Jericho's Fall by Stephen L. Carter Page B

Jericho from his bed. The older man was the sheriff, Pete’s boss. The two suits were detectives from the state police. Jimmy Lobb’s truck had turned up at the bottom of a gorge on the far side of the mountain. Mr. Lobb’s remains were in the cab. There was only one set of skid marks, the detectives were explaining. Nobody was chasing him. Nobody had forced him over the side. He had simply lost control of the truck.
    His dog was missing.
    “Probably drunk as a skunk,” rumbled the sheriff, who in Colorado was elected. His name was Garvey.
    “We’ll know when we get the lab reports,” said one of the detectives.
    “Coordinate with my man,” Sheriff Garvey snapped, pointing to Pete. Heading for the door, the sheriff looked Rebecca up and down. “Where was this one?” he said to the air. “Take her statement.”
    He left.
    Beck went and sat next to Jericho, who was shaking his head, whispering to himself. She tried to listen.
    “Bastards killed my friend,” he whispered, clutching her wrist. Tears ran freely down his face. He put his mouth close to her ear. “You just remember who fired the first shot.”
    (ii)
    Later.
    Beck was dreaming fitfully, something about the old days, not her time at Stone Heights with Jericho but a year or so afterward, back when she was learning the secrets of life from middle-aged hippies in Thailand, working in an American bar, half the time stoned out of her mind, but always looking blearily over her shoulder, because she knew that they were after her, Jericho had said they would never let her go, that she would be in their files forever, and in her dream she could sense their wraithlike presence, feel their bone-cold fingers on her neck, but when she turned there was never anybody there, nobody except— except—
    Except her cell phone was ringing.
    Beck sat up, head pounding the way it used to when she was hung -over. But surely the beers she had consumed at Corinda’s—
    Still ringing.
    She told herself not to answer. She was sick of the weird high-pitched whine. She shut her eyes in the gray darkness, waiting for the voice mail to cut in, but it never did. The ringing continued. With an angry sweep, she grabbed the phone to shut it off, and that was when she saw the number on the screen.
    Her mother’s condo in Sarasota.
    In the middle of the night.
    She fumbled twice before she was able to push the green button. “Mom?”
    “Hi, Mommy,” said Nina.
    “Sweetie-pie!”
    “Mommy, I’ve been trying and trying to reach you, but you won’t call me back, and so—”
    “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s phone hasn’t been working—”
    But Nina was still talking, nonstop, the way she did.
    “—and so Grandma said I should stop leaving messages, but I’m leaving one more, just in case, okay? Because I really wanna tell you about the surprise we have for you—”
    Voice mail. Somehow she was listening to the voice mail.
    “—because I love you and I’m so excited and I just want to tell you, okay? So, call me, okay? And—and— I’ll be there in a minute! —I have to go, because Grandma is calling me, and I didn’t tell her I’m calling you— Just a minute! —I’m in the bathroom and I guess I better go, but call me, Mommy, okay? Call me soon, so I can tell you about the d—”
    The message stopped.
    She stared at the screen. The call had been lost. She tried to call her voice mail, but she had no bars. She felt a wave of vertigo. Her brain was slushy, as if she had just opened her eyes, and she wondered if she had dreamed it all. Her hand was sweaty as she slipped out of bed. Not bothering with a bathrobe, she hurried through the bathroom to Jericho’s office and picked up the phone. She heard Pamela’s voice. She was doing business. Two in the morning, and she was doing business. Something about cutting out one of the chase scenes, at a savings of a million and a half.
    The d—
    The dog?
    No, no, no, Beck, no, your imagination is working overtime—
    I