the only modern convenience on the rattling old truck, howl the sounds of Blues Traveler and Blind Melon.

Rebecca's long hair wraps around her face until she uses a bandanna that she wears like a pirate to hold it down. From behind my sunglasses, which sit crooked on my swollen face, I admire the long runner's legs that extend from her shorts. She calls a brief halt as we pass the high fence of the wildlife refuge in the canyon. Beyond the gate, in a meadow cut down the center by a stream, stand a herd of elk. Rebecca climbs out of the truck and gazes at them without speaking. Oso shoves his head through the fence and stares beside her. After a moment he lets out a fierce bellow that startles the elk, causing them to turn and bound into the forest beyond the meadow. The beast looks at us for congratulations. Rebecca laughs and says to herself, “Wow. You're a long way from Denver, Dorothy.”

We leave the canyon near Wheatland and meet up with the interstate highway. On it, the pitch of the wind in the car rises to a gale. There is no point in conversation in these conditions, so I simply turn up the music and press down the accelerator. One of the things I still enjoy about being a cop is my practical immunity from traffic tickets. We speed northward through the ranching towns of Douglas and Glenrock, then Wyoming's largest city, Casper, and then there is nothing but grass and sandstone and an ungodly wind that shakes the truck until we ascend up to the pine trees outside of Buffalo. Over the town and to the west I can see the snowcapped peaks of the Big Horn Mountains.

I point at them, finally feeling Oso's infectious excitement, and shout over the noise, “That's where we're going.”

TWENTY

I
N BUFFALO WE
eat lunch on the patio of a small, funky café called the Moonbeam. It is the one place in town that isn't franchised fast food or a truck stop. We both order the special, some sort of couscous and tofu, and drink glass after glass of sweet mint tea. Besides us, there is only the proprietor. He is a thin, older man adorned with gold hoops in both ears and ribbons braided into his goatee. Without being asked, he brings Oso a bowl of cool water.

“This place belongs in Boulder,” she says, referring to Denver's granola-ish suburb where I spent my graduate school years. “Or maybe even Ward. Did you ever go to Ward? I did an article on it last year, after the town elected a horse as their mayor.”

I once dated a girl who lived there in the summertime and tell Rebecca about her. Her home was an old VW bus with a sun shower rigged on the roof. It was just one of many such homes in Ward. And across the road was the trailhead to the Indian Peaks Wilderness, where there are some of Colorado's finest and least-crowded mountaineering routes. I had liked the place. And I respected the people who had the good sense to elect a horse rather than a politician.

“Are you still dating her?” Rebecca asks, eyeing me with what I hope is more than casual interest. She looks good with the red bandanna tied over the top of her head. Her hair spills out from under it and has been twisted by the wind. Dressed like this she could be a local in the Moonbeam Café and she would fit right in in Ward. All she needs is a tie-dye instead of her black silk T-shirt.

“No. That was years ago. The last I heard she'd moved her van to the Valley. Yosemite.”

“Tell me then, does Special Agent Burns have a love interest? My sources have confirmed that you've been spotted with a very tan blonde.”

She certainly has good sources. That must have been Kristi, the DCI secretary. At least I hope no one spotted Lynn leaving my room early Saturday morning. As I ponder the safest way to answer her question, I realize that I don't mind the way the conversation is going. It gives me an excuse to ask about her situation.

I take a gamble. “If your sources are referring to a Mexican restaurant in Laramie, then no, that wasn't a love interest but a working dinner.”

The gamble pays off—she looks satisfied with my answer.

“And how about you? What's your status?”

“I think in the Moonbeam Café you should be asking me my sign.”

“Okay, what's your sign, then tell me your status.”

“Aries. Dating, but nothing serious.”

We watch each other for a moment, then at the same time we both look away. That makes her laugh.

“So why did you become a cop? With your background, you could have been a diplomat, a lawyer, or an Air Force officer like your father.”

“I didn't want any more of the military life,” I explain. “By growing up in it I put in my twenty years. And I'd lose my mind if I had to sit behind a desk all day. I don't have the attention span for that. I used to do some guiding in the summers, in Alaska, but that was boring too, short-roping clients up Denali. I thought carrying a badge and a gun would be more exciting. Going after drug dealers and child molesters. It sounded like fun.”

“It's not?” she asks.

“Not anymore. Not since that thing in Cheyenne.”

“Why don't you quit, do something else?”

“The problem is that it's a game. That's what's wrong with it—it shouldn't be a game. But it's a game I can't stand to lose. Every time I'm ready to quit, something like this comes up and I have to see it through.” The thought of the Knapp brothers being put to death for a crime they didn't commit makes me angry. So does the thought of Heller, Karge, and Willis getting away with something, even profiting from it. A part of me feels not only righteously indignant but also competitive. I want to win.

