The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (147 page)

“When do you think you’ll be done with him? In case I’m in the market for a stud.”

“Can’t say. So far he’s playing my tune, but I’ll let you know.”

When Marg set a Coke down by her plate, Rowan leaned into her just a little. “Thanks, Marg. Really.”

In acknowledgment, Marg gave her a hard one-armed hug. “Clean your plate,” she ordered.

After breakfast, she tracked down L.B. in the gym where he’d worked up a sweat with bench presses.

“I’m on the bottom of the jump list,” she said without preamble.

He sat up, wiped his face with his towel. His long braid trailed down his sweaty, sleeveless workout shirt. “That’s right.” He picked up a twenty-pound free weight and started smooth, two-count bicep curls.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where I put you. I’d have taken you off completely for a day or two, but they’ve caught one down in Payette, and Idaho might need some Zulies in there.”

“I’m fit and I’m fine. Move me up. Christ, L.B., you’ve got Stovic ahead of me, and he’s still limping a little.”

“You’ve been on nearly every jump we’ve had this month. You need a breather.”

“I don’t—”

“I say you do,” he interrupted, and switched the weight to his other arm while he studied her face. “It’s my job to decide that.”

“This is about what happened yesterday, and that’s not right. I need the work, I need the pay. I’m not injured, I’m not sick.”

“You need a breather,” he repeated. “Put some time in the loft. We’re still catching up there. I’ll take a look at the list tomorrow.”

“I find remains, which I dutifully report, and I get grounded.”

“You’re still on the list,” he reminded her. “And you know jumping fire’s not all we do here.”

She also knew that when Michael Little Bear used that mild, reasonable tone, she’d have better luck arguing with smoke. She could sulk, she could steam, but she wouldn’t change his mind.

“Maybe I’ll go down and see my father for a bit.”

“That’s a good idea. Let me know if you decide you want to go farther off base.”

“I know the drill,” she grumbled. She started to shove her hands in her pockets, then went stiff when Lieutenant Quinniock walked in. “Cops are here,” she said quietly.

L.B. set down his weight, got to his feet.

“Mr. Little Bear, Ms. Tripp. I’ve got a few follow-up questions.”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Rowan began.

“Actually, I’d like to speak with you, too. Why don’t we step out. You can finish your workout,” he said to L.B., “then we could talk in your office.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“That works. Miss?” Quinniock, in his polished shoes and stone-gray suit, gestured toward the gym doors.

“Don’t ‘Miss’ me. Make it Tripp,” she said as she shoved open the door ahead of him. “Or Rowan, or Ro, but don’t ‘Miss’ me unless you’re sad I’ve gone away.”

He smiled. “Rowan. Would you mind if we sat outside? This is a busy place.”

“Do you want me to go over my—what would you call it?—altercation with Dolly?”

“Do you have anything to add to what you’ve already told me?”

“No.”

“She got the pig’s blood from a ranch, if you’re interested. From one of the people who goes to her church.”

“Onward, Christian soldiers.” She dropped down on a bench outside the barracks.

“She acquired it the day before she came here to ask for work.” He nodded when Rowan turned to stare at him. “It leads me to conclude she meant to cause you trouble, even before you and she spoke the day she was hired back on.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered what I said or did.”

“Probably not. I understand you spoke with Special Agent DiCicco.”

“She’s a snappy dresser. You too.”

“I like a good suit. It complicated things for you, finding the remains.”

“Complicated because it was during a fire, or because Dolly’s missing?”

“Both. The missing person’s end is MPD’s case, at this time. We’re cooperating with the USFS while they work to identify the body. In that spirit, I’ve shared information with Agent DiCicco.”

“My history, as she called it, with Dolly.”

“That, and the fact Dolly told several people you were to blame for what happened to James Brayner. You, and everyone here. She’s been vocal about her resentment for some time, including the period of time she was away from Missoula.”

It didn’t surprise her, could no longer anger her. “I don’t know how she could work here, be involved with jumpers, and not understand what we do, how we do it, what we deal with.”

