There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath.

—Herman Melville
(Left by R. L. Jakes, writing a screenplay about the lake.)

Chapter 24

The storms were moving closer. Thunderheads boiled over Chinquapin Peaks, rising and churning, blotting out a heavy half moon that seemed to belong to a quieter, gentler night. Beneath the dock, Moses Lake frothed and churned, clawing at the wooden pillars and the rocky shore. The summer night had turned unusually cool, the air smelling of the coming storm, windy one moment, then silent the next, seeming to pause and wait, breathless.

“Is it them?” I whispered, pulling the dark sweat shirt closer around my middle, feeling vulnerable and conspicuous as Al and I slipped from the cedars and moved along the swaying dock. Aged and abandoned, it listed in the water, the plastic barrels sinking lower beneath our weight.

“Not likely anybody else would be out tonight.” Al’s answer was flat and short, letting me know that, even if we were partners in this strange mission, we were no longer friends. She pulled out a light and flashed it on the water twice, and the boat flashed twice in reply. The whole thing would’ve seemed comically cloak-and-dagger if I weren’t so nervous. With the causeway locked, I didn’t know how I’d explain our presence on Firefly Island if we got caught.

We’d just have to make sure that we didn’t.

The boat drifted to the dock, the motor idling softly. A sound, something like an owl hooting, skimmed over the water.

“Nester, cut that out,” a gravelly voice replied.

Laughter stole into my throat, and I snort-chuckled nervously against my hand. Of all the people Al might have arranged to get us to the island, Burt Lacey and Nester Grimland seemed like an unlikely choice, but Al had pointed out that, due to the low water levels this summer, there were obstacles close to the surface, especially on the side of Firefly Island opposite the bay where the houseboat had been anchored. The Docksiders knew this lake, every inch of it. They could get us there and back safely, even with the weather turning ominous.

I was learning, once again, the most important lesson that my time in Moses Lake had taught me: You can’t always handle everything by yourself. Sometimes . . . oftentimes . . . you have to rely on other people. To survive, really survive well, you have to be willing to accept help and to give it. It was a hard lesson to internalize. I’d been fighting all my life to prove I could do it—whatever it was—all by myself. Without my parents holding my hand or my big sisters telling me how.

But pride doesn’t go very far when you need to get across the water in the dark, and you don’t have a boat.

Nester and Burt’s rig, a small aluminum fishing craft just large enough for four people, pulled up to the dock. Nester shifted fishing equipment and life preservers aside to make room, and Al and I climbed onboard.

“Y’all just settle in there on the bench by the live well,” Nester instructed, his hat brim hiding all but his gray handlebar mustache and chin. “Put them life jackets on. The storm’s comin’ in quicker than we thought. We coulda brought Burt’s big boat, but it’s loud. With this little thing, we can troll in and outta there, and them fellas holed up on that houseboat won’t hear a thing.”

“They’re still anchored there?” I was hoping the storm might have sent Mason’s associates elsewhere to anchor their houseboat.

“Looked like it. We went by the other side of the island on our way here—made like we were night fishin’. Houseboat was there, and the lights were burnin’ below deck. Little skiff was tied up behind the boat, so they aren’t on the island tonight.”

“Good.” I buckled my vest and pulled it tight. If Daniel could see me right now, he’d kill me. When I’d called the hospital to tell him I planned to go to Firefly tonight, I hadn’t exactly mentioned that the causeway key was missing. If Daniel knew, he’d be back at the ranch inside a half hour, trying to stop me from going. I needed for him to stay at the hospital, and to make sure that Mason stayed there, too.

I could still hear Daniel protesting my plan. “This is crazy, Mal. It sounds like something out of Nancy Drew. And you’re pregnant, remember?” I knew he would say that—as if being pregnant rendered me incapable and incompetent. He sighed into the phone then. “Listen, Mal, I’m sorry for the fight earlier. When I told you to go home to DC for a little while, I was just . . . thinking of you and the baby and Nick. It’s not that I want you all leaving without me, but if I keep up the pressure on Mason, I can get him to crack. He’s worried about me, and the closer Jack comes to regaining consciousness, the jumpier Mason gets. Give me some more time.”

We’d gone back and forth until Daniel had finally agreed to call my cell if there was any sign of Mason leaving the hospital. In the meantime, Al had arranged the boat and gathered flashlights, a pocket camera, and dark clothes.

Now, here we were, the boat thrashing side to side, cutting through the waves, water splashing against the bow as it rose over a swell, then crashed down again, then rose, and fell, and rose.

“Hang on, girls,” Burt advised, and I squeezed the side rail even tighter, the cool metal bending my fingernails backward. “It’s gonna get rough once we clear the point.”

