McCone and Friends (40 page)

Again there was no answer at Christy Hertz’s mobile home, but lights shone next door. I went over, knocked, and the woman who responded if she’s seen Hertz recently.

“Oh no, honey, it’s been at least two weeks. She’s probably on vacation, planning her wedding. At least that’s what she told me she planned to do.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“It was…Yes, two weeks ago last Thursday. She was leaving with that good-looking blond-haired boy. I guess he’s the lucky fellow.”

“Did she take any luggage?”

“She must have, but all I saw was a picnic hamper.”

The park office was closed. I stood on its steps, debating what could be a foolhardy move, then doubled back to Hertz’s. The lights still shone next door, but to the other side all the trailers were dark. I went that way and checked Hertz’s windows till I found one that was open a crack, then removed the screen, slid the glass aside, and entered.

Inside I stood listening. The mobile home had the feel of a place that is unoccupied and has been for some time. I took my flashlight from my purse and shone it around, shielding the beam with my hand. Neat stacks of magazines and paperbacks, dishes in a drainer by the sink, a well-scrubbed stove top and counters. My impression of Hertz as a tidy housekeeper was contradicted, however, by a bowl of rotting fruit on the dining table and milk and vegetables spoiling in the fridge.

A tiny hallway led to a single bedroom and bath. The bed was made and clothing hung neatly in the closet. In the bathroom I found cosmetics and a toothbrush in the holder and a round compact containing birth control pills. The date above the last empty space was that of the day before the picnic at Pyramid Lake.

On my way out I spotted the glowing answering message light on the answering machine. “Christy, this is Dale. Just checking to see how it went. I love you.”

“Christy, are you there? If you are, pick up. Okay, call me when you get this message.”

“Christy, where the hell are you? For God’s sake, call me?”

“Okay, let me guess: You patched it up with Scott. The least you could do is tell me. But then you couldn’t tell him about me, now could you?”

“I’m giving you one more chance to explain. If you don’t return this call within twenty-four hours, that’s it for us!”

Christy Hertz hadn’t been too wise in her choice of either man.

I’d never been to Pyramid Lake before, but as I stood on a boat launching ramp on its western shore, I felt as if I’d come home. Like Tufa Lake, it was ancient and surreal, the monolith from which it had taken its name looming darkly; on the far shore clustered domes and pinnacles very like the tufa towers. A high, milky overcast turned the still water to silver; a few boats drifted silently in the distance; above, the migratory waterfowl wheeled, swooping low in their quest for food.

The lake was some thirty miles north of Reno, surrounded by a Paiute Indian reservation. Upon my arrival I’d driven along the shore to Sutcliffe, a village whose prefab homes and trailer parks and small commercial establishments seemed to have been scattered beside the water by some gigantic and indiscriminate hand. There I’d shown the picture Scott Oakley’s mother had given me to clerks in grocery stores and boat rental and bait shops—anywhere a couple on a picnic might have stopped—but to no avail. At the offices of the Pyramid Lake Tribal Enterprises—whose function seemed to be to sell fishing licenses—I was advised to try Saltby’s Bait and Tackle, some ten minutes north. But Saltby’s was closed, and I was fresh out of options.

A sound made me turn away from the water. A rusted-out white pickup, coming this way. It pulled up next to the little store, and an old man got out; he unlocked the door, went inside, and turned the Closed sign over to Open. I hurried up the boat ramp.

The man had longish gray hair and a nut-brown complexion weathered by years of harsh elements, and the reception he gave me was as one of his own. My great-grandmother was a full-blooded Shoshone, and my looks reflect her part of the family gene pool; sometimes that’s a hindrance, but it can also be a help.

I showed him Scott’s picture. “Two weeks ago Thursday, did you see this man? He would’ve been with a redheaded woman—”

“Yes. They’ve come here many times. They always rent one of my motorboats and take a picnic to the east shore.”

“And you’re sure about the date?” He nodded. “What time did they get here?” He reached under the counter and produced a rental log, ran a gnarled finger down the listing. “Ten in the morning. They brought the boat back at four—a long time for them.”

“When they brought it back, who returned the keys and paid?”

“The young man.”

“Did you see the woman?”

He considered. “No. No, I didn’t.”

The only other thing I needed to ask him was how to find the office of the tribal police.

The tribal police located what was left of Christy Hertz’s body at a little after three that afternoon. It was concealed in a small cavern fashioned by the elements out of a dome on the east shore, and beside it lay a bloodstained rock. Her skull had been crushed.

I could imagine the scenario: Scott pressing her to set a wedding date; Christy telling him she already had one, but with someone else. And Scott—the good kid who took life so seriously, who worked hard at doing the right thing and now couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong—striking out at her. Striking out in blind anger, because everything he cared about was being taken from him.