By the time she heard the sound of a truck engine, closer than the interstate roaring nearby, Nell had slung her gear into the undercompartments and strapped her boat on top of the RV. She stood straight, the nearly twelve feet of RV height giving her a clear view down the road. It was Orson, his SUV coated with a film of white dust from the gravel roads.
He pulled up in the parking lot and killed the engine. A moment later, he stepped out and squinted up at her. He looked as uncertain as her son in that moment, drawing a perturbed smile to her lips. He might be just doing his job, but his intent was to put her in jail for something she hadn’t done. And she didn’t intend to make it easy on him.
“How many vehicles are we taking on this jaunt?” he asked.
“Just two. Hand up your kayak,” Nell said, her voice and words peremptory. She tossed one end of the rope down. She was making this trip against her will, but she’d do it with her in charge, not him, and Nell wanted him to know that right off the bat. Nell saw the understanding in his eyes, his disagreement in the thinning of his lips, but after a moment, Orson turned to his SUV and began to unstrap his boat.
While she pulled it up and placed it in position, he tossed most of his things into the RV. His movements were fluid and controlled, but she could see the frustration simmering beneath his skin. Nell fought a grin as she adjusted the lengths of the tie-downs and hooked his boat in place.
Satisfied that both boats were secure and that Orson’d had enough time to get good and mad, she made her way across the roof of the RV to the back and climbed down the ladder. If he was gonna get irate, she wanted it over with now, not later on the trip.
And, always honest with herself, Nell admitted that she was itching for a fight.
Orson had expected her to object to the pile of gear and his suitcase in the middle of the floor. Instead, she stood in the doorway, silent for a long moment, surveying the mess, and laughed. A hooting, derisive laugh that changed after a few notes to something almost appreciative. He wasn’t sure why, either, and that disturbed him. He had expected her to object to his position in the RV, too, the passenger seat leaned way back, his feet on the dash, and a cold cola can on his belly. She seemed to find that funny too.
She stepped over his mess and got herself a cola from the small fridge before sitting in the driver’s seat and cranking the engine. She was still laughing, the tone oddly self-deprecating, when they wheeled onto I-40. Orson was chuckling by then too, aware that she was casting quick glances at him. Making up her mind about something.
An eighteen-wheeler blew by them. Nell concentrated, changing lanes, a smile hovering on her mouth. Finally, to break the silence, he asked, “We need gas?”
“Yep. We’ll stop at the junction of 40 and 75, near Knoxville. This things gets a whopping ten miles to the gallon, making this an expensive trip.” She glanced at him and grinned, pure wickedness in the look. “By the way, you’re paying for it.”
“Lucky me,” he said. Feeling just a bit guilty, he added, “I’ll stow the gear away when we stop.”
She snorted, a totally unladylike sound that suited her perfectly, and turned on the radio, a country station. Keith Urban was playing, and Orson relaxed back in the seat, humming along. After that, things seemed to ease between them. They didn’t talk beyond noting the occasional billboard or vehicle. But maybe that was best.
Orson watched Nell surreptitiously as she drove, handling the RV with ease, changing lanes, following big rigs up and down the mountains. The world looked different from the RV. Sitting up so high meant he could see over concrete bridge railings and down into rivers in gorges far below, could see into cars they passed, spotting sleeping babies, kids fighting, couples holding hands, and once, sexual activity of a decidedly erotic nature. It was a unique experience to him to be so high above the roadway and yet so much more a part of the lives of the people they passed. And more and more, he enjoyed Nell’s company. Which wasn’t so good.
He paid for the gas at the truck stop and used the men’s room inside, while she used the tiny bathroom in the RV. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of using her private space. In fact, he wasn’t comfortable with a lot of things. He had seen that wicked smile cross her face a few times and knew it meant trouble for him, but he could handle anything she might toss his way. He hoped.
She said nothing provocative as he stowed his gear, pointing to cabinets or the closet as needed, and suggesting that he put his river gear in one of the lockable compartments beneath the RV. The small vehicle had more storage than he had expected and most of the compartments were empty. He hoped her being so agreeable meant that she had decided against giving him a hard time, but he wasn’t betting on it.
