The Girl in the Moss Page 25

  “So what, exactly, does all this have to do with Jasmine Gulati’s drowning?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything if the past speaks to patterns of behavior and MO. Even if past events do speak to patterns of behavior, it still might bear no direct relevance to her accident, but I need to ask the questions. Jasmine did anger a lot of people in town. Maybe someone wanted revenge.”

  “So they pushed her in? Is that what you think?”

  Angie gave a half shrug. “Maybe. Some of the people she angered also had opportunity and means. And some of their stories don’t add up, for whatever reason.”

  Claire swore softly, looked away, then said, “I don’t know whether I should help you. These are my people you’re investigating.”

  “That’s up to you, Claire. Up to your own conscience.”

  “What about the other guys who allegedly assaulted Uncle Axel?”

  “Again, nothing was officially reported or proved.”

  “So they’re out there, maybe? Just walking around while my uncle suffers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She rubbed her knee. “What do you want to ask my uncle?”

  “If he saw anything on the river twenty-four years ago and what he remembers of an altercation with Jasmine Gulati in the Hook and Gaffe. He worked there at the time. There is footage of him watching the argument, among others.”

  Claire opened her mouth, but Angie raised her hand. “Before you say this gives you even more reason not to take me to Axel’s place, I promise I will go easy on him. Like I told you, I worked in sex crimes for over six years.” She paused, holding Claire’s eyes. “I understand the pain, the shame, the confusion, the anger around being a survivor of those kinds of crimes. If anyone wants to do right by a sexual assault survivor, it’s me, Claire. I need you to understand that.”

  Claire kicked her heel against the log. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, and her jaw had gone tight. Her gaze snapped back to Angie. In her eyes Angie could read hurt, mistrust. But also a hot fire burning.

  “Fine,” she said. “But if at any time I say we go, we go. Is that understood?”

  Angie nodded. “Understood.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The trail opened abruptly into a clearing maybe twice the size of Budge Hargreaves’s spread. Angie halted Claire with her hand at the fringe of trees. She wanted to absorb the scope and layout of the place before entering.

  Tiny flecks of snow blew sideways in the wind. A cabin squatted in a stand of trees at the rear of the property. Like Budge’s home, the cabin had a covered porch out front. Unlike Budge’s place, everything looked neat and cared for. Split wood had been piled high along one of the cabin walls. On the roof were solar panels. A rain collection barrel had been constructed to the left of the building.

  At the far eastern boundary of the spread, near what looked like a vehicle track leading out between trees, a metal shipping container was set back into a mound of earth. It had been converted into accommodations with the addition of a door and a window. It was painted dark green. A tumble of blackberry bushes and other scrub grew atop the mound that covered the roof of the container. Bramble fronds hung down, partially obscuring the window.

  A stone path led from the cabin to a covered carport that housed a dark-gray pickup truck and a muddy quad. A distance behind the carport was an open-sided shed that housed several natural gas cylinders and what looked like a generator plus containers of fuel.

  Three additional sheds had been built along the western boundary of the property along with what looked like two big cages, one partly covered with shade cloth.

  A raven cawed from atop one of the cages, wings hanging out at its sides like a buzzard.

  “Looks like he’s home,” Claire said with a nod at the smoke trailing up from the cabin chimney.

  “What’s with those cages?” Angie said.

  “Axel built those for two orphaned bear cubs he rescued when I was nine. He’s used them for other animals he’s rescued since, once for a fawn whose mother Axel was unable to free from an illegal trap. Another time for baby raccoons. And for a beaver one time.” Claire gave a wry smile. “I remember those cubs. Uncle Axe bottle-fed them by hand. I used to watch him do it, but he never let me into the cage with him, as much as I begged him to let me help feed them. He wouldn’t even allow me to touch the bears. He said he didn’t want the cubs to grow habituated to humans, or he’d never be able to fully rehabilitate them.” She glanced at Angie. “Before Axel went into the cage, he’d put on this dark-colored coverall that he kept wrapped in smelly old bear hide. He said this was to cover up as much of his human scent as possible. And he’d wear a ski mask. He didn’t want the bears to associate his face with food and care.” She wiped her nose with the base of her thumb as she returned her attention to the cages. Her skin was going ruddy with cold, and Angie could feel the chill in her own face and fingers.

