In Harm's Way

“It wasn’t me outside the cottage,” Fiona said. “I’m willing to bet I was inside, lying on the floor unconscious, although I don’t know that for sure.”

“That’s a big bet,” Arian said. “I’m not sure that’s a bet you want to make.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Kira said. “I saw it. I didn’t do it.”

“No other cars?” Arian asked Kira.

“Not that I saw. And I didn’t hear the gate beep.”

“They can make a case that it was one or the other of you, or that, as you say the sheriff is thinking, that it was both of you, and you’re covering for each other.”

“But it’s not true,” Kira said.

Arian’s face sagged. “This is the law we’re talking about. Truth is only one small part of the equation.” He waited a moment for this to sink in. “Your parents have asked you to stay with them?”

Kira nodded. They’d discussed this earlier on the drive up. “But I don’t want to.”

Fiona spoke up. “Kira, you should do it. Maybe this is the chance you’ve been waiting for.”

“I don’t want to see him.”

“What if your father’s changed?”

“He doesn’t change.”

“We all change,” Fiona said, “if others give us the chance to.”

Kira nodded faintly. “But only for tonight.”

“Don’t be too quick to judge,” Fiona advised.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ve got stuff to work out,” Fiona said. “Stuff to write down. I’ll be all right.”

“I can drop you off,” Arian proposed.

“I’ll get my things,” Kira said, standing and reluctantly letting go of Fiona’s hand.

“What do you make of all this?” Fiona asked Arian when they were alone.

“Do you believe her?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“And how do you know you went over a stool? What if your injury occurred outside your cottage?”

“You think that didn’t occur to me?”

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“Did I hate him that much? Yes, I did. Could I do something like that? Never.”

“Never’s a big word.”

“Never,” Fiona repeated.

Arian dug out his wallet, and from it, a business card. “In case you need me.”

“I don’t.”

“But in case you do,” he said.

Fiona accepted the card.

48

A Disney Cha

The search of the Fancelli home had failed to turn up any suggestion of child molestation or abuse-no souvenirs, no videos-but the man’s arrest included a mandatory DNA swab-this had been the golden ring Walt had been reaching for-and he hoped within the week to use that sample to prove the paternity of his daughter’s unborn child. Fancelli would be going away for a lot longer than a year. As he wrapped up the report, he was feeling good for a change and thinking that this was one of the good nights.

“Hey, Dad,” Nikki called from the living room. It had to be a commercial break because typically they didn’t know he existed if a show was on.

“Yes?”

“I thought you were going to build us a tree fort.”

A family issue that arose every six months or so, Walt had resisted the idea of a tree fort because of the enormous work involved and the likelihood of it turning out to be only a passing interest. He realized, more important, that this was gender bias on his part. He thought of tree forts as a boys’ realm, and was convinced his daughters would quickly lose interest, a conviction he now questioned.

“You’re right,” he answered. “I think I forgot all about it.”

“Can we build one?”

Now Emily was sitting up and looking at him excitedly as well. “With curtains and a bucket to bring stuff up?” she said.

He wondered if a tree house was part of the show they were watching. They were easily influenced.

“Curtains? Why not?” he said.

“When?” Emily shouted far too loudly.

“How soon?” Nikki added.

The questions hit him as a fist in the chest. Everything came down to time. It was the one commodity that fell short and left him feeling cheated, as well as the one doing the cheating. Never mind that he had no time for himself; he gave his daughters short shrift and even his job occasionally suffered. He considered himself an excellent time manager, and yet how was he supposed to find the four hours to erect a tree house with his daughters? And if he couldn’t find four hours to be with his kids, what did that say about him?

“This weekend,” he answered.

“Seriously?” Nikki said, suddenly the spokesperson for the two.

This change caught her father’s attention. Of the two, Nikki had retreated far more deeply into herself following the divorce. Her elevation to spokesperson, and Emily’s willingness to allow it to happen, held profound significance for him.

“Seriously,” he answered. “This Saturday.”

To his surprise, the girls exploded off the floor, throwing their hands high in the air and dancing around, causing Walt to realize how much he missed the obvious. Their excitement had little or nothing to do with a tree house.

“Saturday,” he repeated, watching how it spurred even more celebration. He wished he had a camera. Wished he could preserve forever the elation on his daughters’ faces, wished he understood the complexities of fatherhood better, and resolved to do just that.

With the idea of a tree house now firmly rooted, he began to imagine what backyard tree or trees could be used, as well as the structure’s overall design. A tree house was no simple undertaking, and Walt was no do-it-yourselfer. He Googled “tree house plans” and uncovered a half-million hits. He scrolled down through, then changed his mind and clicked on the “Images” link at the top of the page to see what he was in for.

There on the screen was a small thumbnail photograph of a structure that matched the last tree house he’d seen: the one in the Engletons’ woods. The one he’d been sitting near when he’d suggested to Fiona that a small fire would clean things up nicely.

His house phone ringing interrupted him, and he rose to answer it with reluctance. Anyone who wanted to reach him called him on his mobile, so he assumed this was either for the girls, or a telemarketer. Both options left him grumpy. He answered the phone, “This is Walt,” and paused.

“Sheriff Fleming?” It was a high, timid voice, with a Hispanic accent, and Walt’s first thought was how she’d gotten his unpublished phone number.

“Speaking.”

“My name Victoria Menquez. I am married to Guillermo. You know Guillermo. He work for Forest Service.”

“Yes, Mrs. Menquez.”

“My Guillermo, he no come home.”

Walt had been led into a search for Gilly once before; he felt the taste of sarcasm lingering on the tip of his tongue as he swallowed it away.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Walt said. “Have you called his friends?”

“He not fine,” she protested. “He said he do something for you when he left this morning. This is why I call you. Why he not call? Why he not come for supper?”

“Me?” Walt blurted out too quickly. The last thing he needed was to be dragged into a pub crawl looking for Gilly Menquez. He was about to suggest looking under “Bar” in the Yellow Pages when he gained some control. “The Forest Service,” he said. “He must carry a radio or something?”

“I call. No answer. Only recording. Office opens eight a.m. I know when office opens.” She was the one reverting to sarcasm. He glanced at the kitchen clock. It felt later than it was. The soundtrack of the Disney movie was bothering him; too much laughter for his present conversation.