“They know how the scam works, can bring it crashing down.”
“Not without implicating themselves, and I can’t see Emil doing that. He’s an egomaniac. Self-interested, first and foremost.”
“The land was doing nothing till he showed up,” she said. “Meaning, Kurt’s no business genius. It takes Emil to coax money out of it. That gives him power over Kurt.”
“Probably makes Kurt resentful, too. And if he’s a loose cannon, he becomes a liability.”
Regina nodded. “How about this: Kurt suspects Leonie of cheating on him. He’s jealous, beating on her. That brings the cops around, which makes the Bergstroms nervous. They have Pelman take Kurt out. Added bonus, they do Leonie a favor and put her in their debt.”
“Why would Pelman agree to that?” I asked. “He’s the one helped Kurt force her back to Swann’s Flat in the first place.”
“Both things can be true. If Pelman had a soft spot for her, he probably didn’t want her leaving, either. But he also doesn’t like how Kurt treats her, and when the Bergstroms give him a chance to get rid of a rival, he goes ahead.”
“Or they paid him, simple as that,” I said. “Or the Bergstroms weren’t involved and Leonie got Pelman to do it herself.”
“She seem capable of that?” Regina asked.
“She struck me as more high-strung than psychopathic. But I talked to her under unusual circumstances. I have no idea what she’s like normally.”
“If Kurt dies, Leonie inherits from him automatically. How does the land wind up in Shasta’s trust?”
“He could’ve had Leonie sign a prenup and left everything to Shasta. Or transferred the property in his lifetime without telling her.”
“That implies he didn’t trust Leonie.”
“Or he was lording it over her.”
“Or, again, we’re totally off base,” Regina said. “Kurt had nothing to do with it. Leonie made the transfer.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Say the Bergstroms do have dirt on her. Getting the land out of her hands creates a layer of insulation between her and them. And depending on how the trust is set up, it can also protect Shasta, at least to some extent.”
“Be nice to know who the trustee is.”
“Be nice to know a lot of things,” Regina said. “Whatever the specifics, they’ve reached a working arrangement and are all making money. So at the moment it’s not in anyone’s interest to be contentious.”
“Pelman, too,” I said. “He’s got the coolant concession.”
“Think Jenelle will talk to us?”
“I think you’ll do better with her than I will.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“After they executed Mata Hari, her head was preserved,” I said. “But then it was lost and never recovered. It’s still missing, to this day.”
She stared at me. “What is wrong with you?”
“Did you know that?”
“No. Why would I know that?”
“You’re welcome.”
She faced the road and sighed. “You’re gonna get me fucking killed.”
At Blackberry Junction we pulled over so I could drive the final stretch. Experience and all-wheel drive made a huge difference, and the trip went faster, the way second trips always do.
For me.
Regina was folded into a comma, taking strained nasal breaths.
“Do you need a break?” I asked.
She shook her head tightly.
“I might have some jerky left. Helps with nausea.”
“Shut up,” she gasped.
At the mile eight hairpin, I stopped and switched on the hazards.
Regina looked up. Sweat beaded her forehead. “What’s going on?”
“This is where Kurt went over.”
I parked and stepped carefully out to the memorial. The flowers in the Jack Daniel’s vase had been recently replaced with a spray of blueblossoms, the bottle filled with fresh water.
Across the valley, over the ridge, the sky was lowering toward a rough gray sea.
Regina stumbled from the Jeep and bent to catch her breath, elbows on thighs. After a minute she joined me.
She examined the cross, the flowers.
Then she did exactly what I’d done: plucked a golf-ball-sized stone and tossed it into the void. It ricocheted off the cliffside and vanished without a sound.
“That’s gotta hurt,” she said.
“Not for very long.”
Half an hour later we crossed the town boundary and proceeded through the rows of empty lots. Plastic markers flapped in the wind.
“I thought you were exaggerating,” Regina said. “But this is creepy as fuck.”
“Welcome to Swann’s Flat.”
“Last time I let you plan our honeymoon.”
Our first stop was 22 Black Sand Court. For weeks I had been trying unsuccessfully to reach Al Bock. I wasn’t worried about him, per se, but it felt wise to rendezvous with a friendly.
I turned onto his block. The wooden fortress loomed into view.
Regina sat forward. “Jesus Christ.”
We were showing up unannounced, and I slowed to a crawl. Fifty yards from the fence, my eye landed on a motion sensor, mounted to the trunk of a lodgepole pine. The housing had been painted taupe for camouflage. I’d missed it the last time.
I braked. “He knows we’re here.”
She followed my gaze to the sensor. “I thought this guy was on our side.”
“I’m pretty sure he is.”
“ ‘Pretty sure.’ ”
I unbuckled. “Get behind the wheel.”
“Hang on.”
“Be ready to drive,” I said and got out.
“Clay,” Regina called. “What the fuck?”
I stuck my hands above my head. “It’s Clay Edison, Sergeant Bock. Can you hear me?”
“Clay,” Regina yelled.
“I’m approaching the gate, Sergeant. Okay? Here I come.”
Behind the fence, King Kong snarled like a lawn mower.
I rang the bell.
Growling, barking, claws on wood.
I addressed the security camera. “Sergeant? Are you home?”
A honk spun me around. Regina was leaning on the horn and waving frantically toward the roadside, where Al Bock had outflanked me and risen in a thicket, ten yards to my rear. He wore jeans and long-sleeved black T-shirt and was sighting on a hunting rifle, shuttling smoothly between me and Regina, the bright-green dot of a daylight laser scope flicking precisely from my chest to hers and back.
“Sergeant,” I said. “It’s Clay Edison.”
He lowered the rifle. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“I sent an email.”
“Haven’t checked it.”
“I tried calling, too. It won’t go through.”
“Line’s out.”
Regina sat again. She was throttling the wheel, ready to roar up and collect me. Or flatten him.
“What’s she so dang excited about?” Bock said.
“Meeting you, I think.” I signaled to her that it was safe.
Bock came forward to shake my hand. For a man in his early seventies he was remarkably trim and fit, with a shaved head and a sharp jawline just beginning to pouch underneath. His grip was crushing, his palm one solid callus.
“What happened to the line?” I asked.
“One guess.”
“A tree fell down.”
“About a week after we talked,” he said.
Regina climbed from the Jeep. “Nice place you got here.”
“Thanks,” Bock said.
“The ladies must love it.”
“Don’t get too many of those.”
“Nooo.” She gestured to the fence, with its razor wire and wall of bamboo. “But it’s so warm and welcoming.”
“Home sweet home. Al.”