Ideal Image: Snapshot, #2 Read online

  “What about Friday?” she asks, looking over the list she’s holding.

  “My main worry is Mak. Technically she could get herself on the bus in the morning, but she’d need someone looking after her after school and overnight. Chances are I’ll have to stay at least twenty-four hours.”

  When I rush out fifteen minutes later, my macchiato in hand, I have peace of mind that my little girl will be in good hands. Jen suggested she take Mak and the dog Thursday night to stay with her. She’ll bring her in to the coffee shop for breakfast, and run out to drop her at school around eight. She’ll be able to get off the bus in front of the Pony Express in the afternoon.

  It’s too late to get up the mountain and grab the dog and get back in time, so instead I head straight for the school, where I can maybe catch her before she gets on the bus.

  “Makenna!” I yell, standing on the running board of my SUV and waving my arms at the bus. She was about to climb on board when I pulled into the vacant slot. Luckily she sees me, and comes jogging in my direction, her backpack bouncing on her shoulder.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, clipping her seatbelt and turning to me.

  “We’re picking up Atsa,” I explain as I pull out of the school parking lot. “Uncle Ben and Isla had to go see Uncle Al in Phoenix.”

  “Are we picking up Noah as well?” she asks, a big smile on her face.

  “No. They’re taking Noah along,” I assure her, hesitant whether I should let her know about Ginnie or not. I decide against it for now. When she passes away it’s a different matter.

  “Have I been to Phoenix?” I love how she still looks to me as the keeper of her life. I’m not sure how long that will last, but I will treasure these brief moments of high dependency in the meantime.

  “Not Phoenix, but you’ve been in Flagstaff once. I think you were two.”

  “Where else?”

  Nine years old and blissfully easy to distract. With poor Al and Ginnie all but forgotten, the rest of the drive up the mountain is spent discussing all the places Mak has seen in her young years.

  To say Atsa was happy to see us does not do the dog’s enthusiasm justice. Even though it’s only just been a few hours since his owners left, his big body practically vibrates with excitement. Mostly for Mak, who is treated to a wave of doggy kisses, when I have to make do with a quick sniff and nuzzle.

  Either Ben or Isla had already packed up the dog’s stuff and left it, along with a big tub of his kibble, on top of the kitchen counter. It takes me just minutes to load up the SUV while Mak lets Atsa out for a piddle.

  I’m just about to pull the front door closed, when I hear the crunch of gravel. A vaguely familiar truck pulls up next to my Subaru, just as Atsa comes barreling out of the woods, barking loudly, Mak following behind.

  “Thought that was you,” Nick says, climbing down from the cab.

  NICK

  The second I got off the phone with Ben, I called Sheila into my office.

  “What is on the docket for the rest of this week?”

  “The Marx merger has to be finalized. James Marx wants to make an announcement before the end of the week. You have two closing dates we have to get checks and paperwork ready for, and you have to be in court on Friday for that continuance hearing in the Masotti case,” she listed, flipping through my agenda.

  “I’ll handle the Marx merger. You can get the paperwork and checks ready for me to sign on the real estate deals, other than my signature, you can deal with the clients,” I delegated and watched her take notes. “As for the hearing on Friday, contact counsel for the other side and inform them that we won’t contest the continuance as long as they can assure us we will bring this case to a conclusion within a reasonable timeframe. No more yearlong delays,” I told her, rubbing a hand over my head where the stubble is creeping up on me again. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to have that taken off the court docket.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sheila assured me when she finished her notes. “Anything else?” she wanted to know, curiosity shining through her question.

  “I’ve had some personal stuff come up this week. I’ll be in tomorrow to finish the Marx contract, so get him in on Thursday morning to sign. I’ll be out of commission from midday Thursday until sometime after the weekend, but I’ll have my cell on me for emergencies.”

  Next on my list was a call to my pops, to see if he’d be willing to help keep an eye on the campground. I should’ve known he’d jump at the opportunity, I think he misses feeling useful. When I told him where I would be, he just chuckled.

