Candy Apple Red. Nancy Bush

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СКАЧАТЬ is although they both have this nagging quality about them—their very silence a stern reminder for me to get to work—I would be completely bereft without them.

      I took a quick shower, toweled off, threw on a robe, then pushed the play button on my answering machine. Marta’s voice loudly told me to phone her A.S.A.P. I made a face, sensing I should avoid the call. Then Billy’s hatchery fish comment skimmed across my mind and propelled me into action.

      “Jane Kelly returning Marta’s call,” I snapped out to the receptionist. This particular woman has one of the snottiest voices on record and I always try to cut her off as fast as possible.

      She smoothly responded, “Ms. Cornell’s in a meeting.”

      Though I should have felt relief that I could delay my talk with Marta, I was consumed with impatience. There’s a whiff of smugness to the receptionist’s tone which calls me to battle in spite of myself. “Tell her I’m on my cell phone,” I said, then reeled off the number as fast as humanly possible.

      “Could you repeat that, please?” she asked, not bothering to hide her scorn.

      “Oh, sure.” This time I spoke clearly and slowly. Even while I was running through this mini-drama I asked myself why I do such things. Call it my low tolerance for frosty self-importance.

      “I’ll give her the message,” she said and abruptly clicked off.

      I sat back in my chair and surveyed my domain. Pretty much a desk, chair, phone, notepad, pen and stapler. And computer, of course. I switched it on and waited while it went through its beeps, whirs and flashing screens. I know others grow annoyed if their computer doesn’t jump to attention like a military cadet but I don’t mind the wait. It’s like a cat stretching awake.

      Sometimes, there’s a moment of perfect synergy when what you’re thinking suddenly comes into the moment of your life. As I waited for my computer to finish its wake-up routine, my mind drifted to thoughts of Murphy. Tim Murphy, to be exact, though no one called him by his first name. He was the guy who’d walked into Sting Ray’s one night and bowled me over with quick repartee, wicked sarcasm, innate politeness and one dimple in an otherwise masculine jaw. I’d fallen in lust with him right there and then. When I learned he was taking criminology courses, I’d signed up at the first opportunity. And when he’d finally left L.A. for his native Oregon, I’d followed him blindly to Lake Chinook as soon as I could. I’d wanted to live with him, soak him into my system, wrap our lives together, but Murphy had resisted. He’d sworn he loved me, but it turned out his love hadn’t been quite as real as mine. His was the kind that disappeared like fairy dust as soon as I grabbed for it. And though it lasted a while, it had already faded some by the time a horrific tragedy involving his best friend from high school placed us on opposite sides of the law. Murphy never forgave me for believing the worst of his friend, despite overwhelming evidence. He chose to run away from me and all things related to Lake Chinook. I, however, have remained. A part of me I don’t often face knows that although Murphy was devastated by his friend’s tragedy, he also used that event as an excuse to end our faltering relationship.

      These thoughts flashed across my mind in quick succession, about three seconds in real time. At the end of those three seconds my cell phone buzzed, splintering the images and memories.

      “Hello?”

      “Jane!” Marta boomed over the phone. The woman was over six-feet-tall with a voice to match. She could deafen with one word. I yanked the phone from my ear and hoped I still possessed my hearing.

      “Jane?” Marta demanded, her voice now tinny and faraway as my arm was stretched straight out from my torso. I carefully placed the receiver to my ear.

      “I hear you.”

      “I have a client who has an unusual request and I think you’re just the person to help.”

      I opened and closed my mouth several times, seeing if I could pop my ears. They seemed okay but there was an alarming little creaking sound at the corner of my jaw. I thought about TMJ. Temporal…mandibular…jaw thing. Whatever. It was bad and sometimes it takes an operation where your jaw’s wired shut for six weeks. I don’t normally worry about such things, but the thought of all food coming through a straw for six weeks was enough to scare me straight. No more caramels? No more Red Vines? I’d never be able to eat beef jerky again?

      “What unusual request?” I asked.

      “It’s about Cotton Reynolds.”

      My heart leapt. Christ, I thought a bit shakily. Had thoughts of Murphy actually triggered the past? “What about him?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady.

      “My client wants some follow-up on…Bobby Reynolds.” Marta hesitated, unlike her to the extreme. “She wants you to interview Cotton.”

      I stared at my office door and instead of its scarred, paneled wood saw the white-haired man who happened to be one of the wealthiest in the state of Oregon. Cotton Reynolds lived on the island—the site of the Coma Kid’s accident—and it was less than a mile from my bungalow. By boat, I could be there in ten minutes, if I wanted to. By car, it would be trickier. The island was private and Cotton’s was the only house on its three acres. If I dropped in to say hello, I wouldn’t get past the huge wrought iron gate nor the Dobermans.

      But interviewing Cotton wasn’t what was on my mind. Following up on Bobby Reynolds was. Murphy’s close, high school friend. His best buddy. The cause of the horrific tragedy my mind had briefly touched on.

      I almost hung up right then. I probably should have. A shiver slid coldly down my spine; someone walking on my grave.

      Bobby Reynolds had murdered his family and left their bodies lined up in a row—wife, Laura; Aaron, 8; Jenny, 3; and infant, Kit—somewhere in the Tillamook State Forest, just off the Oregon coast. Bobby Reynolds was a “family annihilator”: a man apparently overwhelmed with the responsibility of his family so he chose to send them to a “better place.” He shot them each once in the back of the head, then drove away. He dumped his Dodge Caravan on a turnout off Highway 101 which meanders along the West Coast throughout Washington, Oregon and into California, then disappeared without a trace, though he’d been rumored to have been seen as far north as the Canadian border, and as far south as Puerto Vallarta. To date, after four years, he was still very much a fugitive. The murders—disputed by Murphy who simply could not believe his friend capable of cold-blooded homicide—had driven Murphy away from Lake Chinook, the tragedy and me.

      I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is this client?”

      “Tess Reynolds Bradbury.”

      “Bobby’s mother?”

      “Cotton won’t talk to her about Bobby or anything else. They haven’t spoken civilly in years. When it was all over the news they had words, but it wasn’t exactly what I would call communication.”

      “I remember,” I said, recalling how Cotton’s ex, with her blond bob, hard eyes and angry mouth had been bleeped out by the local news, time and again. Cotton had been silent and stony, although my impression was that it was a mask for deep, deep pain and shock. I’d tried to talk to Murphy but he’d gone to a place inside himself, as distant as a cold moon, before he’d left for good.

      “Why does she want me to talk to him?” I asked, baffled. “The police and F.B.I. and every news channel around has been on this since it happened. What could I learn? I don’t even know Cotton.”

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