Going to get rough? My stomach turned over. I felt like I was ready to lose my supper already. That kind of thing didn’t happen to Nancy Drew. It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so serious.

As we cleared the little cedar-clad point that hid the abandoned dock, the swells kicked up and the boat’s engine revved, rivets and joints crackling in the full-on wind and waves. Spray splashed over me, and the back of the boat dipped so low that the water was just below my fingertips, glistening dark and full of churned-up debris. I watched something float by beneath the surface—a piece of cloth. A scarf, or part of a swimsuit, maybe. It slid through the glow of the lights, slipping by like a shadow, seeming to stretch and contract in the water, taking on life.

I thought of my dream and the Scripture in Grandma Louisa’s Bible. The warning.

I held on. Closed my eyes. Tried to stay calm.

The boat’s lurching ebbed as we moved closer to the island, the craggy cliffs and thick cedars of Firefly slowly blocking the wind until there was none. The waters nearer the shore were eerily still when Nester cut the engine. Burt moved to the front of the boat, silently piloting us in with an electric motor so that our entrance was almost soundless, even the gravel only scratching dully on the hull as we beached.

Al took off her life vest and made her way toward the bow as Nester caught an overhanging cedar and pulled us in alongside a tangle of logs and debris.

“All right, nobody had oughta see us here,” he whispered, leaning close. “Burt and me’ll hole up here by the cedars. Lake patrol comes by, we’ll just pretend like we was out night fishin’ and had to pull up outta the weather a minute. Better step out on the right and climb across them downed logs, see? Don’t wanna leave footprints to tip em’ off.”

Burt grunted as he maneuvered over the boat railing and stepped into the mud. “Heaven’s sake, Nester, you ought to get a job in Hollywood. Not likely to be a lake patrol tonight, and the footprints will be gone by morning. Those clouds are fixin’ to cut loose a toad strangler. It’s that storm we oughta be worried about. You girls hurry on and do what you’ve gotta do. We’d better be heading back across that point in thirty minutes, not much more. The weather’s coming faster than you think, and from what Al said, I’m guessing we don’t want them to find us sitting here on the shores of Firefly Island in the mornin’.”

“We’d go with ya, but we’d probably just be in yer way,” Nester added. “Besides, last time we sneaked out here coon huntin’, some woman saw our lights and thought it was a ghost or a UFO. She called the sheriff, and Burt and I about ended up in jail. We get caught trespassin’ again, we’re dead meat. Don’t even know what yer lookin’ for, anyway.”

“Neither do we,” Al grumbled, and she started for the woods, clicking her flashlight on as she reached the blackness under the canopy of oaks and elms.

“We’ll hurry,” I promised, then tossed off my life vest and trotted after her. Nester was more dead-on than he realized. None of us had any idea what we were looking for. I only knew that there was something. Something I was supposed to find on Firefly Island.

Wind rustled in the live oaks overhead, bending the branches as we made our way through the woods. Al walked uphill ahead of me, moving with an uncanny confidence. There was no path to follow, yet she seemed to know exactly where to go, deftly weaving her way around tangles of briars and nests of roots hidden in the darkness of the forest floor.

Ahead, the undergrowth of brambles and seedlings fluttered and swayed, parting in a gust of wind, then closing like a curtain. The glimmer of a security light shone through the leaves in the distance, then vanished. I stopped a moment, trying to get my bearings, waiting for the light to come into view once more. The cabin was farther from the edge of the island than I’d thought. . . .

When I looked down again, Al’s flashlight was gone. A fist of apprehension caught my throat. The woods closed in around me, the rustling becoming more than just the breeze passing by. Was someone . . . or something there? Behind me? Beside me?

Beyond my flashlight beam, it was interminably dark, the moon blotted out by the building storm. Something skittered across the forest carpet. I swiveled without moving my feet. A shiver raised gooseflesh on my skin. I thought of all the things that could happen in the woods on an inky-black night like this.

The wind quieted, and I strained into the darkness. Ahead, a boot skidded on wet rock, sending a pebble bouncing downward. I hurried toward the sound, keeping my flashlight low. Within a few dozen steps, I’d crested a hill. Al was traveling down the other side into a canyon, her light held close to her body so that the beam illuminated only the ground beneath her feet. At the bottom of the hill, she stopped, circled her light to hurry me along, then continued on.