  That leaves just one last obstacle, if you can call her that: Stacie.

  My plan had been to do a quick drive around the campgrounds to empty the garbage bins, as Ben had explained needed to be done daily, and replenishing the bathrooms with toilet paper. He dropped off keys on his way out of town earlier and mentioned that I didn’t need to worry about cleaning, since he hired a service to come in twice a week after Noah was born. I just need to be there to unlock the sheds.

  I’m just locking the gate to the dumpster, after tossing the last garbage bags in there, when I spot Stacie’s SUV turning up the steep drive to Ben and Isla’s house on the cliff. I quickly wash my hands at the outdoor tap and wipe them dry on my jeans, before following her up the mountain.

  I can hear Atsa barking up a storm as I pull in beside Stacie’s ride, and the moment I open the door, the large dog is all over me.

  “Thought that was you,” I direct at Stacie as I get out, handling Atsa with both hands as he jumps up on me. “Down, buddy.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, making me chuckle.

  “You seem to be asking me that a lot,” I tease her. “It’s probably just easier to accept that wherever you are, I might not be far behind.”

  “I’m not sure if that was your intent,” she says, pensively tapping her finger on her chin, “but that’s actually a mildly disturbing comment to make.”

  “It’s only disturbing if you don’t want me around,” I offer, one eyebrow raised. It takes a minute for her to respond, but when she does it’s with a little smirk on her lips.

  “Jury’s out on that,” she quips.

  I want to kiss her again, but Mak walks right up to us, so I ruffle her short hair in greeting, before leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek.

  “I’ll take it,” I whisper in her ear. “And in answer to your earlier question,” I explain at normal volume. “I was actually coming over to your place. I was just doing a quick drive around to make sure everything is okay here. Ben forwarded the emergency number for the campground to my cell phone, but I wanted to have a look for myself.”

  “It’s not busy,” she says, walking up to the edge of the cliff that overlooks the campground and the reservoir below. I’m right on her heels.

  “About half the spots are taken.”

  “Kids are back in school so you don’t get many families. The season rush is done,” she points out, turning her head to watch Mak and the dog darting in and out of the bushes on the side of the house. Seeing they are safely within range, she moves her eyes to me. “So what did you need me for?”

  “Dangerous territory, counselor. So many ways to interpret that question, and so many more ways to answer it,” I tease, as she slugs me in the shoulder. “I promised Ben I’d look out for you, so I wanted to get some times down for Friday.”

  “I can look after myself,” she snips.

  “I’m sure you can, but when a friend calls and asks you to look out for his little sister—you don’t argue that point—you do as he asks,” I clarify, before I add carefully, “especially when that frees him up to look after his wife and baby.” I can see she gets the message when she casts her eyes down.

  “So noted,” she affirms curtly.

  “I assume you’ve got Mak covered?” I prod gently, lifting her chin with my knuckle.

  “Jen is taking her and Atsa on Thursday night. I need to be in the hospital at six
thirty in the morning, so I don’t know how good you are at waking up early, but—”

  “We’ll grab a hotel in town the night before,” I interrupt, the opportunity too good to pass up. “We’ll drop Mak and Atsa off at Jen’s and drive straight to Durango. We’ll go to the Derailed Pour House for a bite to eat and some great music. I’m not sure if you’re allowed any alcohol the night before, but they do a mean Dickel Pickle.” I grin at the expression on her face.

  “Anything you said after Durango is like a different language to me,” she says.

  “Derailed Pour House is a great place on Main Street, and the Dickel Pickle is one of their signature drinks that involves sour mash and pickle juice.”

  “Ixnay on the Ickelday Icklepay. I’d rather suck a raw egg.”

  “Deal,” I jump in before she can throw out any more objections. “No pickle juice for you. I’ll get a room at the Strater for Thursday, the Derailed Pour House is one block further down Main.”