Back on 75 the RV rode heavier, the gas giving ballast he hadn’t expected. His wallet and credit card were decidedly lighter. The RV held eighty gallons of gasoline and Nell had filled the empty vehicle to the gills. Once past Knoxville, Nell drove past the usual intersection for the South Fork of the Cumberland, turning off at the next exit. Orson lifted a brow at the street sign. “Stinking Creek Road? You have to be kidding. What kind of name is that?”
“You never been on Stinking Creek Road?” she asked, that small smile playing on her lips as she made the sharp turn, then another, sharper turn onto an unpaved road. Driving down at a steep angle that had the wheels locked and sliding, they passed a small, dust-covered sign that said No Turnarounds From This Point. The road narrowed, pressing in toward the wheels, trees nearly scraping the sides of the RV.
No Trespassing signs were nailed to the trees. One stated Trespassers Will Be Shot and Questioned Later. Ruts that might have been wide enough for a compact car, if the driver didn’t care to keep the paint unscratched, turned off Stinking Creek Road and disappeared into brush and trees. The road swerved and dropped into what looked like virgin territory. Or moonshine territory. The kind of places where grizzled men with shotguns stood watch and bodies were buried in hidden graves.
Nell seemed unperturbed.
Orson grabbed onto the armrests. His palms started to sweat. The RV bounced over ruts, jarring along his spine. He was glad he’d stowed his gear, or it would have been rolling all over the RV.
“Believe it or not, this road is marked on the state atlas,” she said casually. “I saw a huge black bear here once. Biggest bear I ever did see.”
The RV shuddered as if it was about to break apart. Orson sat up, raising the chair-back up straight and tightening the seat belt.
“It was in the fall and mast was plentiful. Bears were putting on more pounds than usual. Musta been a record-size bear.” Without taking her eyes from the narrow track, her grin widened. “Relax, Junior. It’s only a few miles long. And it’s a dandy shortcut.”
Junior. She was getting him back for the SAR almost seven years ago. And for pushing her to come on this trip.
When she finally turned back onto a paved road, Orson was so happy he wanted to dance. He managed to keep his face unperturbed, but he knew she wasn’t fooled. Not Nell Stevens. Her pretty little mouth was bowed in sheer delight. They toured through several small towns as his blood pressure settled and his sweat dried. Nell smiled the entire way.
The sun was setting when they turned into the Big South Fork National River and Recreational Area, and headed to Bandy Creek Campground near the South Fork of the Cumberland. As the forest closed in around them, the smile Nell had worn all day evaporated like the morning mist, leaving her looking wan and reserved and far more distant. Orson noted the change and wondered at her detachment, but didn’t think it was the right moment to question her. Not just yet.
After Stinking Creek Road, the paved, winding, curving S turns were a piece of cake. Orson stared through the orange light of the setting sun at the magnificent scenery, the tumbled boulders, the dense forest, the water falling in tiny rills down cliff faces and creeks bounding through narrow beds. He hadn’t been to Bandy Creek since the search for Joseph Stevens had been called off, but he remembered it as one of the best parks in Tennessee. It still was.
There was a lighted board at the entrance of the campground, showing two vacancies, each for one night. He stayed put and watched Nell as she signed them in. She held her body tight, arms stiff and close at her sides. She looked tense. Worried? The cop within flexed his muscles.
Silent, Nell pulled the rig through the campground and found their spot. Keeping her eyes on the job at hand, she expertly backed the unit into the space. He sat in the passenger seat the whole time, observing. Waiting.
In the gloaming light, she pointed out the spot for his tent. Orson unstrapped from the passenger seat and set about snapping up the high-tech tent and inflating his air mattress, watching Nell as he worked. She hooked the RV up to electricity and cable and piled their river gear in a safe spot for morning. She was capable and competent and clearly needed no masculine help. Which impressed him again. As she worked, she looked up once, staring into the trees, listening, body tense. Orson left her alone now that the laughter and bonhomie had vanished. But he didn’t like the transformation.
Prickles rolled across Nell’s skin as she stared into the night. She was going to run the South Fork of the Cumberland. Nell had promised herself she would never come back here.
