“I know the sound. When one of those things is on the pavement, it’s a steady whine. But in the woods, it keeps changing—loud, not loud, loud again—because the rider keeps changing the gears.”
“Your brothers had motorbikes?”
She shook her head. “The kid down at the campground used to have one. Raced around all day like a lunatic. I think there was something the matter with him.”
“You’re talking about the campground on the downhill side of the road?”
She nodded.
“But the kid doesn’t have one anymore?”
“He was the owner’s kid, and he hasn’t been there for a while now. Not since the owner left and brought that new woman in to manage the place. Sometimes the campers bring motorbikes with them.”
“So, you heard a motorbike come up through the woods to the road before the crash. How long before?”
She shrugged. “Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“And there was no sound of it leaving, until . . . when?”
“Right after the second gunshot.”
“Did you consider calling the police?”
“Bert said people who stick their noses in other people’s business get their noses cut off.”
“Was he threatening you?”
She let out a dismissive snort. “’Course not. Bert’s just a lot of noise. But I couldn’t have called anyway. No landline and we don’t get cell service up here. They keep saying it’s coming, but it never does. I would’ve had to drive down to Harbane, which I couldn’t do, cause Bert had the truck jacked up in the shed to change the oil, and there was the snowstorm going on. I guess I could’ve drove down when he was done with the oil, but . . . I didn’t feel like getting into another set-to with him.”
She fell silent. Tears began to well up in her magnified eyes. “He’s not a bad man, you know? It’s just that he’s always trying to be in charge of things he’s not in charge of. He’s scared, really, is what it is. He’s got fear of everything he can’t control, and, come right down to it, Bert can’t control very much.”
She glanced back at the man waging his hectic war on the woodpile. “It’s sad, is what it is. I’ve seen men like him drink themselves to death. Leastways, Bert doesn’t drink hard liquor. That’s something, right?”
AT THE FOOT OF THE LANE, JUST PAST THE HEMLOCK whose bark had been ripped open in Colson Rumsten’s flight from his father, Gurney made a left onto the road and began watching for the turnoff to the campground.
He found it almost immediately. The words BLACKMORE PINES CAMPSITES were painted in rustic letters on a sign affixed to a roadside tree. Rutted and icy, the lane leading down into the forest looked more challenging than the one to Bert and Nora Rumsten’s property. Rather than taking a chance on skidding or getting his rental car stuck on the slope, he decided to park by the sign and proceed on foot.
He stepped carefully around patches of ice. His concussion had made him wary of falling. It felt like a decade had been added to his age. The lane eventually brought him down to a clearing that was more deeply shaded than the Rumstens’. The evergreens surrounding it were taller and denser. There were no planting beds here, no sun, no grass, just frozen earth and pine needles. On the left side of the clearing there was a single-story log house with a wide porch. On the right were the six tent platforms and adjoining fire pits and picnic tables that he’d seen in the aerial photo.
A blue pickup truck was parked next to the house. Somewhere out of sight a generator was humming. At the top of a tall spruce, a raucous crow was voicing what Gurney imagined to be displeasure at his presence.
As if in response to the loud caws, the door of the log house opened and a woman holding a long wooden spoon stepped onto the porch. She wore a red flannel shirt and khaki cargo pants with mud stains on the knees. Her expression, framed by a casual mop of blond hair, was quizzical but not unfriendly.
He introduced himself and explained that he was investigating the incident involving a car and a tow truck that occurred two days earlier up on Blackmore Mountain Road.
“Sorry, but there’s not much I can tell you about that.”
He smiled understandingly. “Anything at all would be helpful. You’re obviously busy. I apologize for intruding like this, but if you could spare a moment for a few quick questions . . .”
After sizing him up, she shrugged. “I’m in the middle of concocting a sweet potato soup. If you want to come in, you can ask your questions while I stir the pot.”
He followed her into the house and found himself in a multipurpose room with a stove, sink, refrigerator, and work table at the near end, a large pine dining table in the middle, and at the far end a sitting area with a leather couch and a pair of armchairs. A fire was burning in a stone fireplace behind the dining table.
As she headed for the stove, she pointed to a chair at the end of the table. “I’m Tess Larson. Have a seat. What happened to your head?”
“Something collided with it.”
