Suspicion Read online

  One minute he’d been staring through the camera lens at an old log cabin. The next minute, he was lying flat on his back in some sort of large barnlike room with plywood paneling. He had no idea where. Faces swam in and out of his field of vision. One face loomed directly above his, upside down, the funny-looking harp of a mouth forming nonsense words.

  The cadence made the gobbledygook sound like a question, but the words meant nothing.

  He tried to look around, but he could barely move his head. The room was overheated. Stifling hot, actually. He felt drenched with sweat.

  Again he tried to look around, to figure out where he might be and how he’d ended up there, but his head wouldn’t move, his neck wouldn’t swivel. With a flutter of panic, he tried to lift his entire torso, but he was totally immobilized. His legs, his arms, his hands, and feet—all were frozen in place. Nothing would move.

  He was struck with a terrible realization: I’m paralyzed. I’m a quadriplegic.

  “. . . the United States,” said a voice.

  “What?” Danny said. I can’t move my limbs, can’t even move my head. I’m frozen in place, locked in. I’m paralyzed.

  “Who’s the president of the United States?” The upside-down face, the harp mouth. A raspy baritone.

  Danny stared up at him in disbelief. I’m a quadriplegic, and you’re wasting my time with ridiculous questions like that?

  “Calvin Coolidge,” he said.

  The upside-down face swam out of his field of vision. Someone chuckled and said, “Wiseass.”

  “At least his sense of humor is intact.”

  Galvin.

  An image came back to him. Galvin and someone else in the window of a small log cabin. The other person in the cabin was someone he’d never seen before. Cue-ball head. Spherical. A goatee floating in the middle of a double chin. Heavy brow.

  How long ago had that been? Hours, maybe? Galvin meeting with some unidentified person in an old slopeside hut. But now he and Galvin were here.

  “Where am I?” Danny said.

  “America in 1925 or whatever, I’m guessing.” Galvin again.

  “I can’t move,” Danny said.

  “Hey, baby.” Lucy’s face was close, her eyes wide. She looked scared.

  “Hey, you. Will you tell me where I am?” He smiled with relief, with gratitude, with love.

  “Ski patrol hut at the base of the mountain. Sweetie, do you remember falling and hitting your head?”

  “No . . . not really.”

  “You remember going off to ski the uncleared side of the mountain?”

  “That was sort of an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

  “How’s your head? Do you have a headache, or are you dizzy, or . . . ?”

  “I can’t move.”

  “Guys, there’s no reason for him to be strapped down like that,” Lucy said. “Come on. This is silly.”

  “I’m strapped down? That’s the best news I’ve gotten in years.”

  Now the same voice that had just asked him about the president of the United States said, in a hoarse baritone, “I’m going to insist he go to Aspen Valley Hospital to have a CAT scan.”

  Danny could hear noises, snaps and buckles and something rubbing against something. The sharp pain of something squeezing against his wrists. Then he could feel his hands, tingling and heavy. He could move them.

  Then the same thing with his ankles and his feet, which also tingled from a loss of circulation. He wriggled his fingers and found they worked just fine. His toes as well. A strap came off his chest, and a pair of hands helped him to sit up.

  Lucy’s hands. She leaned in and kissed him. A warm swell of love lapped over him. “Do you have a headache?” she asked again.

  He moved his head side to side gingerly and didn’t reply.

  The front of his head, his temples, began thudding, hard. Truth was, he had a terrible headache. Like his brain was sliding back and forth in his skull. The pain seemed to be centered just behind his eye sockets. The thudding kept time with his heartbeat. If he could only grab the front of his head and detach it at the temples, he felt as if he could remove the headache and hold it, blood-slick and throbbing, in his hands.

  “Seriously,” she said.

  “Yeah, some,” he said.

  Everything was bright and blazing with fierce color. He saw a few men in red-and-black parkas marked with white first-aid crosses, obviously members of the Aspen Mountain Ski Patrol. A few others he didn’t recognize mulling around. Galvin standing behind them, his bright yellow down jacket unzipped.

