Blood lure

Chapter 19

Fifty Mountain was at peace, new campers not yet come, old campers either out exploring or lounging in the church-quiet of backcountry camp at midafternoon.

A

Beyond the hitching rail, the National Park Service had provided a tall pole firmly planted in the ground with metal hooks near the top. Propped against a nearby tree was another pole. This one was long and slender and tipped with a hook of its own. Taking up the slender pole, A

Food, a sponge bath, cleaner clothes, resting in a tent; A

Renewed and rested, she ventured forth a little after five. She wandered by McCaskil's campsite. A young couple were pitching their tent there, arguing companionably about which direction the slope went. McCaskil wouldn't be back, not unless he was an idiot. He'd run. He had a radio, A

If he had any sense, he was long gone from the park by now. Unless he had unfinished business here, and A

She could co

Full of questions and needing to pester somebody, she climbed the gentle hill through the blackened campsites and dead trees till she reached the uppermost one, the one where the fire had simply stopped of its own volition, often in the middle of a tree leaving half charred and dying, the other half determinedly thrusting green needles out to catch the sun.

Lester was there. He sat on a rock, elbows on his knees, hands hanging down, doing nothing. So seldom do people actually do nothing that to see it creates an impression of deadness. That's what A

Like a man in a trance, he swung his face slowly toward her. His eyes were vacant, as if he took up no space on the planet. "It's A

"Yes. I was waiting for you."

For reasons she could not put her finger on, his words gave her a creepy feeling, much as the Grim Reaper's might when he called her name. Les stirred himself and the feeling was gone. "Chief Ranger Ruick told me to wait here, and if you came back, tell you to call him." He reached down and retrieved a radio propped against the stone at his feet.

A

"Why didn't you call last night?" he demanded.

"Lost my radio." Silence fussed over the air as he waited for her to explain. She didn't. Radios were not safe. "I need to talk with you in person," she said instead.

Either Ruick understood her reluctance to chat or gave into it. He didn't press her. "We're no longer in the backcountry. Hiked out. Come down," he ordered. "Call me on the phone when you get here."

There were a couple of hours of daylight left. With Ponce for conveyance, A

Radio chore completed, she sat on the ground near Lester Van Slyke. She kept the radio. If he cared about it one way or another, he didn't let on. She guessed he didn't. By the look of him, he didn't care much about anything. If he'd appeared old and sick and gray when they'd met, he looked three days dead now. The sparse hair was greasy and stuck to his pate in dark strands. His skin hung loose, the sagging jowls rough with two days' growth of beard. His pale blue eyes were rimmed in red and he blinked a lot as if he had trouble focusing.

"Why do you stay here?" A

"I have to," he said vaguely. "Maybe there's something…" His voice trailed off. She waited. "Something I can do," he finished finally.

"About what?"

A minute passed. The drop of life that had animated him when he gave her Harry's message drained away.

"I can't do anything," he said so softly she barely heard him. He wasn't talking to her but to himself, undoubtedly repeating the mantra of ineffectualness the second Mrs. Van Slyke had spent so many years literally and figuratively beating into him.

For a while A

It was not that she was without compassion, at least she liked to think she wasn't, but there was that about Les that brought out her anger. She could understand why his son hated him instead of the woman who tormented him. She could see how he would attract and incite abusers of every stripe. Les Van Slyke was the flesh and blood equivalent of the tar baby. He seemed to invite violence by his self-negation, acceptance of violence only enraging his attacker. A