I didn’t catch up until Al stopped at the edge of the clearing, where a single security light illuminated the cabin. It was nothing fancy—just a small cedar-shingled shack with old plate-glass windows and a tin roof. All one room, from the look of it. The lights were on inside, but threadbare white curtains hung over the windows, blocking the view. The porch, other than the portion near the door, was littered with debris. Amid a clutter of fallen leaves, a rocking chair with a broken arm moved gently in the wind, swaying back and forth as if someone were sitting in it. I imagined that I could see her there—the woman from the photos in Jack’s little house. The wind caught her hair, lifted it, and swirled it away from her face as she gazed off into the trees.

I blinked, and she was gone.

On the porch, the remains of an easel leaned haphazardly against the wall, the wood gray from the weather, one of the legs broken. That was hers. It had to be. Just as in the house behind ours, this place had been left unchanged since she died. It remained frozen in time, waiting.

Why would someone like Mason want to stay here? He must have been desperate for privacy so that he could conduct his business, whatever it was, right under his father’s nose. The fact that Jack had allowed him to use this cabin, a place shared with no one else for so many years, only proved how deep, genuine, and desperate Jack’s love for Mason really was—how much he wanted this reconciliation with his son. Why else would he offer up a home he’d protected for so long?

“Looks pretty quiet,” Al whispered. “Let’s go see what we can figure out from the windows. You check the one on that side. Be careful. Keep quiet.” She motioned to the far end of the cabin, and we pressed through the brush, the tentacles of wild grapevine tugging at our clothes.

On the far side of the cabin, a single window radiated dim light, drawing a faint circle in the murky air. I crept toward it, then leaned over slowly and peered through the gap in the curtains. The interior of the cabin was small—bed on one side along the wall, tiny kitchen on the other, a wicker sofa with faded cushions and a rocker in between, white wicker end tables and a little dining set that matched. The chairs were covered with lacy floral seat cushions in shades of yellow and green, the colors faded now. At one time, the house had been decorated to a woman’s taste—rustic and earthy. Cute. A studio where an artist might work in quiet and natural light. During the day with the curtains open, the room would have been bright and beautiful. There were canvases everywhere, in all stages of completion. Studies of flowers, deer, bald eagles on the wing, a little boy with his knobby legs curled under him, playing with a tiny toy pickup truck. I recognized it. It was parked beside Nick’s bed now.

This was her place. Her haven. Her private island. Peaceful, like the paintings.

I turned away before I could delve more deeply. If Mason really was using Firefly Island in some sort of plot against Jack, she would hate it. She would hate every bit of it.

A steely determination filled me, carried me around the cabin, onto the porch, to the door.

“Hold on a minute.” Al circled the opposite corner and jumped agilely onto the porch, not bothering with the steps. “Let’s be careful, here.”

“I don’t want to be careful. I want to know what’s going on.” Anger and righteous indignation made me bold where I had been fearful, confident where I had been unsure. I’d seen something under the table, just before turning away from the window. A file box. It looked new.

I was about to find out what was in it.

The old floorboards creaked and complained as Al and I entered the cabin, my tennis shoes moving quietly, Al’s boot soles landing with dull thuds.

“Over there,” I whispered, pointing to the dining table. Paper—some sort of map?—had been spread out across the wicker tabletop. It dangled over the edges, fluttering in the breeze of a clattering window air-conditioner with a missing plastic grill.

Al and I crossed the room and stood over the table, studying the contents together.

“What is it?” Mason apparently hadn’t been very careful about hiding it. Of course, he had no way of knowing anyone would come to the island.

“I don’t know, but it’s not for around here. This property is up in far Northeast Texas, near the state line.” Al pointed to the blue ink words at the edge of the map, then traced a long, straight set of lines, obviously a road. “Look at the county names. This is for some kind of development. A plot map. What’s this area marked off in the center, do you think? No plots are mapped off there.”

I studied it a moment. “Water, I’ll bet. It looks like they’re going to build a lake.” One thing about my dad—he believed in taking free business-related vacations whenever they were offered, and he dragged the entire family along. Countless times I’d sat trying to wait politely while developers seeking advice, political favors, or investors attempted to work their sales magic on my father, wooing him with mock-ups of lakes, green spaces, and golf courses surrounded by high-end lots and mini ranches. Dad had done pretty well by joining some of those investment groups. Others, he had shunned. Some of those eventually became the stuff of legendary lawsuits involving politicians in office and all manner of shady deals.

Al traced a finger along the jagged shore of the paper lake. “All right, so he’s meeting here with someone, and they’re working out a property development with a lake involved, up in the northeastern corner of the state. Why all the cloak-and-dagger treatment?”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it? My dad’s had some pretty wild stuff pitched at him in relation to property deals, though. You’d be surprised what goes on.” I reached under the table for the file box. “Let’s see if there’s anything in here.” The plot map crinkled as I set the box on the table and worked the lid free. The container was filled with mock-ups of advertisements and brochures for an upscale development offering lakefront lots and other posh amenities—equestrian trails, club houses, a floating restaurant, parks, and community centers.