In their assigned site, she looked around at the dark trees, hearing the soft rustle of animal life, the faraway call of owl, hunting or claiming territory. Forest smells and the scent of horse—hay, sweat and manure—permeated the campground. Joe and she had camped here. Not in this specific campsite, but close enough that she could find it in the dark if she wanted. She and Claire had taken a spot only a little farther in during the SAR.
Nell shivered and climbed the steps to the RV. Standing in the doorway, she watched Orson in the dim light. He was laying deadwood in the fire pit. Nell gathered up some of JJ’s scrap paper and brought Orson a lighter. Without speaking, she returned to the RV and heated bowls of chicken and dumplings for supper. Microwaves were a lot faster than trying to heat food over a fire. But the smoke smelled good when she brought out bowls and spoons and two cold beers. Soothing. Orson had discovered the folding chairs in one of the storage compartments and set two up in front of the small fire. She took the empty one and they ate as true night fell.
Except for logistics for the morning run, they didn’t talk. Turning in early, Nell went inside and locked up the RV for the night. She curled up on the queen bed and unfolded the pages Mike had given her. She studied everything the cops had on the case when it went dormant seven years ago. From the notes, Nell knew she had been the best suspect back then. But now she knew who else was at the top of the list. Someone, maybe Orson, had made additional notes in the files. Robert Stevens had moved up, way up, in the list of suspects.
Eyes dry and burning, her mind full, Nell turned off the light.
Nell knew she wouldn’t sleep. But suddenly she was underwater, froth and bubbles and a swift current sweeping past her. Trapped in her kayak. Upside down. Her arms and helmet banged against boulders and her boat whirled slowly in a whirlpool, sucking her down.
Her paddle was gone, her hands whipping the water in a panic. She snapped her hips hard, but the boat didn’t right itself. Desperate, she looked down. Into Joe’s face.
He was far below her, in the murky deeps. Crying. Holding out his hands to her. “Help,” he said, lips moving in the water, bubbles rising from his mouth. “You should have found me.”
She threw herself at him. Reaching. “Joe!” She took a deep breath. Water flooded her lungs. Reaching for her husband, Nell drowned.
Gasping, Nell came awake. Grabbing at the empty air. “Joe?” She looked around, frantic. “Joe,” she whispered.
Night pressed against the screens. A cool breeze floated through the window blinds. She hadn’t dreamed about Joe. Not in years. Nell lay back in the bed she had shared with her husband only a few times. “Joe,” she said softly. “I tried. I really tried.”
Morning was still far off in the sky when Orson smelled coffee. And fresh horse manure. He rolled over, looked out the screened window of the tent, and saw a horse with rider clip-clopping slowly across the road, dark shadows upon the darker sky. He had forgotten that horses were a big part of the park, with trails for riders as well as hikers.
Feet wearing yellow sandals appeared in a spot of light in the screen. Her voice pitched low, Nell asked, “You awake?”
Orson, glad he had slept in sweatpants even with the residual summer heat, pulled on a tee, unzipped the tent and crawled out. He accepted an insulated mug from Nell and sniffed appreciatively. He had slept well and hard, and stretched out the kinks between sips.
It looked as if Nell hadn’t slept at all. There were dark rings under her eyes, and her hair, which she usually wore in spikes, was lank and drooping. But she was moving economically as she arranged their pile of equipment into easy-to-carry groups.
As he watched, coffee warming him and bringing him awake, she climbed the ladder up the back of the RV. Standing with her small body outlined against the dark gray sky, she said, “I spoke with a park ranger and he sent me to one of the campers who might be willing to transport us upriver.” Her voice was soft in the early dawn, but he could hear the strain in it. “I’ve paid for us to get a ride with our gear to wherever you want to start.”
She knelt and began to untie the boats. Her skin looked pale in the slowly brightening light. She was wearing river shorts made from wet suit material and a sleeveless shirt. “We can start out at Burnt Mill Bridge on Clear Creek or at the confluence of the New River, just above the Double. It’s up to you. Catch.”
