trying to think about Kristen more than Marco—praying his friend had survived.
“You the cop?”
A sheriff’s deputy stood above him. His helmet was tucked under one arm and his face was smeared with greasy sweat. He held his hand out to Greg and helped him up.
“Depends on who you ask.”
“What the hell were you doing all the way out here? You undercover or something?”
“It’s a long story.”
They entered the tent and Greg plopped down into a folding chair. He answered an avalanche of questions, careful to keep his responses short and consistent. His interrogators seemed annoyed at first, but the light eventually went on behind their intense eyes.
“Tell us about your friend.”
“His name is Marco Johnson: stringy, blond hair, about five foot nine, maybe a buck forty soaking wet.”
“We’ll let you know if we find anybody who meets that description. In the meantime, you mind telling us what precinct you supposedly work in?”
“Virgil Heights. At least, that’s where I used to work.”
The commander took a step forward, shoving the deputy aside.
“I thought you said you were a cop.”
“Call the police chief there. He’ll give you all the details.”
“What’d you say your name was?”
“Greg Salem.”
They traded looks. The commander nodded and the deputy went to make the call. He was back with the radio five minutes later.
“He wants to talk to you.”
Greg brought the device to his ear and waited. The chief’s voice sounded like a ghost from another lifetime.
“Greg, you there?”
“That you, Chief?”
“Jesus Christ. Why the hell can’t you stay out of trouble?”
It couldn’t have been easy to get those bulky news vans up the mountain, but there they were. A line of them stretched along the curving road as far as Greg could see in both directions. He kept his head down and followed the two officers who were supposed give him a lift. ATVs had gotten them from the smoldering field and out to the road, but now they had to walk a hundred yards to where the cruisers were parked. He hoped the windbreaker they’d loaned him would be enough of a disguise. It wasn’t.
They’d only made it a few feet when he heard somebody shout his name. He didn’t respond or even turn around, but his shoulders tensed and he broke his stride. That was confirmation enough for the media vultures. An army of reporters and their camera-wielding crews descended on him, forming a circle that was impossible to break.
Greg found himself bathed in a blinding glow of light. Microphones shoved into his face. Questions yelled at him from every direction.
“Are you the cop that solved those murders in the Bay Cities?”
“Where have you been hiding out?”
“Why did the sheriff’s department call you in to help with this raid?”
“Are you working undercover for the DEA?”
“Is it true that they were growing a mutant strain of marijuana up here?”
Greg kept his mouth shut tight and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Ten officers broke up the news crew blockade and whisked him away to a waiting car. Reporters shouted after him as they chased the car on foot. Greg kept his eyes forward, trying hard to catch his breath.
It was only a few minutes before the cruiser pulled up to the end of the road that led to Greg’s cabin. Greg pulled on the handle and swung the passenger door open as the officer spoke.
“You’re the hero cop, right? The one that brought who gang down in Virgil Heights.”
“All I did was shoot some kid.”
He slammed the door shut, turned, and walked off. The cruiser pulled away, taking all the light with it. Greg shuffled along the winding gravel road, letting his memory guide him through the dark. His El Camino came into view just before the darkened cabin did.
The back door was unlocked, just like it used to be when he was a kid. He stepped inside and started peeling his pants and shirt off as he walked. The strong odor of woodsmoke from the fireplace in the living room was no match for the stench of his clothes. Greg tried to make sense of everything that had happened as he made his way to the bathroom.
He pulled the chain on the overhead light and turned the faucet on in the sink. His body was suddenly sore all over, now that he wasn’t worried about escaping from Grizzly Flats. Images of Marco flashed in his mind as he splashed cold water on his face.
“What took you so long?”
Greg almost sprang backward through the bathroom door. He was still gasping for air when she sat up in the bathtub. The bear paw tattoo flexed and danced on her shoulder as she rubbed a washcloth across her neck.
“You mind getting my back?”
He took a step forward and knelt down. Kristen pulled his head against her naked chest and ran her fingers across his cropped hair. A whisper was the most he could manage.
“I couldn’t find him.”
“Magnus?”
“No, Marco. It looks like Magnus got away with a few of his men.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
She stood up and grabbed a towel from the rack. Greg let his cheek rest on the edge of the bathtub, too exhausted to move.
“We need to get out of here right away.”
“Kristen, you have to turn yourself in.”
“No way! He kept me there against my will. He kept me high and he…he used me. You saw it with your own eyes. Besides, none of these cops even know that I exist.”
“For now, but what about down the road? They’re questioning everybody they caught. Any one of them could give up your name to make a deal.”
“Hardly any of them even know my real name.”
“You’ve got blood on your hands, Kristen. You said so yourself.”
She was trembling now. He wanted to comfort her, but couldn’t bring himself to stand. Everybody he got close to seemed to get killed.
“Listen to me, Greg. If Magnus is still alive, then he’s gonna come looking for me. For both of us. Probably tonight.”
“Are you insane? The sheriff’s