“Kingdom Ridge.” Al unfolded one of the brochures, squinting at the text. “‘You really can have it all.’” Rolling her eyes at the cheesy slogan, she tossed the brochure back in the box. “Just what we need. More perfectly good land chopped up and filled with cookie-cutter houses.” She tapped a finger to the price point listed on the ad mock-up I was holding. “Starting in the half mil range. Not the stuff of the common man.”

“Yeah, no kidding. But the question is, why would this bring Mason here? Look at the dates on these ad dummies. Some of these are slated to run later this year. With all this on his plate, and his political career and a potential senate run, why does Mason come to the ranch and decide to reunite with his dad after fifteen years? There has to be a connection.”

Something tapped on the window, and I jerked upright, dropping the brochure in the box. Beside me, Al was cucumber calm, seeming not the least bit worried about being caught here.

“Storm’s kicking up in the trees.” She nodded toward the window. “We need to finish and get back to the boat.”

“All right, you look through that side of the cabin, and I’ll look through this side. See if there’s anything else.” I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for . . . but something. Anything to explain what Mason was up to and in what way it involved his father. Maybe Mason had some sort of similar plans for the ranch? Maybe he wanted Jack out of the way so that he and his partners could make West Ranch their next big project—divide it up for vacation homes and ranchettes?

But if he already had a big project going, why start eyeing the ranch now? Mason seemed like an intelligent man. He was calculated and smooth. Not the type to spin more plates than he could deal with at any one time.

Maybe he needed money for his project? Maybe he was hoping to get Jack out of the way and inherit? Maybe he’d been trying to convince Jack to invest, and when Jack wouldn’t, he thought he’d go for the inheritance, instead?

An estate like Jack’s could take time to settle, though.

What was Mason looking for here? What?

If the cabin had any more clues to offer, they were well hidden. While we searched, branches slapped the windows and scratched along the tin roof, the high, whining sound mixing with the wail of the wind. On the porch, the rocking chair swayed wildly, the motion erratic and angry.

My phone rang, and even Al jumped. “Turn that thing off,” she snapped.

“Daniel’s watching at the hospital.” I slid the phone from my pocket, looked at the screen, and answered the call. Daniel.

“You need to get out of there, if you’re still on Firefly.” His voice was breathless and frantic. “Mason left the hospital. He was down the hall, talking to someone on his cell phone, and then the next thing I knew, his car was pulling out of the parking lot, and he was in a hurry. Maybe he knows someone’s in the cabin. If that’s where he’s headed, you don’t have much time to get back across the causeway.”

“He couldn’t possibly know we’re here.” Could he? Unlike Jack’s other properties, Firefly Island had no alarm, no surveillance system. Did it? What if the men in the houseboat were watching the cabin? What if they could see movement in here? What if they were on their way to the cabin right now?

Potentially, Mason had already attempted murder more than once, and perhaps been successful. The fact that no one could prove it didn’t mean it wasn’t true—or that he’d hesitate to make Al and me disappear.

“Don’t go back to the ranch house tonight.” Daniel’s ominous undercurrent circled me like a cold draft. “Go to Al’s place, instead. Better yet, go to Keren’s or a hotel. I just want you somewhere safe. I’m going to get in to see Jack while Mason’s gone. If I keep my head down, I don’t think they’ll even notice it’s me and not Mason. Jack’s been awake for a while, it turns out. Mason has been lying to me. He doesn’t want me in there.”

“Be careful, Daniel.” My heart lurched, the fist of fear squeezing tight. What in the world had we involved ourselves in?

“It’s you I’m worried about,” he said softly. “Just get somewhere safe, okay? I never should have let you go to that island.”

My heartstrings pulled and tugged. When all of this was over, and Daniel and I were together again, I would never, ever complain about the petty little challenges of an ordinary day. Dirty closets and roach powder in kitchen cabinets hardly seemed an issue anymore.

“I love you, Mal. Get out of there now.”

“We’re already gone.” A quick once-over to make certain everything was back in place, and Al and I hurried out the door. Outside, the mist drove sideways now, wet leaves and twigs falling and sticking in my hair as we hurried into the brush cover. At every turn, I thought I heard people following us—behind each tree, around each bend. Each flash of lightning illuminated strange shapes among the trees.

A crack overhead sounded like a gunshot as we scrambled up the side of the canyon. I dropped my flashlight, and it clattered down the trail behind me, lay there shining a half circle over the damp leaves.