  Next to him, in a black parka with the zipper partway down, stood his driver, Alejandro. He was an odd-looking man, Alejandro. His head was unusually wide, but his face was narrow, the features clustered close together. A pale line in his upper lip looked like the trace of an old scar. His necklace of green and black beads had a pendant dangling from it that looked, from this distance at least, like the Virgin Mary.

  But it was the black parka that chimed something in his memory.

  Danny noticed his ski boots had been removed. He was in stocking feet.

  One of the men in the red-and-black parkas leaned forward. “Your pupils look normal, and your vital signs seem to be fine,” said the raspy-voiced one who seemed to be in charge. “You passed all the cognitive tests. Except the one about the president.

  “Fact is, you got knocked out. Might have been for only a few seconds, but you were disoriented for a long time afterward, and that’s something you have to take seriously.”

  Danny nodded, carefully. It hurt to move his head.

  “You’re a very lucky guy. Your friend here happened to see you and called us immediately.” He glanced at Galvin. “If it wasn’t for him, you might have frozen to death out there.”

  “Thank Alejandro, not me,” Galvin said. “He’s the one who found you.”

  Danny turned to look at Galvin, then at Alejandro, and then back to Galvin. He remembered a black parka and a black ski mask. Galvin said something to his driver, and Alejandro left the ski patrol hut.

  Something about the black parka stirred a vague, fragmentary recollection.

  The ski patrol guy said, “We’re going to give you a ride over to Aspen Valley. You might have a skull fracture or internal bleeding, so you need to have a CAT scan at the very least.”

  “I think I’m okay. I hate hospitals.”

  “You don’t want to fool around with head injuries.”

  “I understand. But I think I’ll be okay. Thank you guys so much for everything.” He looked at Lucy. “Where’s Abby?”

  “The girls are skiing with Celina,” Lucy said. “Let me help.” She reached for his elbow.

  “Really,” Danny said, “I’m fine.”

  Galvin said, “Alejandro’s getting the car. I’m going to take him home. We’ll see you guys in front of the lodge.” He gave a quick wave, a flip of his hand, and went outside.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said to the patrollers.

  Even though he didn’t need any support, he took Lucy’s hand. She helped him put on his sneakers—she, or someone, must have retrieved them from the rental area.

  “You don’t look so good,” Lucy said when they were outside. “Do you hurt all over, honey?”

  He smiled. “Just my head.”

  “I know you hate hospitals, but you should go. If you start babbling nonsense, I’m taking you in. No debate.”

  “You sure?”

  “About what?”

  “Sure you’ll be able to tell if I’m babbling nonsense? Worse than usual, I mean.”

  “You have a point. Any idea how you got knocked out?”

  “I really have no idea, Luce. I can’t remember much of what happened.”

  But he did remember, more than he wanted to say. He hadn’t fallen. He’d bee
n knocked out.

  By the man in the black parka and the black ski mask.

  Who must have been Galvin’s driver, Alejandro.

  He needed to sit down. The throbbing behind his eyeballs started up again. If he kept his head steady as he walked, he found it hurt less. It didn’t feel as if his brain was thumping back and forth.

  “Are you feeling sleepy?”

  “Not sleepy. Just . . . I don’t know, crappy.”

  The black Suburban was idling at the curb in front of the Little Nell. Tom Galvin got out of the front seat and opened the middle passenger door. Lucy came around between Danny and the Suburban to help him in. “I’m fine, really,” he assured her.

  When he was seated, Lucy began climbing in, but Galvin stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Would you mind staying with the girls?”

  “I think I should stay with Danny.”

  “Celina needs to meet a friend for coffee for some fund-raiser they’re cochairing. She’s not crazy about leaving the girls out there on the slopes alone. Don’t worry about our boy. I’ll get him straight home. He’s in good hands.”