  “Uncle Axe never spoke while he fed them their formula so they wouldn’t grow accustomed to his voice. It killed me as a kid—those measures. I just wanted to cuddle those two cubs. Cutest things you’ve ever seen in your life. They were the size of little shoeboxes, paws that looked too large for them, just like in cartoons.”

  “Did it work? Was he able to rehabilitate them?”

  “Seems to have worked. On the day of their release, Uncle Axe waited for my dad to bring me over the river so I could watch him set them free.” She gave a soft snort. “He transported them in smaller cages deep into the woods. When he found the right spot, we carried the cages from the truck farther into the forest and set them on the ground. He made us hide, and he opened the doors and clapped his hands loudly. ‘Run, little bears,’ he said in his deep Uncle Axel voice. ‘Get the hell outta here, be scared, survive, you little critters . . .’” Claire’s voice faded. A sad look entered her eyes. “I cried my heart out when they left. Silly, huh?”

  “No,” Angie said softly. “Doesn’t sound silly at all.” She smiled at Claire. “I’d probably have done the same. Bawled my face off. You’re lucky to have experienced that, to have an uncle like him.”

  “I know.” She met Angie’s eyes. “That’s why I can’t—won’t—let you hurt him. Especially not after what you just told me.”

  The raven cawed and suddenly swooped down off the cage. It landed on the ground and hopped on one leg.

  “That’s Poe,” Claire said. “I named him. He’s also one of Axel’s rescues. Come.” Claire started into the clearing. Angie followed. As they got halfway to the cabin, they heard the shrill whine of a bench saw starting up in one of the sheds.

  Claire stopped. “Ah, he’s in his carpentry shed.” She led the way. Angie followed through the icy wind and spitting snow pellets.

  The double shed doors were partially open.

  “Uncle Axe?” Claire yelled over the whine as she pushed the door farther inward.

  The saw stopped. A giant of a black-haired man swung around, a piece of milled lumber in his gloved hands. His face registered shock as he saw them. He set down the wood and removed protective goggles. Fine sawdust matted his skin and beard. His eyes were icy green, the Tollet family likeness startling. He wore a checked shirt and utility-style dungarees, heavy work boots. His gaze settled on Angie.

  “Uncle Axe—” Claire went over to him, leaned up on tippy-toes, and gave him a kiss. “I brought you some company.”

  The man’s attention never left Angie. “Company’s not welcome here.”

  His voice was a rough bass. He took a step forward, his gloved ham-size hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Angie tensed at the sheer volume of him. He vibrated energy, power, and made Angie conscious of the door behind her and escape routes.

  In her peripheral vision she noted leg traps affixed to the walls, traps with big rusted teeth and chains. There was a long gun cabinet with a key in the lock mounted near the traps. A worktable ran along the back of the shed; above it tools hung neatly on a wall. On another table
lay a hunting bow and a quiver containing several arrows, some with red-and-white fletching, others with yellow-and-white fletching.

  Above the quiver several fly rods rested on hooks. Closer to the door hung two pairs of booted chest waders. The brand logo visible on one pair of waders was familiar—Kinabulu, the company that had sponsored Rachel Hart’s documentary. It was, Angie realized, the same brand that Predator Lodge had supplied her and Maddocks on their recent trip. A very common brand for fishing gear, it seemed.

  An ATV helmet rested on a bench. Above the helmet shelves were stacked with vintage-looking tins that had once contained Maxwell House coffee, Similac baby formula, Italia canned tomatoes, Gatorade powder, Campbell’s Chunky Soup, Harvest Green peas. Beside the tins was a small wooden milk crate that housed four baby bottles with teats. Next to those sat an ancient-looking stuffed teddy bear. Angie was slammed with a sudden memory of the little teddy bear in the angel’s cradle where she’d been abandoned. She quickly pushed the recollection down into her subconscious. It was getting easier to do that, thank God.

  “This is Angie Pallorino,” Claire said. “She’s—”

  “I know who she is. I said she’s not welcome here. They all say she shouldn’t be here.”