After our food comes I begin to quiz her on the contents of the duffel bag that she's brought along. When she tells me, I shake my head in dismay, teasing her. It turns out that the things she brought aren't suitable for anything but car camping. And she finally admits that is the only kind of camping she has ever done. On a paper napkin I make a list of the things she will need. I feel like I'm starting a wonderful vacation rather than working on a murder investigation.

After paying an exorbitant bill for the healthy, flavorless meal, we drive a few miles outside of town to a small camping and mountaineering shop I know. I park the truck in the dirt parking lot outside the store. The only other car in the lot is a battered pickup, its back window and bumper plastered with stickers supporting environmental causes. Instead of telling Oso to stay, I invite him out of the truck. He bounds out too youthfully for his years and runs up on the porch. Rebecca looks at me, puzzled, as I hold the store's door open first for the beast, then her.

From inside come the sounds of squeals, shouts, and the clatter of merchandise being knocked over. It is a single cluttered room. Metal climbing devices hang from one wall; from another, sleeping bags are suspended; and from a third is an assortment of dehydrated food. On the floor there are tents both fully erected and half collapsed amid the racks of clothing. One rack is knocked over near a rapidly deflating tent. A middle-aged woman with long, stringy hair is yelling at Oso and two other dogs, the three of them leaping and wrestling in the tight spaces.

“Stop that, girls! Cut it out, Oso!” she says, then she turns to us at the door and yells at me too. “Goddamn it, Anton!”

I stand grinning. Despite the bruises and the aches, I'm feeling good. Relaxed. This place is another memory of better times.

The woman goes on yelling and the dogs scrambling and fighting until I grab Oso by the collar and drag him, with the two smaller females hanging on tenaciously, out through a small door at the back of the store which leads into a yard. When I come back in, the woman pushes her hair out of her face, then puts her hands on her hips, letting out a sigh of exasperation as she observes the mess. Then she turns to Rebecca.

“My name's Cecelia,” she tells her.

“I'm Rebecca. I'm very sorry about Oso causing all this mess.”

Cecelia glares at me. “Anton always does that. It scares the hell out of me. But my girls just love that monster of his.”

I take Cecelia in my arms and kiss her cheek. Rebecca observes this critically, looking for signs of past or current intimacy, I guess.

Following the hug Cecelia pushes me out to arm's length and looks me over. “You look like shit,” she tells me. She turns to Rebecca and asks, pointing at my face, “Did you do this to him? 'Cause he's been needing a woman to do that to him for a long time! I thought about it a few times myself.”

Rebecca makes a denial, and I give a brief explanation about being jumped in the courthouse.

“I'd think you'd had enough excitement last year, Anton. When are you going to hang it up? Climbing's bad enough; you Burns boys act like you need risk in every part of your life.” I think she sees my eyes harden involuntarily at the mention of my brother; she lets the subject drop. Rebecca is watching us both intently while she fingers the cams and ice screws hanging on one wall.

Instead I talk with Cecelia about mutual friends in the area. A Wyoming native, Cecelia's lived and climbed in the Big Horns all her life. She and her husband pioneered first ascents all through those loose and dangerous granite walls. And a couple of years ago the probable finally happened to a couple who each possessed an insatiable Rat for isolated heights: a falling block of that stone they loved crushed her husband's spine. These days he only leaves the bed of their tiny cabin nearby in a wheelchair outfitted with mountain bike tires. Cecelia tells me he is still climbing from their bed, at least in his mind. He's writing a guidebook to the Big Horns. Rebecca wanders among the clothing but is still paying close attention. I wonder if she is thinking of doing another story.

While we talk I gather the items I had listed on the napkin for Rebecca. Fleece pants and jacket, sturdy boots, small backpack, sleeping bag, and an ensolite pad. She already has a Gore-Tex jacket, which is de rigueur for reporters and tourists in Wyoming this season.

While we help her try on boots, Cecelia winks at me when Rebecca can't see. She continues the pantomime by flashing me the okay sign, then shaking her hand as if she has touched something hot.

After we have talked about our mutual climbing friends, I tell her I'm working down in Laramie and ask if anyone from down that way has been around.

“Oh yeah,” Cecelia answers. “That bad-ass Heller was in just yesterday morning with a couple of his latest protégés. He's been coming up here quite a bit, putting up new lines in the Horns, he says.”

“Two guys were with him yesterday?”

“Yeah. Young guys, younger than you. What's this about? Are you a climber or a cop right now?”

“A little of both, Cece. I'll explain it all another time. Anyway, what were they buying?”

“Mainly beta,” she says, meaning information on the area. “Heller wanted to know the quickest trailhead and approach to Cloud Peak. Then just some food and pitons.”