  Just then Mak comes darting out of the trees with the dog bounding along at her heels.

  “I’m hungry, Mom!”

  “Just a minute, honey,” Stacie admonishes her daughter. “I’m just talking to Mr. Flynn.”

  “I think we’re past the mister part,” I point out. “Besides, I have to get going, I promised Pops a hand with the fencing for the corral.”

  “A corral like for horses?” Mak pipes up, her little ears clearly well attuned.

  “Exactly like that. We have a few at the ranch. There’s one mare who got hurt a little while ago. She can’t go out into the pasture until she’s healed, but she doesn’t like it and keeps escaping.” I smile at Mak’s big hungry eyes.

  “I didn’t know you had horses,” she says a little breathlessly.

  “We do—you should come see them sometime.”

  From the corner of my eye I can see the firm line Stacie presses her mouth into at my impromptu invitation, while her daughter is jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Pushy,” she hisses at me after telling Mak to wait by the car.

  I quickly press a kiss to her tight little mouth. “I warned you,” I mumble against her lips, before stepping around her to saunter off after Mak.

  CHAPTER 8

  SON OF A BITCH!

  Another wasted fucking day at the unemployment office. What’s the damn point? Once the human resource assholes look at my application and see felon, they fucking show me the door. But to keep my jackass parole officer off my back, I have to come in every week to get a new list of dead ends from the employment counselor.

  Not my fucking fault the little slut at my bachelor party was underage; she sure didn’t blow like a sixteen-year-old. After she had all my friends, I went for the only untouched hole—her mouth. It sure wasn’t worth eight damn years when she cried rape to her daddy. Blonde little bitch! I swear every woman who has ever screwed me over has been a fucking blonde: the little slut, my wife, and that fucking ADA in Albuquerque. There’s little else I’ve thought about for the past eight years, other than ways to make those bitches pay.

  Six goddamn months I’ve been coming in, six fucking months in that slum of a halfway house because I can’t get a job. Nothing changes, same faces, same furniture, same damn magazines. Why the hell would someone looking for a job give a shit about what’s in USA Today? Who the fuck cares about that shit when you can’t even get on with your life? They never throw these damn papers out, nothing new, same old crap.

  Reaching to grab the top paper, I’m shocked to find it’s one I haven’t read at least once before: this one’s only two weeks old. I flip through the pages while waiting for my appointment, when a picture of a woman catches my eye. Something about her face is familiar. A quick scan of the article reveals some poor slob spent a small fortune at a charity auction to own the portrait, what a dumbass. You know what they say about fools and money.

  I almost flip through to the next page when I spot a name in the caption underneath the photograph. The sight of it is enough to have the hair on the back of my arms stand up, Anastasia Gustafson. My eyes flick back to the image for a closer look. The blonde hair isn’t as long, and one side of her face looks mangled, but I’ll never forget those eyes—the ones that stole my future.

  One of the computers in the waiting room is not being used, so I look up the charitable foundation mentioned in the paper. The online article is more detailed and outlines how Anastasia Gustafson was injured in an explosion earlier in the year. That picture was taken by her sister-in-law; who apparently owns a campground in the mountains near Dolores with her husband.

  I’m just jotting down the name of the place, when my name is called. I tuck the slip of paper in my pocket and mumble under my breath, as I head into the counselor’s office.

  “Someone blew the bitch up,” I mutter, disappointed I didn’t get the opportunity first.

  STACIE

  “Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s in a garment bag in the closet, and the shoes are somewhere underneath in the pile. Shouldn’t be too hard to find, since they’re the only high-heeled shoes I own.”

  I quietly let Isla ramble on the other end of the line. She’s coping her own way.

  Ben called earlier this morning with the news that Ginnie had passed away during the night. They’d all been in the room with her and hadn’t even noticed when she finally slipped away. He mentioned Al seemed to deflate, but Isla immediately went into action mode, bossing around the nursing staff and making arrangements. I suggested that was likely for each of them their way of coping with the immediate sense of loss.

