“Did you not hear anything I said about my boss believing the threat against you was credible?”

  “I thought you were convinced Davenport was behind the emails?”

  “And what if Davenport is waiting on the mountain for you?”

  “What, he’s just going to spend tomorrow hanging out on Blackbird Ridge in case I show up?”

  “Isn’t that your theory? Someone with a sick sense of humor wants to see you busting your butt climbing up that mountain for nothing?”

  “I don’t think the plan is to suffer with me.”

  “You have zero idea what the plan is. Maybe your pen pal is escalating. He could have an agenda you know nothing about. Or maybe he’s making it up as he goes along. Once you’re up there on your own, you’re liable to run out of options fast.”

  “I don’t think Davenport is emailing me coordinates to a local mountain top. That seems a lot more likely to come from someone in the area. Someone familiar with the mountain.”

  “You mean someone like Simon Overhiser?”

  It was late, and we didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I said slowly, “Are we having our first argument?”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes. I guess we are. I think this is a terrible idea, and I don’t want you to do it. I am advising you in my professional capacity not to continue with this plan. And I’m also asking you as someone trying to have a relationship with you, not to proceed.”

  “Is it a deal breaker?” I inquired. Because if it was a deal breaker for him, it was definitely going to be a deal breaker for me. I was never again going to make concessions I didn’t believe in or agree with simply to pacify someone giving me ultimatums.

  “No,” he said without hesitation. “Not unless you get yourself killed.”

  I rested my hand against his bristly jaw. “It’s late. We can talk again in the morning. I would just ask that you trust me.”

  “This isn’t about trust.” He pulled my hand down, but then kissed my palm.

  I drew my hand away, but gently. “It is, though. I’d like you to trust that I’m also a professional, and that I wouldn’t be going up there unless I was confident in my understanding of the situation. And, if I am wrong, I’d like to ask, as someone trying to have a relationship with you, that you allow me to make my own mistakes.”

  Rory opened his mouth, considered and then rejected what he wanted to say. He shook his head, turned, and snapped out the lamp.

  The room plunged back into silver-limned darkness.

  We resettled in the sheets and blankets. After a moment, I tentatively reached for Rory, and he reached back.

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Chapter Twelve

  Peter Weber, minus his fedora, was in the dining room when Rory and I came down to breakfast.

  He energetically waved us over and insisted we join him, and as much as I didn’t want to, there didn’t seem to be a polite way to decline.

  “I had no idea you two were staying here,” Weber greeted us. “I thought you were staying in the cabins behind the Swiftwater.”

  An elderly waitress arrived with coffee. Rory asked for MUDWTR, and they went down the list of available options while Weber and I waited politely. Rory settled at last on English Breakfast tea, and we ordered our cooked-to-order omelets.

  “How late did the party last?” I asked Weber once the waitress left with our orders.

  “We closed the place down.” He added, “I saw you two sneak out early.”

  “Sneak,” Rory repeated.

  “We were starving. It was a long day,” I said.

  “I imagine so. What did you think of the vigil?”

  “I thought it was very touching.”

  Weber nodded, sipped his coffee, said with an edge in his voice, “Can I ask you managed to get Pat O’Donnell to speak to you?”

  “I asked. He said yes.”

  That seemed to further annoy him. “Really? That easy, was it?”

  “I guess the oldest girl, Grania, listened to some of my podcasts.”

  Weber rolled his eyes. “Of course. The theory of the stranger in the car.” He shook his head.

  “I know you lean toward the theory of the tandem driver.”

  Weber said, “I don’t lean toward it. It’s the only viable theory. Everything else is smoke and mirrors. There was no stranger in a car. No frat guys followed her from UMass. Rusty Bailey didn’t kidnap her or set her adrift in the wilderness. Deputy Dempsey didn’t do away with her for reasons unknown. Tommy didn’t kill her. Pat certainly didn’t kill her. There was no serial killer. She didn’t run into the woods and die of exposure. For God’s sake. The poor woman’s not even dead. She’s living her best life in Canada and no doubt wishing everyone would just forget about her.”

  “Huh? You now think she’s alive?”

  “I’ve known she was alive for years.”

  I felt like my head was spinning.

  Rory asked, “Who was the tandem driver?”

  “Pat, probably.”

  At my expression, Weber said, “Yes, I admit I initially thought Pat might be responsible for her death. His behavior was highly suspicious.”

  “You mean because he didn’t want to talk to you?”

  Weber’s small eyes narrowed. “No. Because everything he told the police was obviously a lie. There was never any car-shopping. The four thousand dollars Pat pulled out of his bank account was to finance Deirdre’s getaway. They planned it together for weeks, from the moment she realized she was pregnant.”

  Rory’s cell buzzed. He glanced at his phone and excused himself. As he vanished through the dining room entrance, I felt a little pang. I was already missing him, and he hadn’t even left yet.

  I returned my attention to Weber. “Four thousand dollars isn’t a lot to finance a new life in a foreign country.”

  “These aren’t wealthy people.”

  “True.”

