Headlights(63)

“No,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says. “He always leaves it like that—pool heated, lights on, everything up and running. He’s in the Bahamas somewhere, I think. But,” she says, her eyes catching over my shoulder, “you’re gonna miss it. Show’s comin’.”

“You want me to turn around while you’ve got that knife in your hand?”

I have my gun. I prepare myself to have to reach for it, turn, deal with whatever’s now behind me.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says.

I step to the right side wall and put my back to it before I turn. And—

I’m looking out at a view.

There’s no one here, no threat, as far as I can see. Beyond the trees, the town of Aspen, with lights still on from the night, glittering out and below us. And behind the town and its lights, the looming ski mountains.

And here in front of us, right here, the trees.

The aspen bark, white, spotted with gray-brown, the trees no larger around than maybe five or six inches each. But … all of them, here, tucked in tight together, their fall leaves on full display, trembling before us, just framing our view of the town and distant mountains.

It’s beautiful. Ridiculously.

I feel something looking at it. Maybe what John Denver felt. Maybe why he chose this place. This, exactly as magical as I pictured it as a kid.

The glow of the rising sun orange and red coming in now from the west on our right, lighting up the mountains. The edge of the platform suspended out over the mountain we’re on. It’s … maybe the most exceptional view I’ve ever seen.

I glance to Hannah, the glow of the flames dancing on her face. She’s more relaxed than I’ve seen her up to now. Outdoors, but with three walls guarding her back and sides. I’d be willing to bet a lot that that was the idea, that there’s a reason there’s no door to enter through, almost like a hunting blind.

That prickling, the sense that there is so much more here than I can see. So much more about her.

“Who built this place?” I ask.

“Me,” she says. “I’ll make us some coffee.” She stands. “I have to walk around the back, there’s a bear box behind the shelter. I’m not leaving.”

She’s asking me to trust her. I shouldn’t. I don’t. But I could use a second away from her, to see what I can find. I nod. She steps to the edge of the platform and swings down onto the soft ground. I hear her boots crunching on leaves.

When she’s gone, I take a breath, run my hands over my head. The heat lamps are working, and her fire’s come to real life. It’s still cold in here, but it’s more comfortable, not unbearable. About the same as the car on our way driving in. I step to the back wall and open cabinets, the few drawers. I see that one cabinet hides a whole sink and basin, another a large bin with pillows. Another is just full of books. Ecology and wildlife nonfiction, a bird guide, plant guide, hiking memoirs, books on the Ute tribe, Edward Abbey, Michener’s Centennial, Hunter S. Thompson’s The Great Shark Hunt. Another cabinet conceals three drawers, all of which are filled with art supplies. Sketchbooks, pencils, charcoal.

I reach into one and flip open the sketchbook. The first sketch is of a girl, lying down on a large rock, laughing up at the sky. At first I think it’s Hannah, but then I see the face is a little sharper, the look there not quite hers. Darker hair, maybe. The next sketch is of a man in glasses and a sweater, thin but strong-jawed, drinking liquor from a rocks glass, looking out over a balcony. I think it’s the balcony of the house we’re parked at, from my quick glance earlier.

Both portraits feel intimate.

There are more sketches in here of each of these people, and even more of wildlife, close-ups of the aspen trees, their thin trunks, small nearly round leaves and famously white bark. I’ve never seen them in person before now, only photos.

I read once that what might look like a hundred individual aspen trees is actually all one organism, one big tree, and what we see aboveground, what looks like entire forests, could be considered just branches. I look back out at them, her view from in here. How many hours has she spent here? How much of her life is this?

I reach up and touch my pocket, feel her card there. The card that keeps getting back there somehow even when I don’t mean for it to. I don’t remember putting it in this jacket, something unconscious, instinctual.

I flip to the next drawing.

I spent the whole drive here trying to understand how that DNA could be mine on the Drifters. Daphne must have thought to test my hair when she saw I had Hannah’s card.

Still, she’s my friend. Was, maybe. For her to think I could have done those things, to have even considered it. And she didn’t talk to me, went straight to Jack. And if it was my hair … why wouldn’t they have made the match before? I guess they take DNA samples for the DoD database when we enlist in the Marines, mainly for body identification in war. But the DoD database is separate from CODIS, and the FBI has to request specific samples from the DoD in order to get them. We don’t submit DNA samples for FBI work, and I’ve never been arrested or convicted for anything, so I wouldn’t be in CODIS at all.

But how? Who could have gotten my hair? And why? And how could any strand be long enough to tie around a tongue in a knot? It has to be a mistake.