His boat slid down the side of the RV, tied off and handed down at the bow. He took it, steadied it against the RV and untied the rope. “Okay,” he said. The rope slithered back up. A moment later Nell’s boat came down. Orson hadn’t noticed during the job interview–kayaking lesson, but it wasn’t the same boat she had used on the SAR. This was a top-of-the-line pearl-white LiquidLogic Remix 59, with the best lumbar-supporting seat. But then, owning Rocking River, with access to salespeople who wanted to impress her and get her business, Nell would have the best.
“You and Joe started at Burnt Mill,” he said. “We’ll start there.” It would be tough paddling down the creek in water that flowed sluggishly, but he couldn’t ignore the mostly still water in the first few miles before Double Falls. Nell said Joe had been alive at the Double. She might have killed him much sooner.
“Fine,” she said, and climbed down the ladder.
Nell stared at the water pouring under the new and old bridges at the Burnt Mill put-in. There hadn’t been a mill at the site in who knew how long, but the old rusted bridge was still standing, though blocked off from traffic, and the new bridge curved nearby, high-tech and sleek, spotted with graffiti. A bit downstream was the concrete water-level gauge, a relic like the older bridge. The water was still high after the unusual spring rains. It swirled around the bridge abutments in trails of white foam and up across the sandy beach to the grassy verge. Turkey, raccoon, opossum and deer had tracked the beach. A low mist hung over the water and up into the trees.
It was warm and humid, but Nell shivered as she stepped into her white water skirt and pulled it up to her waist. She tied her yellow flip-flops into the boat’s webbing and yanked river shoes onto her feet. Carefully, deliberately, she didn’t look at the cop. She wasn’t certain that she could look at him this morning without cursing or hitting him with something. Probably not the smartest thing a murder suspect could do. Robert’s motive, means and opportunity notwithstanding, her husband was missing. She was still the suspect at the top of the list.
Orson extended her paddle and Nell took it, tugged on her helmet strap, checking the fit, and touched her safety rescue knife, secure in its sheath. She had remembered to bring a charcoal and UV water filter, so they could drink directly from the river without worrying about contaminants. She tightened her PFD straps and slid into her boat. With a well-practiced pull of her forearms, she snapped the white water skirt over the open cockpit, snugged her knees under the knee pads and tested her feet against the bulkhead.
She glanced at the cop and pushed off the bank, knuckles to the ground, her paddle balanced across her boat. She slid into the river with a nearly flat seal launch, her kayak entering the water at a perfect angle, dipping low and bobbing back as she dug in with deep, hard paddle strokes that peeled her into the current. Not thinking. Not thinking about anything. Because if she did, she would cry.
He felt like an ass. And yet, he couldn’t afford to be swayed by his feelings. Firming his mouth and his resolve, Orson imitated her launch and followed her down the river. Though he had known it was a waste of time, he had checked the Burnt Mill picnic area for anything that might have remained of their stay nearly seven years ago. There had been extensive renovations to the park; he had seen nothing useful. Nell had watched him, her eyes both knowing and accusing, then staring away, into the distance. She had looked so…so numb…Was it because she was facing arrest if he discovered her secret? Or was it still grief?
Six times in the few miles before they reached the confluence of the New River and Clear Creek, Orson called a halt and paddled to the bank, looking at likely spots. Each time Nell watched from the water, silent, her face giving nothing away as he unhooked his skirt and climbed up the bank, plowed through underbrush or scuffed through old leaves.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew what he was doing. Looking for burial sites. Or bones.
The last time, she didn’t even watch. When he paddled river-left, she paddled into deeper water at a pool just ahead and practiced her rolls. Settling her paddle along the side of the kayak, rolling over to hang upside down in the water, she repositioned the paddle. Bending her torso in a C shape to one side, then kicking her hip and knee, turning her body into a C on the other side, Nell executed a basic roll, rising to the surface as the boat rolled over, righting itself with the snap of her body.
Tucking her paddle into a brace stroke, she sat up. After several successful C-to-C rolls, she worked on sweeps, the roll similar to yet significantly different from the C-to-C. She was clearing her mind of everything but the Zen of rolling, of survival, of making her body and the kayak one.
Ignoring the cop. That was how she thought about him now. The cop.