Al switched off her lamp, squatted, and pulled me down beside her as the sound reverberated through the trees and a flash of lightning crossed the sky. “Let’s go!” she yelled, and we groped blindly in the darkness until we’d topped the hill and started down the other side. Branches tugged at my clothes and whipped my skin, but I didn’t care. Below on the shore, a light shone through the trees.

Please, please, I prayed. Let that be the Docksiders, not someone else. What if the men from the houseboat had found them already? Who were those men, and what might they be willing to do to keep things quiet?

A loon’s call trilled through the night as we came closer, and I caught a breath. Burt and Nester were waiting. We were almost there.

My sweat shirt was plastered wet and cold against my skin, and the rain had started in earnest by the time we climbed into the boat. A shiver rattled through my bones, and I tried not to think about the crossing. The storm had come in harder and faster than expected. We were far from home free, but we had to get off Firefly Island.

Burt tossed a tarp our way as he started the engine. “Hang on, girls. Get your life vests on, and you might want to cover up with that. This is gonna get a bit dicey.” He pulled his slicker tighter around his face.

“Don’t y’all worry, though. We’re professionals.” Nester compacted his cowboy hat lower on his head before he untied the boat and pushed off.

My teeth chattered and my heart pounded as Al and I pulled the tarp over our heads and huddled in the back of the boat. When we left the shelter of the island, spray bounced wildly against the canvas, rain pelting in drops so large they struck the fabric like marbles. The boat roared over swells, lifting and splashing downward. Thunder rumbled and lightning split the sky over Chinquapin Peaks, fanning out in all directions.

“Hang on!” Burt yelled, revving the engine higher. “She’ll make it through. Come on, Bertha! Come on, you scurvy girl. Don’t fail me now, darlin’!” The motor roared and coughed, struggling to propel the boat against wind and tide.

Something bumped the sidewall, and I squealed, clinging to the railing, the tarp, and the seat all at once. If I ever, ever got out of this, I would never do something so stupid again. Ever, ever, ever. Amen.

Light shone against the canvas. Were we near shore already? I peeked through an eyelet ring. There was nothing but water. Churning water, everywhere. Beside me, Al stretched upward. Raindrops shot in as she pulled the tarp away slightly.

“Stay down, back there!” Nester called. “Somebody’s spotlightin’ us from the causeway. He’ll lose us once we go around the point.”

Al and I huddled low again. The boat pitched and danced. My heart pounded, and the chill needled my skin. My mind filled with unwanted images of what it would be like to be tossed into the cold, dark water, with waves closing in overhead.

The rocking eased as we rounded the point, but by the time we reached the dock, the lightning show was like nothing I’d ever seen, jagged spears splitting sideways and fanning out across the sky. Burt and Nester tied the boat securely to the old dock and left it, rather than crossing the water to go home.

Inside Al’s truck, we huddled wet and bedraggled, catching a breath as Al turned the key and the engine roared to life. The tires slid in the greasy caliche, the truck grinding wet gravel and threatening to bog down as we drove away from the lakeshore.

“W-w-we n-need somep-p-place with Internet s-service . . . and a c-c-computer,” I stuttered out, my teeth chattering wildly. My fingers trembled on the phone as I texted Corbin and Daniel to let them know I was safely back in Al’s truck. “D-D-Daniel says n-not to go back t-t-to the house ton-n-night.”

“Waterbird’s got Internet.” Nester leaned in from the backseat as we turned onto the gravel logging road that had led us most of the way to the old dock. “Pop Dorsey and Sheila’s got a couple of them carry-along computers. Pop likes to play bingo online, and Sheila teaches some college classes that way. They’d be closed by this time a’ night, but if we rap on the door, they’ll let us in.”

“Let’s go,” I said, and Al wheeled the truck sideways at a dirt-road intersection. The rear tires slid, sputtered, and drifted, and I was momentarily compressed against the door. Then the tires caught, and we were rocketing forward, machine-gunning mud and rocks, and heading for the Waterbird. Burt called ahead, and when we arrived, Pop Dorsey and his daughter, Sheila, were waiting with two laptop computers open at the Docksiders’ favorite booth.

Only after Nester began sharing the story of our night did I realize that, by coming here, we’d let more people in on our secret. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. I had a feeling that this thing was about to grow bigger than any of us could hope to contain. My only worry now was whether we could unearth the details before Mason figured out who had invaded his den on Firefly Island, if he didn’t know already. We had to find something incriminating. Soon. So far, Daniel hadn’t been able to get any details out of Jack at the hospital. Jack was weak, groggy, and still confused about how he’d ended up in ICU. Mason had already been filling in the details for him. The details according to Mason.