  “Who says that?” Claire asked.

  “Wallace, Jessie. BoJo. Your dad. She’s been bugging Jacobi, everyone. Bringing up bad things. You shouldn’t be with her, Claire-Bear.”

  This beast of a man, while frightening, had kind eyes, Angie decided. She watched him step toward a table near him and reach for a rifle that lay there. Claire tensed. Her reaction made Angie’s pulse quicken. She was unsure how to read this sexual abuse survivor who’d never gotten the help he needed and who lived isolated in the forest. In addition to being scary, he looked scared. That could make him dangerous.

  “What does she want here, anyways?” Axel growled.

  Angie stepped forward cautiously. “Axel, hi. I—”

  Claire placed a hand on Angie’s arm, stopping her. Claire’s gaze was fixed on the gun in Axel’s hands. She was reading something in her uncle’s stance, and Angie trusted her.

  Claire said in a calm voice, “Angie Pallorino just wanted to ask you if you ever saw those women on the river while they were on that trip. She believes you might have met Jasmine Gulati in the Hook and Gaffe, seen her arguing with some of the other guys.”

  His face turned thunderous. His green eyes flashed back to Angie. He was likely recalling Claire’s father, his cousin, cuddling with Jasmine Gulati in that booth, and he wasn’t going to let “Claire-Bear” hear about that.

  “Get out,” he grunted, chambering a round. “Get the hell off my land, and get out of town.”

  “Uncle Axe—”

  “I mean it, Claire-Bear. Take this woman the hell away before I go hurting her.”

  Claire swallowed and glanced at Angie. The young woman looked upset, nervous.

  Angie nodded. She began to back out. “Nice meeting you, sir,” she said in an even cop tone. “Maybe we can talk some other time.”

  He said nothing. Angie exited, but Claire lingered a moment in the shed. Angie heard a muffled exchange of words. Claire came outside with her mouth tight. In brooding silence, she stomped her way back into the forest.

  As Angie followed behind, she said, “So Axel really doesn’t like visitors.”

  “No.” Claire kept walking, brooking no further discussion. But as they neared the moss grove, she stopped and said, “I can see now why he hates people coming out to his place. I can totally see it, since you told me what happened to him. I bet he knows exactly who drowned Porter Bates, if that did in fact happen. He’d know they did it to avenge his rape, and he’d want to protect whoever that was. If word is out that you’re digging up old dirt, that old rape has to be a part of the old dirt. You’ve got to be threatening those old allegiances.”

  Angie nodded. “Yes.”

  Claire glowered at her. “You’re pushing people to the edge of comfort, Angie. It . . . could end up going sideways. You could get hurt.”

  “Are you saying you think your uncle Axel’s protectors are capable of hurting me?”

  Claire palmed off her hat and turned away, breathing hard. “I don’t know.” She spun back to face Angie. “But if someone did murder Porter Bates, what do you think they might do if you threaten to open that up again?” Her gaze lasered Angie’s. “Is what you’re doing worth it?”

  “What about truth, Claire? What if that old murder led to another? What if it could lead to more?” She paused. “What about justice?”

  Claire inhaled deeply. “What if it was your family, Angie? What then? Would you be so hungry for truth then?”

  “I’ve had bad stuff unearthed in my own family. I think you’d know that if you read up on me. It wasn’t pleasant to discover the truth, and it was a heinous truth, but I’m better off for it now.”

  “Are you? Really?”

  Angie weighed the answer. Wind stirred the forest, and trees groaned and creaked, releasing pinecones and debris. “I am,” she said softly. “The truth doesn’t make things easier. But I believe it’s necessary. I believe justice needs to come through proper channels, for what kind of society are we without that?” She paused. “Now that you know what happened to Axel, would you—could you—just shut your mind and carry on?”

  She inhaled deeply. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I honestly don’t know.”

  They resumed walking along the trail in silence, and Angie could feel the tension radiating off Claire. She wondered about Axel Tollet. All that she’d gotten out of their visit was more questions. Tentatively, she probed Claire once more.

