snooped too close at the house, Burt was to get rid of her. Accordingly, during his days off, he’d familiarized himself with the surrounding area. The neighboring mountain range seemed ideal for hiding whatever evidence he might have to conceal, so he’d researched highways and back roads. He’d picked up tourist materials at the local Chamber of Commerce: an area map; information about hunting season in the wilderness; locations of wineries and campsites in the region which were likely to be populated.
Thanks to his planning, the mission during this morning’s wee hours had been relatively easy: driving the dead woman’s black SUV to the remote location he’d chosen on an earlier reconnaissance trip. From Milford-Haven, he’d driven south just past Cambria, turned east on Highway 46, which climbed a thousand feet into the Santa Lucia Range.
Using the country roads that wound toward Nacimiento Lake, he’d located Lost Creek Canyon—still amused by the name—a remote, secluded spot. He’d been able to aim the car toward its final resting place where it was now completely concealed not only by the steep canyon walls and a boulderoutcropping, but by being crowded into clusters of scrub oak and pine.
If the car were ever discovered, there’d be no body, and it would seem the woman had survived and then abandoned the vehicle before vanishing in the wild. If the body were ever found back at the house, it’d appear the woman had fallen—all the more convincing because she had her purse, and it’d been buried with her in the dirt under the house, where all would shortly be sealed under the heavy hearthstone. In either scenario, it would seem her death had indeed been accidental.
Completing his task at about two a.m., and stowing the work gloves he’d worn all night, he’d begun the trek home. He’d stuck to the country road in the dark—to avoid falling or losing his way—then tramping through the woods once the sun was fully up. From his backpack he’d pulled the red knitted cap he always carried. It’d come in handy when hunters had spotted him. He’d waved from a distance, and continued his descent. Day-hikers glimpsed him another time, but another friendly greeting from afar had ensured he’d never be recognized. Checking his compass against the map, he’d managed to find entry to the next winding road that would take him back to civilization, ultimately hiking the forty-two miles from Lost Creek Canyon in fourteen hours.
Under normal circumstances, Cambria would be less than half an hour’s walk to his rental in Milford-Haven. But by now he was favoring his left ankle, raw where the boot had been rubbing, and swollen from a slight misstep far up the trail.
Fishing a stack of quarters from his backpack, he dialed the long-distance number of his employer. When the answering machine picked up, he said, “Hey there, just checking in.” Heused a casual tone, as instructed. “Say, the package you wanted has been dispatched. Had to move the container it arrived in, but no problem. Oh, I took that drive in the coastal mountains, and then a nice, long hike. Beautiful country. Taking a day off tomorrow. Look forward to hearing from you.”
Hanging up, he took a moment to plan his next communication. He’d have to place one more call to Sawyer Construction, requesting another day off. He’d make the call from home tonight—after hours, so he could leave a message rather than talking to anyone live. Exhausted, he realized he’d have to set his alarm, lest he sleep through. The extra day would give his ankle time to heal.
Burt looked around to see a woman walking a collie along the far side of the road. No one would consider it odd to see a friendly guy wandering through town. Giving her a nod, he headed north on Main Street.
Susan Winslow looked out her window where the sun had just set, leaving its final traces of mulberry, marine and indigo across a blackening horizon.
The colors match my bruise
Thanks to his planning, the mission during this morning’s wee hours had been relatively easy: driving the dead woman’s black SUV to the remote location he’d chosen on an earlier reconnaissance trip. From Milford-Haven, he’d driven south just past Cambria, turned east on Highway 46, which climbed a thousand feet into the Santa Lucia Range.
Using the country roads that wound toward Nacimiento Lake, he’d located Lost Creek Canyon—still amused by the name—a remote, secluded spot. He’d been able to aim the car toward its final resting place where it was now completely concealed not only by the steep canyon walls and a boulderoutcropping, but by being crowded into clusters of scrub oak and pine.
If the car were ever discovered, there’d be no body, and it would seem the woman had survived and then abandoned the vehicle before vanishing in the wild. If the body were ever found back at the house, it’d appear the woman had fallen—all the more convincing because she had her purse, and it’d been buried with her in the dirt under the house, where all would shortly be sealed under the heavy hearthstone. In either scenario, it would seem her death had indeed been accidental.
Completing his task at about two a.m., and stowing the work gloves he’d worn all night, he’d begun the trek home. He’d stuck to the country road in the dark—to avoid falling or losing his way—then tramping through the woods once the sun was fully up. From his backpack he’d pulled the red knitted cap he always carried. It’d come in handy when hunters had spotted him. He’d waved from a distance, and continued his descent. Day-hikers glimpsed him another time, but another friendly greeting from afar had ensured he’d never be recognized. Checking his compass against the map, he’d managed to find entry to the next winding road that would take him back to civilization, ultimately hiking the forty-two miles from Lost Creek Canyon in fourteen hours.
Under normal circumstances, Cambria would be less than half an hour’s walk to his rental in Milford-Haven. But by now he was favoring his left ankle, raw where the boot had been rubbing, and swollen from a slight misstep far up the trail.
Fishing a stack of quarters from his backpack, he dialed the long-distance number of his employer. When the answering machine picked up, he said, “Hey there, just checking in.” Heused a casual tone, as instructed. “Say, the package you wanted has been dispatched. Had to move the container it arrived in, but no problem. Oh, I took that drive in the coastal mountains, and then a nice, long hike. Beautiful country. Taking a day off tomorrow. Look forward to hearing from you.”
Hanging up, he took a moment to plan his next communication. He’d have to place one more call to Sawyer Construction, requesting another day off. He’d make the call from home tonight—after hours, so he could leave a message rather than talking to anyone live. Exhausted, he realized he’d have to set his alarm, lest he sleep through. The extra day would give his ankle time to heal.
Burt looked around to see a woman walking a collie along the far side of the road. No one would consider it odd to see a friendly guy wandering through town. Giving her a nod, he headed north on Main Street.
Susan Winslow looked out her window where the sun had just set, leaving its final traces of mulberry, marine and indigo across a blackening horizon.
The colors match my bruise
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