  Weber scrutinized me. “Deirdre was much more complex than people realize. After she disappeared, everyone from the media to her family wanted to canonize her, but she had a dark side. As we all do. The lying, the drinking, the shoplifting, the credit-card fraud, the promiscuity, the reckless driving. She was smart and beautiful, but she was also very troubled. She may have been bipolar.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  I said, “She was a kid. She made a lot of the mistakes that kids do as they’re pushing boundaries, trying to find their place in the world.”

  Plus, there was no evidence Deirdre had been promiscuous, a drunk, or a reckless driver. She had certainly lied about a death in the family, she’d been allowed to resign from West Point after a shoplifting incident so trivial, it was in itself baffling, and she had used a dorm-mate’s credit card to order food on separate occasions, knowing full well it was bound to come to light. There were puzzling contradictions in her behavior, no question. But she was not the first young adult to exhibit puzzling behaviors.

  Weber made a pained sound. “No more armchair psychology. Please.”

  It was tempting, but I let it go.

  Our omelets arrived. I forked off a bite, asked Weber, “Is it true you’ve received email death threats?”

  He smirked. “Every time I publish a new bestseller, I get death threats. Writers are a jealous breed.”

  “You think other writers are sending you death threats?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you ever received death threats in connection to Deirdre’s case?”

  “One or two. I didn’t take them seriously.”

  “Did you ever find out who sent them?”

  “Who cares? Some joker. Some random asshole with too much time on his hands and no life of his own.”

  “I see.”

  He scowled. “Why? Has someone sent you threats?”

  “Yes.”

  That seemed to irritate him even more than Pat O’Donnell agreeing to speak with me. “Why would they? You fell over Deirdre’s disappearance barely more than a year ago. You’ve literally not shared one original thought. I’ve been working this case for fifteen years.”

  “You’re certainly viewed online as the expert.”

  “Not just online—” He broke off as Rory returned to the table.

  Rory sat down. “This looks great.” He stretched his arm along the back of my chair.

  Weber frowned at him, asked abruptly, “Are you FBI”

  Well, chalk one up to Weber.

  Rory gave him a level look. “Yep. Why?”

  “I’m wondering why you’re here. Or is it just for him?” He nodded in my direction.

  Rory smiled at me. “Oh, I’m definitely here for him.” He took a bite of his omelet.

  “And you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

  “Nope.”

  I said to Weber, “Since you are the expert on this case, do you remember hearing a theory about three local kids who might have worked at the Loon Mountain Resort?”

  “Oh my God.” He threw his head back and laughed. “The Loon Mountain Three? Is that who you imagine picked her up that night? That’s your angle? Three ski bums? I debunked that theory years ago. There was no Loon Mountain Three. They never existed.” His good humor appeared restored. “Amateurs. Well, you have fun chasing those ghosts, Professor.” He gave another chuckle. “I can’t wait to read your book.”

  * * * * *

  No denying it, the view from Blackbird Ridge was beautiful.

  It was not an easy hike. It probably wasn’t easy at any time of year, but in the winter, even in just partial snow and ice, it was particularly taxing.

  But if Deirdre had been disposed of on Blackbird Ridge, it would have been under these same conditions.

  Which is why it was perfectly obvious from the minute Simon and I started climbing that no one had taken Deirdre, alive or dead, up this mountain.

  The sun was shining, but once we were beneath the canopy of trees, the light dimmed and the temperature dropped sharply. It was very quiet, the only sounds our boots crunching grit and ice, the occasional crack of a branch beneath snow, and, less frequently, the buzz of an aircraft disappearing into the distance.

  Every time I heard a plane, I thought of Rory on his way back to Virginia. I’d promised to phone him as soon as I got back from my hike. Our goodbyes had been brief, and I was already wondering when we would see each other again.

  The air was so clear and sharp, it seemed to cut through my chest. I was in pretty good shape. Simon seemed to be in excellent shape. But hiking in snow takes longer and requires more energy. It was a little after one by the time we reached the summit.

  Simon had little to say when we started our journey, and hadn’t spoken in over two hours. We walked out onto Blackbird Ridge, sat on boulders overlooking the drop to the trees far below, and drank water and ate Kind bars. It was sunny on the ridge, though not much warmer. There was no shelter from the wind up here.

  I was hoping that we might have reached the point of friendly comradery by then, but Simon seemed more reserved, more closed off, than on Friday night.

  He finished his bar, tucked the wrapper in his jacket, and said shortly, “Well?”

  I took my sunglasses off. “Well, what?”

  His face was hard and unfriendly. “What did you want to know?”

  I shrugged. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “We both know you didn’t climb up here for the view.”

  I smiled, glanced across at the tree covered hillside.

  “It’s a terrific view, but no. The truth is, I got an anonymous email about a month ago with partial coordinates, and this was the closest I could calculate to the possible location.”

  “Location of?”

  “Deirdre’s body.”

  He stared at me for what felt like a long time.

  Then he shook his head. “Well, here you are. Where do you think she is?”

  “Not up here.”