She looked at Quinniock then, the dramatic hair, the perfectly knotted tie. “And I’m not sure I understand why you’re telling me this.”

“It’s possible she planned to continue to cause trouble—for you, for the base. It’s possible she came back here for work so she had easier access. And it’s possible she had help. Someone she convinced to help her. Did you see her with anyone in particular after she came back?”

“No.”

“She and Matthew Brayner, the brother.”

Rowan’s back went up. “She blindsided Matt, the Brayner family, with the baby. I know they all took a natural interest in the baby and, being the kind of people they are, would do whatever they could for Dolly. It took guts for Matt to come back here, to work here after what happened to Jim. Any idea you may have that he’d help Dolly destroy my quarters or equipment is wrong and insulting.”

“Were they friendly while his brother was alive?”

“I don’t think Matt gave Dolly two thoughts, but he was, and is, friendly with everyone. And I’m not talking about another jumper behind his back.”

“I’m just trying to get a feel for the dynamics. I’m also told several of the men on base had relationships with Dolly, at least until she became involved with James Brayner.”

“Sex isn’t a relationship, especially blow-off-some-steam sex with a woman who was willing to pop the cork with pretty much anybody. She popped plenty of corks in town, too.”

“Until James Brayner.”

“She zeroed in on him last season, and as far as I know that was a first for her. Look, he was a cute guy, fun, charming. Maybe she fell for him, I don’t know. Dolly and I didn’t share our secrets, hopes and dreams.”

“You’re probably aware by now that we found her car.”

“Yeah, word travels.” She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. “It’s going to be her, when they finish the ID. I know that. You just have to triangulate the town, where you found the car, where I found the remains, and it’s heavy weight on it. I didn’t like her. I didn’t like her a whole bunch of a lot, but she didn’t deserve the way she ended up. Nobody deserves the way she ended up.”

“People are always getting what they don’t deserve. One way or the other. Thanks for the time.”

“When will they know?” she asked when he stood up. “When will they know for sure?”

“Her dentist is local. They’ll verify with her dental records, and should have confirmation later today. It’s not my case, but just out of curiosity, in your opinion, how long would it take to get from the trailhead to where you found the remains, adding in carrying about a hundred and ten pounds, in the dark.”

She got to her feet so they’d be eye to eye. “It depends. It could take an hour. But if you were fit, an experienced hiker, and you knew the area, you could do it in less than half that.”

“Interesting. Thanks again.”

She sat back down when he walked toward Operations, tried to work her mind around the conversation, the information.

And decided, as much as she hated to admit it, maybe L.B. was right. Maybe she did need a breather. So she’d walk down to see her father, touch base with the rest of his crew. The walk might clear her head, and God knew having a little time with her father never hurt.

She went back in for a bottle of water and a ball cap, then crossed paths with Gull as she came back out.

“I saw you with the cop. Do I need to post that bail?”

“Not so far. They found her car, Gull.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“And . . . there’s other stuff. I have to get my head around it. I’m going to walk down to the school, see my father.”

“Do you want company?”

“I need some solo time.”

He ran his knuckles down her cheek in a casually affectionate gesture that threw her off. “Look me up when you get back.”

“Sure. You’re second load,” she called back as she started the walk. “Idaho might need some Zulies. If you jump, jump good.”

She watched the show as she walked. Planes nosing up; skydivers drifting down. Clouds gathered in the west, hard and white over the mountains. Smaller, she noted, and puffier overhead and north, drifting east on a slow, leisurely sail.

She heard mechanics working in the hangars, the twang of music, the clink of metal, the roll of voices, but didn’t stop as she might have another day. Conversation wasn’t what she was after.

Solo time.

The killer had a car, or truck, she decided. Nobody would’ve carried Dolly from where she’d stopped to where she ended up. Did he kill her when she pulled off 12, dump her body in the trunk of the car, bed of the truck? Or did he give her a ride, maybe park at the trailhead, then do it? Or force her up the trail, then—

Jesus, any way it had happened, she’d ended up dead, and her baby daughter an orphan.