I kneel on the floor to help Cecelia reerect one of the collapsed tents. Absently I finger the cord that's used to anchor the tent to Velcro pads on the carpet. The cord is oddly soft. I look at it closer. It's pink with purple flecks. I drop it in surprise, then pick it up again.

“You sell a lot of this?” I ask.

“No. It's crap. Too soft to be trustworthy on the rock. And only French climbers like those colors. I ordered it by mistake a couple of years ago.”

“Did Heller buy any of this?”

Cecelia shakes her head. “Not this trip—but he did maybe a year ago. Don't know what he wanted it for.”

“Can you give me some of that? The cord?”

“Sure, Anton, whatever you need. When are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Soon, Cece, real soon I hope.”

She goes into the basement/storage room through a trapdoor behind the counter. Rebecca looks up from tying bootlaces and says, “This is great! Or terrible. I don't know anymore. This could be more proof that the Knapps didn't kill Kimberly Lee, right?”

“Right. What a clusterfuck, as our friend McGee would say.”

Rebecca opens her purse and takes out a pad of paper and a pen. She makes some notes until I interrupt and get her to walk around in the boots in order to make sure they fit. I'm getting even more anxious to talk to Chris Braddock before Billy Heller gives him a loose belay.

Cecelia comes back and hands me a piece of thin pink cord that is flecked with purple. It looks the right color and size for the cord McGee had described as being used to tie and strangle Kimberly Lee. It also looks the right size for having caused the abrasions on Kate Danning's neck.

We pile the purchases onto the counter. Cecelia tallies it and Rebecca puts her Visa on the counter. Cecelia looks at me.

“The usual discount?” she asks.

Rebecca answers for me, “No discount. I'm going to expense it all to a major corporation.”

Cecelia laughs and gives her a thumbs-up. “Stick it to the Man. I like this chick,” she tells me.

I ask, “What trailhead did you send them to? Heller and his friends?”

“Hunter Corrals. But now that I think about it, there's a back road near Ant Hill that might be a little closer. Prettier too, although I don't think those boys were too interested in beauty. But taking a girl along that looks like Rebecca here, you just might . . .”

“Where do we park?”

Cecelia gives me complex directions. I have to borrow Rebecca's paper and pen to get it all down.

I retrieve Oso from the yard in back of the store, where he is still entangled with the two amorous husky bitches. When I walk back in I find Cecelia giving Rebecca a tight hug. Before she sees me, I hear her say, “Be good to him. He needs some goodness in his life.”

Once Rebecca and Oso are situated in the truck, I start the engine. Then I turn to her and say, “I forgot something. I'll be right back.” I leave the truck running and go back inside the store.

“Now what?” Cecelia asks with feigned exasperation.

I explain what I need and she just shakes her head.

“Mine's locked up as evidence in Laramie. C'mon, Cece, you know there's bears up there.”

After a moment's consideration she bends behind the counter and hands me a snub-nosed .32 revolver with a scarred wooden grip. It's heavy in my hand, loaded with bullets. It is the first time I have held a loaded gun except on the pistol range in a year and a half. Giving it over, she says, “Bears, my ass. I hate this thing anyway. Don't bring it back.” I slip it in a paper bag and give her another hug.

I follow Cecelia's directions until we are on an ancient and unsigned dirt road. The mountains are hidden from our view by low, rolling hills. After making the final turn, I press the button on the odometer and, as instructed, carefully gauge a distance of 6.8 miles to a small turnabout on the north side of the road.

The aspens at the eleven-thousand-foot trailhead have recently been stripped of their leaves. All that remains is their bone-colored bark mixed among the evergreens that lead up into the steep foothills. There are patches of early-season snow already on the ground. Despite the chilly afternoon wind, Rebecca is impressed by the scenery and says so. I don't reply. But I smile, secure in the knowledge that this is nothing compared to what is behind the hills.

I help her on with a small backpack and adjust it for her, enjoying the small intimacies as I move around her, sliding my hand behind her back and tugging on straps. My own pack is much larger and heavier. But I manage to swing it on without gasping as its weight presses down on the fresh bruises. She laughs when I pull black nylon saddlebags out of the truck and fit them across Oso's broad back.

“Everyone pulls his own weight,” I tell her.

We climb a dirt and rock trail up and through the trees. I find myself excitedly running off at the mouth, telling her about the times I had come up here before with my dad and brother and later with friends and by myself. She doesn't understand my references to hairy pitches and off-width cracks, but she doesn't interrupt, not appearing to mind my babbling. I hope the stories will take her mind off the trail and the hot spots from the unfamiliar boots rubbing against her skin. Oso leads the way, obviously delighted, like I am, to be out of the city and out of the truck, back in our element.