  So I thought I was prepared, when Isla called, but I was wrong.

  I barely had a chance to say hello before she launched into a list of things she would need me to ship overnight. It’s heartbreaking to listen to her rattle on in the slightly elevated pitch, which doesn’t quite hide the pain right under the surface.

  “I’ve got it,” I assure her again. “Black dress in garment bag, black heels, Ben’s navy suit, white shirt, paisley tie, and dress shoes. I still have a FedEx wardrobe box I can use to pack it up. I’ll call them right now; see if they’ll pick up, otherwise I’ll drive it into Cortez. Not to worry, I’ll get it there by Monday.”

  Apparently Ginnie’s funeral is being arranged for Tuesday. A small, private affair, from the sound of it, as per Ginnie’s own wishes. I offered to come; actually contemplated canceling my surgery for tomorrow, but that was met with vehement resistance, both from Ben as well as Isla.

  “I’m sorry,” I suddenly hear Isla sniffle. “I wasn’t thinking. You have other things on your mind right now. I don’t really need—”

  “Stop it,” I cut her off, immediately softening my tone. “I promise it’s not a problem. I’m actually glad you’re giving me something to do. It keeps my mind busy.”

  I hear some rustling, and then the deep rumble of my brother’s voice as he mutters comforting words to his wife.

  “Stace?”

  “Still here,” I tell him. “Go take care of her. I’ll make sure the clothes get there. I’ll text you the tracking number when I have it. Tell her I love her.”

  “Are you all set for tomorrow?” he asks. I can hear the struggle in his voice.

  “All taken care of. Mak and the dog are going to be at Jen’s and Nick has volunteered as my chauffeur. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive,” I reinforce with as much conviction as I can muster. “Now go look after your wife and give that little stinker a raspberry kiss for me.”

  I set my coffee mug in the sink after hanging up, and head out to the shed where I remember tossing that garment box.

  ATSA, WHO’S HAD HIS head over my shoulder and out my window the entire drive up the mountain, almost launches himself over me the moment we turn up the driveway to my brother’s house. But when I roll to a stop in front of the door and turn the engine off, I can feel the tension radiating from him, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

 
“What is it, bud?” I reach out to stroke his head, but he dodges my hand, too focused on something out there.

  I’m well aware there is wildlife out here—I remember all too well that Mak was almost attacked by a mountain lion last winter—but they usually hide until the weather gets a little cooler.

  I’m trying to open my door carefully, so I can get a decent grip on Atsa’s collar before he takes off on me, but the dog is too fast. He’s over the backrest in a flash and forces himself against the door, ripping it through my hands. Before I can even call his name, he’s bounding off into the tree line behind the large shed. I rush out after him.

  I can’t hear him bark again, which worries me. Atsa may be a good-sized dog, but if a mountain lion or a bear gets in his path, I’m not at all sure he’d walk away alive. There simply is no way Isla would be able to take another loss. She adores that dog.

  I’m already well into the forest behind the house when I realize it might have been smart to grab a weapon. I have a 9mm Smith & Wesson that Ben gave me when I started working for the DA’s office. He insisted I needed to be able to defend myself in that line of work. I never liked keeping it in the house because of Makenna, so I kept it in the glove box of my car. Of course that doesn’t help me much now.

  I spot a thick stick on the side of the barely visible trail in front of me, and bend down to grab it, when I hear the sharp snap of a branch behind me. Quickly grabbing the improvised weapon from the ground, I whip around and hold it up defensively.

  “Whoa!” the older man scrambles back, both hands raised protectively, just as Atsa charges out from the underbrush.

  “Atsa—no!” I yell as the dog leaps at Henry Flynn, the poor man looking like he’s about to have a heart attack. I make a quick grab for his collar and pull him back a safe distance from the startled man in front of me. “Henry? What are you doing here?”