Al and I sat before the computers as Nester recounted the drama of our crossing in the storm. Pop Dorsey and Sheila were wide-eyed with interest.

Al quickly shoved her computer away. “Don’t have a clue what to do with this thing. I don’t even keep one in my house anymore.”

Sheila squeezed into the booth beside Al. “Here, I can help. What are we looking for?”

“See if there’s anything about a planned recreational development called Kingdom Ridge, northeast of Dallas, near the Oklahoma border.” I fished my cell phone from my pocket again. “I need to call my dad and get some ideas. I’m not sure what we’re looking for.” There had to be some reason Mason was conducting meetings in secret. If we dug in the right places, sooner or later we’d hit pay dirt. Hopefully, Dad could tell me what the right places were.

I dialed my parents’ number, hoping I’d get my father and not Mom. Usually by now she was in bed asleep with a book on her chest while Dad alternately dozed and watched the late-night news recap in the great room. Hopefully she wouldn’t hear the phone ringing in Dad’s office. She had never allowed a business phone upstairs, because Dad’s clients and contacts tended to call at all hours of the day and night.

Dad answered on the fourth ring, his voice drowsy and thick. He was surprised, of course, when I was the one calling. “Everything all right? Hang on, let me go find your mom.” Generally, crises were Mom’s domain. Dad’s job was to listen, nod, act curmudgeonly, and offer to pay for things.

“No, no, Dad, I called to talk to you. Don’t wake Mom, okay? I have a . . . technical question.”

“Technical question . . .” Dad was doubtful, but there was a hint of intrigue in his tone. He missed the old wheeling and dealing days.

I realized that everyone in the room was looking at me, trying to follow the conversation. I switched to speakerphone. “Dad, what kinds of things might cause a problem with a property development? I’m talking about a large recreational plan—ten thousand acres, crossing state lines, manmade lake, golf course, that kind of thing. Very upscale. What kind of holdup might come along?”

“You and Daniel thinking of investing in something, because in this economy . . .” The sentence ended with the cautionary clearing of the throat that conveyed Dad’s disapproval without his saying it. “Never make investments after ten o’clock at night. That’s always been my rule. Sleep on it and let it ruminate a few days, Mudbug.”

Al lifted a brow at the nickname I’d inherited when I ran away and hid during a crawfish boil in Charleston. The whole concept of cracking the head off something and slurping out the brains was a little much for a city girl.

Right now, though, I wanted to get at Mason’s brain, to figure out what he had brewing there. “We’re not investing, Dad. I just need to know. What might get in the way of a development like that? What might bring on some . . . sneaking around. Some under-the-table deals?”

Dad considered the question for a moment. “Well . . . any number of things. Water-rights issues, with the building of a lake involved, access issues, of course—roads, right-of-way disputes, and that sort of thing—possibly zoning, fire control, environmental issues like natural watersheds, financing and debt capacity of the developer. Any of those can hamstring a big project like that. Eminent domain issues, habitat for any kind of endangered species—doesn’t matter if it’s tree moss or little green beetle bugs, that can be one whopper of a snag. Issues with mineral rights, easements for things like pipelines and power transmission . . .” Dad hesitated, waiting for me to speak. I was busy making notes on the back of a take-out menu. “That enough, or you need more? Could you narrow it down for me a little?”

I pushed strands of wet hair off my face, looking at the list, trying to imagine which might apply to Kingdom Ridge. “I’m looking for something big. Something that might have implications on a federal level. Something that might involve calling in favors—where connections in the House or the Senate could make a critical difference.” Both Dad and I knew what I was talking about.

“Well, now you’ve got my interest. What’s this place called, and how does it involve my baby girl?” Dad was suddenly wide-awake, ready to swoop in and take control and handle everything for me. My independent streak flared. Once Dad started asking questions around DC, word would circulate.

“I’ll tell you all the rest later, Dad. I’m just working on a story.” My attempt at sounding casual was pathetic, but it seemed to convince Dad. “For right now, could you just give me some ideas? The most likely things?”

He answered with a disappointed grunt. Dad still hated it when I wouldn’t just be his little Mudbug. “Federal . . . federal . . . Well, if I were looking at why someone might be calling in favors on that level, I’d look specifically at endangered species, anything of historical or archaeological significance on the property, anything that might stoke up the Environmental Protection Agency, any abutments to federal properties like park land, military facilities, preserves, or federal research facilities.” He paused again. I could almost hear him scratching the five o’clock shadow on his saggy chin. For a minute, I wasn’t wet and cold in a booth at the Waterbird, I was curled up on the arm of my dad’s big chair, laying my head on his strong shoulder.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You know, anytime you need me you can call.” The wistfulness in those words was unmistakable. My mind stumbled ahead to some day far in the future, my children grown, my house empty.