  She gave Danny a kiss on the lips, one that lingered a few seconds longer than usual. Her eyes, meeting his, radiated concern. “All right,” she said, and reluctantly waved good-bye.

  When they’d pulled away from the curb, Danny waited for a long moment. The only sound was the purr of the Suburban’s 320 horsepower and V8 engine.

  Then he said: “We both know what happened.”

  Galvin didn’t reply. Danny wondered if Galvin had heard. Maybe not.

  He was about to say it again when Galvin turned around and looked right into Danny’s eyes. “I think it’s time we talk.”

  48

  Galvin gave his driver a sidelong glance. Alejandro nodded, barely perceptibly.

  Danny’s forehead thrummed as fast and as violently as his heart.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It’s time.”

  Another long silence. The Suburban pulled into a gas station parking lot, bypassed the pumps, and executed a U-turn. No one said anything. After a moment, Danny noticed the terrain changing, unfamiliar. “Aren’t we heading back to the house?”

  “Not just yet,” Galvin said. “There’s some Motrin back there in the seat compartment. You should probably drink some of that water there. You’ll feel better.”

  “I’ll be fine when I get some rest.”

  “First we’re going for a drive,” Galvin said.

  Danny felt his stomach flip over. He started to protest, then sat back in his seat.

  He heard the whine of the Suburban’s automatic transmission as it shifted gears.

  They were heading northwest on Highway 82, Danny noticed. Galvin didn’t speak. Neither of them did.

  Finally, when the silence had gone on long enough, Danny said, “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere we can talk in private.”

  “You want to talk, let’s talk. Pull over.”

  A long pause. “There’s a place I want to show you.”

  “Some other time.”

  He wondered whether Galvin was planning a talk. Or something else. He tried to suppress a surge of panic. He thought about texting Slocum and Yeager to let them know what had happened, how he’d been knocked out. . . .

  Which reminded him about the camera Slocum had given him. He was pretty sure he hadn’t taken any pictures of Galvin meeting with whoever he was meeting with. He hadn’t gotten the chance before someone—was it in fact Alejandro the driver?—struck him, knocked him out. Which meant the camera was still in his pocket. He patted the pockets of his down parka, then rummaged through them but found nothing. The camera wasn’t in the zippered pocket. Or had he been holding it when he’d been knocked out? Probably so.

  Making it likely that someone—Alejandro?—had taken it.

  Galvin turned around, looking at Danny. “I want us to talk in private,” he said. His eyes slid toward the driver and back again. Was Galvin saying he didn’t want his driver to hear? “We’re gonna go for a walk.”

  They kept on driving for a while. Danny had no sense of how long it was. He’d grown sleepy, lulled by the monotony of the road, yet he was too apprehensive to doze. A few cars passed, but not many. Then the Suburban signaled left and turned onto an unpaved road. Not just a dirt road, but rock-strewn: The vehicle canted and crunched and sidled and shuddered. They came upon a yellow diamond-shaped sign:

  4-WHEEL DRIVES ONLY PAST THIS POINT

  That was followed by another sign, bigger and rectangular and more urgent:

  ATTENTION DRIVERS

  EXTREMELY ROUGH ROAD AHEAD

  VEHICLE TRAFFIC DISCOURAGED

  4X4 WITH EXPERIENCED DRIVERS

  AND NARROW WHEEL BASE ONLY

  “What’s the plan?” Danny said uneasily.

  “You’ll see,” Galvin said.

  The road quickly grew narrower, lined on either side with trees and wild shrubbery: spindly spruce and fir trees caked with snow, dense stands of barren aspens, wind-deformed willows and scraggly branches, snow-dusted scrub oak and pines.

  Another road sign loomed into view:

  THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE TO TURN AROUND OR

  PASS ANOTHER VEHICLE FOR MILES.

  NARROW ROAD WITH STEEP DROP OFFS.

  IF YOU ARE NOT ON FOOT, A BIKE, OR AN ATV

  YOU SHOULD TURN AROUND NOW!