  “Those rusted leg traps hanging on Axel’s wall—does he run lines?” she called out as they hiked.

  “No,” she said over her shoulder. “He found those. He abhors trappers—finds traps cruel.”

  “Yet he hangs the traps on his wall.”

  “Kinda like trophies, I guess. His way of keeping score of the animals he’s saved from a terrible death by stealing the traps. He told me just looking at the ugly things keeps the fire burning in his belly.”

  “Yet he hunts?” Angie had seen the rifle, the long gun cabinet, the bow and arrows.

  “Subsistence only.” Claire clambered over a fallen tree and waited for Angie to follow suit. “He’d rather kill his own meat humanely than support an industry that slaughters terrified animals in an abattoir. And he prefers bow and arrows because it’s more of a challenge one-on-one with the animal. Gives his prey more of a fighting chance, he says, makes the kill harder earned. He won’t even sell Dad meat for guests at the lodge. He says each man should hunt for his own.”

  Angie dusted mud from her pants and continued along the trail.

  “What were the baby bottles in his shed for?” she asked from behind Claire.

  “Feeding formula to the bears. And he used them for the fawns.”

  “How does he know what kind of formula to use for the different animals?”

  “He doesn’t really. But he calls the folks at Wild Critter Care—it’s a voluntary wild animal rehabilitation center—and they unofficially guide and advise him.”

  “And the little stuffed bear?”

  She stopped and turned. “What bear?”

  “The old teddy bear on his shelf next to the baby bottles.”

  Claire smiled ruefully. “What can I say? He brought the orphaned cubs a stuffed toy in their own likeness. He figured it might help them snuggle and keep warm since there had been three of them—the third cub died.” She shrugged. “I know. It seems at odds with his efforts to not habituate the cubs to humans, but he did steep the toy bear in real ursine scent before placing it in their cage. I’m just surprised the little guys didn’t tear it to shreds when they started playing with it.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “By next spring moss will have grown back over it,” Claire said as they stared down at the scar of black earth marking what was once Jasmine Gu
lati’s grave.

  “New brambles will have taken root.” Claire looked up at the fish carcasses still hanging from the canopy above. “This forest is pure recycling at work. You won’t know that the grave or Jasmine were ever here.”

  Unless you know what to look for.

  A crack sounded, and Angie’s hand went reflexively for the sidearm that wasn’t there. Claire spun round. They both peered into the surrounding woods, muscles tense. A sense of a presence, of being watched, pricked the hairs up along the back of Angie’s neck. She swallowed. It was growing dark in the grove, shadows taking on new shape and menace.

  “What was that?” Angie said.

  Claire held a can of bear spray in front of her. Angie hadn’t even noticed her taking it from her belt. “Nothing. It’s . . . this place, I think. Makes me jumpy for no reason.” She sheathed the can in a holster on her belt as she spoke.

  But Angie didn’t think it was nothing. That sense of a sentience lingered, as if they were still being observed from the shadows.

  Claire checked her watch as if keen to move. “What did you hope to find here?”

  “Context,” Angie said, casting another look into the shadows before crossing the grove to the fringe of trees that grew thick along the edge of the clearing. She studied the GPS.

  “So the river is that way.” She pointed into the woods, speaking more to herself than Claire. “Just over two hundred meters away according to the Garmin.”

  “Yeah, as the crow flies,” Claire said. “But it would be serious bushwhacking on foot. The trail from the river follows natural contours, but it’s longer.”

  Angie checked the contour lines and elevation. “We’re standing at almost two meters in elevation above the Nahamish Flats river delta.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “According to the coroner’s report, there were two extreme weather events that caused flooding in the years after Jasmine Gulati went over the falls. The theory is that the floodwaters could have dislodged her body and washed her remains up here. Then, when the water receded, she was left with other river debris in the moss grove. Except”—Angie turned in a slow circle, absorbing the topography of the grove afresh—“this grove is actually on a bit of an elevated knoll of land. If I’m recalling the report correctly, the floodwaters on both occasions crept over two hundred meters from the Nahamish banks but rose only about three feet—or less than a meter—in height. Which means . . . this knoll could have stayed high and dry.”