“I know, Dad. I love you.” I blushed a little, the moment feeling gushy with everyone staring at me.

“Power corridors.” It wasn’t exactly the I love you that I’d been expecting in return. “There’ve been some interesting issues with a couple large-scale development plans out west over the years, where Congress had previously established a massive power corridor right-of-way through the property. No power lines in place at that point, but a pre-established corridor location like that one is the kind of obstacle only congressional action can help you deal with. You want to move something like that, you need friends in high places . . . and some luck.”

Power line corridors . . . Holy mackerel! I’d heard something about that, not that long ago. What was it? Why was that ringing a bell? “Tell me more about that, Dad. How would you get rid of an obstacle like that? What would a developer do?”

Dad chuckled in his well-you-know-that-as-well-as-I-do way. “Pony up the campaign contributions, host a few fundraising events for committee members with power, give generously to their PACs, and then mention—and when I say mention, you know and I know there are a lot of people in this town who’d go far beyond what’s legal here—that you’ve got a problem with the power corridor plans. Typically, relocating something like that is the type of issue that’ll be tucked quietly in the non-germane amendments to a bill where nobody’s going to bother to read the fine print. You understand how that works, daughter.”

Did I ever. My mind was ringing like a firehouse bell. The back of the Clean Energy Bill—all the pork attached by Congressman Faber’s office. Faber was from Arkansas. He and Senator Reirdon had served on at least one joint committee together, and probably more. The Reirdon family were longtime friends of Mason West. If we checked Reirdon’s contributors and Faber’s contributors, no doubt Mason West, or interests connected to Kingdom Ridge, would be there. That didn’t explain why Mason was here now, hovering around Jack, but it might get us started. “Okay, thanks, Dad. I think you just helped me out in a big way.”

“It’s what I live for,” Dad answered ruefully, and then we said good-bye.

I turned to Sheila and Al. “Look up the contributions to Congressman Faber and Senator Reirdon. Look for anything connected to Mason West, interests he owns, or Kingdom Ridge Trust.” While they were busy searching and making notes, I pawed around for information on a planned power corridor through Texas, Oklahoma, or Arkansas, possibly involving the border area where Kingdom Ridge was located.

It wasn’t hard to find. The Gateway To the Coast corridor was massive, a mile-wide right-of-way for high voltage transmission lines traveling from Texas, all the way to the big cities in the northeast. Communities and property owners everywhere were raising petitions, claiming that the planned route for the corridor had been changed without reason. The proposed new route was not only more costly, but it traveled through a federal preserve. It also grabbed thousands upon thousands of acres of private land, rather than making use of existing power rights-of-way . . . including the one that ran through the property that would become Kingdom Ridge.

Who wants to spend a half million on a vacation home that will someday have massive high-voltage transmission lines dangling over it? According to the map, the power corridor was supposed to run right over the lake at Kingdom Ridge. Of course Mason West and his partners, whoever they were, couldn’t let that happen. They needed to find a means of moving the corridor right-of-way before they could begin selling lots.

Faber’s pork in the back of the Clean Energy Bill would be a perfect way to do it. Tuck the relocation of a portion of the power corridor into a nice little bill about wind farms and renewable energy—the sort of bill no one would ever look that closely at.

I needed to get another look at the bill. But all my files were back in DC, in my old office, under new management. I couldn’t just call up and say, Listen, I know it’s the middle of the night, and I don’t work there anymore, but can you let me snoop around in my files for a bit?

I drummed on the keyboard, trying to think of another approach. Somehow, I had to get to my old files . . . and who knew more about computers than anyone else I’d ever met? Who loved them, lived for them, and talked about them endlessly while sharing round-robin desserts at a corner booth? If there was anyone who could help me, it was Josh, the Wizard of Computer-Oz.

I texted him instead of calling, realizing that it’d be just as well if everyone wasn’t in on the conversation.

Hey, you there?

His answer was almost instant. Yeah, we’re all at the pub. What kind of pie do you want us to order you?

I pictured the old crew, cooped up at a corner table at the pub. The setting felt foreign now. The lopsided booths at the Waterbird seemed like home.