  In another five hundred or so feet the road ended. A ROAD CLOSED sign, striped with orange reflective tape and screwed on to a couple of ground-mounted I-beam supports, barricaded the way. It didn’t look temporary. It looked seasonal. The road was closed for the winter.

  Danny now had a fairly good idea what kind of walk Galvin intended to take him on, and he was finding it hard to breathe.

  There was no one around, no one within sight, no one within earshot. For miles, probably.

  Lucy was the only one who’d seen Galvin leave with Danny, and as far as she knew, Galvin was dropping him off at home. He’d made a point of saying so, Danny now recalled.

  The Suburban pulled over to the side of the road, next to a downed paper birch.

  Galvin said something to his driver in rapid Spanish.

  “Tom,” Danny said.

  But Alejandro had switched off the engine and gotten out, then came around and opened the middle passenger door and reached in to get him.

  49

  Something in the set of the driver’s grim expression told him not to bother struggling. He got out of the car and said, “What’s going on?”

  “I told you. I want us to go for a walk.”

  “I’m not really up to it, Tom.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  Alejandro went around to the passenger’s side of the front seat and opened the door for Galvin, who also got out.

  Galvin crossed in front of the Suburban and put an arm around Danny’s shoulder and walked with him toward the ROAD CLOSED sign.

  “What’s this all about, Tom?”

  At the barrier, Galvin stepped ahead of him, between a fence post and a coil of orange plastic road barrier mesh that looked like it had been just tossed there. Danny looked back, saw Alejandro standing by the car, waiting.

  Reluctantly, he followed Galvin.

  Just up ahead, he saw, the mountain road juked at a sharp angle.

  “I want you to see one of God’s miracles,” Galvin said. He leaned down, picked up a stone, and hurled it.

  Danny didn’t hear it drop.

  When he rounded the bend, he saw why. The road was no longer a road. It had become a narrow ledge that ran along the side of a jagged, rocky canyon cliff.

  A cliff that dropped straight down forever.

  The canyon wall below the path was a sheer, straight drop, virtually pe
rpendicular. It looked like a shelf that had been blasted out of the rock face. He didn’t see how even a small four-wheel-drive vehicle could fit all four of its tires on the one-lane road. Or how a car approaching from the opposite direction could possibly get by.

  There was no guardrail. There were patches of snow and ice.

  His heart began hammering.

  Galvin was wearing Timberland boots; Danny wore sneakers. It wouldn’t take much for Danny to lose his footing on the ice or the rubble-covered ledge and slip and plummet a thousand feet into the ravine.

  The body probably wouldn’t be recovered until the spring. The assumption would be clear: out-of-town hiker, inexperienced and on his own.

  An unfortunate accident.

  He’s going to kill me, Danny realized.

  It was perfect.

  Galvin beckoned him on. His face was grim. “Let’s go. Come on.”

  “I can see quite well from here, actually.”

  “Come on. I won’t let you fall.”

  “I can see it great from here.”

  “This is my favorite place in the world.”

  “Yep, it’s nice.”

  “No, Danny boy. It’s not ‘nice.’ Get over here. Do I have to ask Alejandro to carry you over here?”

  Danny hesitated, but only for a few seconds. A scuffle on the edge of a cliff would be risky for Galvin, though not as risky as for Danny. But Danny was determined to put up a struggle. If he was going over the edge, Galvin was coming with him.

  He thought of the old Hitchcock movie in which Joan Fontaine is convinced that Cary Grant is trying to kill her. He brings her a glass of milk, and Hitchcock supposedly put a little battery-powered lightbulb in it to make it glow ominously, to turn something comforting into something terrifying.

  Maybe Joan Fontaine was imagining things, but Hitchcock made sure we shared her suspicion.

  The view over the canyon was indeed remarkable—the crystalline blue sky with white cirrus smudges, the raked bristles of pine forest blanketing the folds and ripples and gouges of the mountainside, the boiling pristine waterfall far below.