  His smile was dry. “No.”

  “It’s a weird kind of joke.”

  “Yes.” His smile was not particularly pleasant. “A lot of people don’t like you internet hounds.”

  “I’ll try not to let it hurt my feelings.”

  “Fifteen minutes into this hike you had to realize no one would have tried to haul her up here.”

  I said ruefully, “I realized it the first glimpse I ever got of this mountain.”

  “Obviously, you had some other reason for dragging me up here.”

  “If you’ll recall, George was the one who suggested you be my guide. I’d never heard of you until this weekend.”

  I think Simon had forgotten that. He was silent. Then he said, “I know you and your friend were digging through the Weekly’s archives yesterday. So? What did you want to know?”

  Instead of answering, I said, “Did you know Hastings PD thinks they’ve identified Deirdre’s killer—and that they believe that person is dead?”

  He turned his head, staring out across the vast emptiness of sky. “I know.”

  I wasn’t completely surprised. “Are they right?”

  “About Milo?” Simon seemed to think it over. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  That did surprise me.

  “You never formed any opinion over all these years?”

  “He was a good son and a good brother. That’s all I know. That’s all I want to know.”

  I said gently, “He was just a kid himself when it all happened.”

  That seemed to unlock the wellspring. Simon said hotly, “He was a kid. He wouldn’t have hurt her. He wouldn’t have hurt anyone. Not knowingly. Not deliberately. Whatever happened, happened. I can tell you this: it ruined his life. It haunted him.”

  It ruined a lot of peoples’ lives. Including Deirdre’s. I didn’t say that. I said, “What did happen?”

  Simon shook his head. “I told you. I don’t know. I don’t know the details. Milo never talked about it. Any of it.”

  Okay, that had to be a lie. Maybe Milo hadn’t sat down and given his kid brother a blow-by-blow, but obviously there had been some conversation with family members. I didn’t call Simon on it, though. Didn’t say anything.

  Simon said quietly, “I don’t know if he drove off that bridge on purpose. I do know he never got over it. Maybe it would have been better if he had been arrested.”

  “Maybe.” I gave him a minute. “Was he working at the Loon Mountain resort? I know there were rumors.”

  “The Loon Mountain Three.” His smile was bleak. “I haven’t heard that in years. I didn’t think anyone remembered. Yes. He worked at the resort. At the lodge.”

  Who else was in the car that night?”

  “No one.”

  “Then why did people think there were three boys coming back from the resort?”

  “Why do people think any of the things they do? I don’t know. No one else was in the car.”

  “Are you sure? Because if you weren’t there, how do—”

  “Me? Hell, no, I wasn’t there. Winter break was over. I was in school.”

  “Then how can you be sure there was no one else in the car? Maybe your brother lied to protect someone else?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have a best friend?”

  Simon said impatiently, “What does that have to do with anything? My brother had a lot of friends.”

  “Did he have a particular friend at the lodge?”

  He said coldly, “I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told you.”

  The winter wind whispered down the back of my neck. I shivered.

  “The rumor is that three boys who were either working at the resort or were skiing there that week—”

  He jumped to his feet. “I know! I don’t give a good goddamn about any rumors. I told you everything I know. Now, unless you plan on sleeping up here, you better get your ass in gear. It’s a long hike down, and it gets dark fast in winter.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. Sunset in February was five pm. We’d have to move fast to reach the bottom before we lost the daylight.

  Simon didn’t speak again. But I could almost hear him thinking.

  I didn’t press him because I knew enough now to get the answers I needed. I had my starting point, and it was only a matter of time and patience. I’d start with the resort records and go from there. Nineteen years was a little tricky as far as locating personnel files, but not impossible.

  So long as you don’t lose your balance, it’s always faster going downhill than it is climbing up, and we made good time.

  Halfway down the mountain, we spotted someone coming up the path toward us. Someone in an olive-green army jacket with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Was February hunting season in New Hampshire? I didn’t know.

  Simon swore softly.

  The man raised his hand in greeting, and I recognized George the bartender from the Swiftwater Pub.

  My heart sank as the pieces fell into place. Some of the pieces. Because George, like Simon, had been in his teens at the time of Deirdre’s accident. But George had arranged for Simon to lead me up this mountain, George had the best chance of anyone of drugging my drink Friday night, and George knew exactly what cabin I’d be sleeping in—assuming I made it that far.

  He was smiling as he approached us, and Simon stepped in front of me and yelled, “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

  George, bright-eyed and cheerful, brought up his rifle and called, “Get out of the way, Simon.”

  “He doesn’t know anything!”

  “He does now,” George pointed out, which was true.

  “You are not doing this,” Simon told him.

  “Get out of the way, or I’ll shoot you too.”

  Simon spluttered, “You’re going to shoot me? You really are out of your mind.”

  “Your choice.” George continued to level the rifle at us.

  My heart was banging in my chest as I weighed my chances of making it into the trees before he fired. I didn’t think they were high. But I was also afraid George was going to lose patience with Simon any second now and shoot us both.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12