Why had she been heading south on 12, or had she been heading back from farther away? To meet a lover? To meet this theoretical person she’d enlisted to cause trouble? Plenty of motels to choose from. Hard to meet a lover—and Dolly had been famous for using sex as barter—when you lived at home with your parents and your baby.

Why couldn’t she have loved the baby enough to just make a life? To treasure what she had, and put some goddamn effort into being a good mother instead of letting this obsession eat away at her?

All the time she’d spent planning her weird revenge, harboring all that hate, could’ve been spent on living, on nuzzling her baby.

“Oh, mother issues much?” Annoyed with herself, she quickened her pace.

Enough solo time, she decided. Solo time was overrated. She should’ve taken Gull up on his offer to come with her. He’d have distracted her out of this mood, made her laugh, or at least annoyed her so she’d stop feeling sad and angry.

When she moved around the people scattered over the lawn, the picnic tables at her father’s place, she looked up, as they were.

Coming on final, she thought, watching the plane. She crossed to the fence, tucked her hands in her back pockets and decided to enjoy the show. Her smile bloomed as the skydiver jumped—and taking a breather didn’t seem so bad after all. When the second figure leaped out, she settled in, studying their forms on the free fall.

The first, definitely a student, but not bad. Not shabby. Arms out, taking it in. Check out that view! Feel that wind!

And the second . . . Rowan angled her head, narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, not yet, but she’d have laid decent money down Iron Man Tripp rocketed down toward the student.

Then came the moment. The chutes deployed, one then two—to applause and cheers—the blue-and-white stripes of the student’s, and the chute she’d designed and rigged for her father’s sixtieth birthday with the boldly lettered IRON MAN in red (his favorite color) over a figure of a smoke jumper.

She loved watching him like this, and always had. Perfect form, she thought, absolute control, riding the air from sky to earth while the sun streamed through those drifting clouds.

She’d been exactly right to come here, she realized, when the world tipped crazily all around her. Here, what she loved held constant. Whatever happened, she could count on him.

She willed the stress of the morning into a corner. She couldn’t dismiss it, but she could shove it back a little and focus on what made her happy.

She’d hang out here with her father for a while, have lunch with him, talk over what was going on. He’d listen, let her spew, and somehow pull her back in, steady her again.

She always thought more clearly, felt less overwhelmed, after a session with her father.

The student handled the drop well, Rowan observed, managed a very decent landing and was up on his—no her, Rowan realized—feet quickly. Then the Iron Man touched down, soft as butter, smooth as silk.

She added her applause to the rest, sent out a high whistle of approval before waving her arms in hopes of snagging her father’s attention.

The student unhooked her harness, pulled off her helmet. Gorgeous red hair seemed to explode in the sunlight. As the woman raced toward her father, Rowan grinned. She understood the exuberance, the charge of excitement, had seen this same scene play out countless times between student and instructor. She continued to grin as the woman leaped into Lucas’s arms, something else she’d seen again and again.

What she hadn’t seen, and what had her grin shifting to a puzzled frown, was her father swinging a student in giddy circles while said student locked her arms around his neck.

And when Lucas “Iron Man” Tripp leaned down and planted a long, very enthusiastic kiss (and the crowd went wild) on the student’s mouth, Rowan’s jaw dropped to the toes of her Nikes.

She would’ve been more shocked if Lucas had pulled out a Luger and shot the redhead between the eyes, but it would’ve been a close call.

The woman had her hands on Lucas’s cheeks, a gesture somehow more intimate than the kiss itself. It spoke of knowledge, familiarity, of privilege.

Who the hell was this bimbo, and when the hell had Iron Man started kissing students? Kissing
anyone
?

And in public.

The woman turned, her face—which didn’t look bimbo-ish—warm from the kiss, bright with laughter, and executed a deep, exaggerated curtsy for the still cheering crowd. To Rowan’s continued shock, Lucas simply stood there grinning like the village idiot.