;o) No pie, but do you remember that time you hacked my email and grabbed a bunch of my stuff to prove to me why I shouldn’t email my work stuff to myself as a way of backing it up? Any chance you still have those files? The email hacking lesson had taken place after I met Daniel—when I was working on yet more amendments to the Clean Energy Bill. It was probably a long shot that Josh still had the files around, but with Josh, anything was possible. Truth be told, he could probably hack the new assistant’s email at my old office, but there was no way I would ask. I didn’t want the two of us to end up occupying side-by-side jail cells in federal prison.

The phone rang a moment later. Josh was on the other end. “I deleted those files. Remember? You threatened to send the FBI after me.”

I stood up from the table, pretended to be going to the cafe counter, where Pop Dorsey had prepared a fresh, hot pot of coffee. “So, did you delete them, delete them . . . or did you delete them in the way of deleting them where people like you can still actually find them on some hard drive somewhere?” Another lesson I’d learned from Josh. Even after standard deletion, ghosts remain unless the hard drive is sanitized by some special means only gurus understand.

“Uhhh . . . who wants to know?” Josh’s answer was sheepish at best, but more like culpable.

“Just me.”

“ . . . because there’s been a hot girl watching me in the gym three days in a row, and I thought it was just because I’ve lost thirty pounds. Do I need to worry about Homeland Security throwing me in the back of a black sedan and taking me to an unmarked basement somewhere?”

Any other time, I would have laughed at Josh’s joke, but right now I was focused on other things. “Come on, Josh. Do you have the files or not? I need my copy of the amendments to the Clean Energy Bill.”

“Oh, those are a sure cure for insomnia . . . oops, I mean not that I looked at any of your private files or anything.”

“Josh . . .”

“Yeah, I can probably get it. For one thing, my system runs incremental backup every night. Everything that’s on my hard drive goes there. I’ll check for you when I get to work tomorrow.”

“No, I need it now.” I poured a cup of coffee, the damp clothes still making me shiver. The warmth from the coffee pot felt good.

“I’m not at my computer right now.”

Wrapping my hand around the steaming liquid, I lifted it to my lips. On the other side of the room, Al, Sheila, and the Docksiders were pointing at Sheila’s laptop screen and furiously making notes, whispering among themselves with looks of Eureka!

“Come on, Josh, I know you’ve got your iPad with you.” Josh never went anywhere without his little man-purse full of gadgets.

“So, you want me to hack into my own data drive and get a file for you with a Bluetooth keyboard and an iPad?” Josh protested. “Now that’s a challenge.” I pictured him rubbing his hands together and cracking his knuckles with relish. “Text the filenames to me, or at least some combination of letters you’re sure were in the filenames, and I’ll let you know when I have something.”

I did as Josh asked, then crossed the room with my coffee, looking over Al’s shoulder as she made notes. “Well, he’s definitely funneling money to these guys. Nothing that’s obvious beyond the legal limits, but I’ll bet if we dig here, here, and here—” the tip of her pen tapped the screen, indicating several PACs and named corporate donors—“we’re going to find Mason West connected in more ways than one.” Al’s inner reporter was showing.

“I think I’m onto something, too.” I rested my cup on the back of the seat and stretched my neck. Now that there was a pause in the wild rush, the night was catching up with me. Outside, the storm had quieted to a gentle rain, as if Moses Lake were waiting for something to happen. A yawn pulled at me, and I felt my eyes tugging. I wanted some dry clothes and a hot bath . . . and my own bed. But I couldn’t go home.

“If we find anything, we need to make it as public as we can, as soon as possible,” Al pointed out. “The minute it’s all out there, the motivation to come after us is gone. In fact, they’ll stay as far away from us as possible, to avoid looking guilty.”

I moved to the other computer, logged into my email, thought, Come on, Josh. Minutes ticked away. Ten, fifteen. I imagined Josh at the Gymies’ favorite pub booth, bent over his iPad and little keyboard, surrounded by nine kinds of pie, his fingers flying.

“Y-y-y-yes!” I cheered when Josh’s email came through, and then a text. Attached to the email were two documents, comprising several hundred pages of the amendments to the Clean Energy Bill. I held my breath as it downloaded, and I opened it, my mind slipping back into another life. The day I’d met Daniel in the rotunda seemed so long ago.

How could that girl have ever guessed that she would end up here in Moses Lake, holed up in a combination bait shop, convenience store, and café, married, pregnant, hopelessly in love, and wondering if somewhere, someone in some other office deep within the bowels of the Capitol building had slipped the words Gateway To the Coast neatly in with the amendments, never to be seen again.

I plugged the words into the search window, and then . . . “There it is.” The quiet relocation of the Gateway To the Coast power corridor, snuggled in with all the other pork, where you’d have to be combing the fine print in order to discover it. “I think I found exactly what we’re looking for.”