She’d already told him everything. After the officers had taken Roz and Kurt out the front door, hands cuffed behind their backs, and the ambulance had driven off with Nathan Baider, and the medics had handed her an ice pack, she’d sat at the dining-room table across from Steve, pouring out a torrent of words, as if the words could dispel the terror and pain. Why had he come when he did? she’d asked him.
Her friend had called, he’d explained. Father O’Malley. Said to get to the house. A killer could be there. He’d had the dispatcher send a car, and he’d come as fast as he could.
Now he said, “You shouldn’t be alone, Vicky. Why isn’t Lucas here? I’ll call him for you.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“He’s your son. He should be with you.”
“I don’t want to upset him.” She drew in a breath. “I’ll talk to him later.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Is there someone else I can call. A friend?”
She pressed the ice pack into her face. Laola, a young woman with next Saturday’s date the most serious thing on her mind; colleagues at the law firm—she didn’t even have their home numbers; a couple of neighbors with whom she exchanged good mornings. There was no one. She was alone. Hisei ci nihi.
He said, “I can stay downstairs if you like.”
“I’ll be okay,” she told him with as much confidence as she could muster. “Thanks.”
He sighed and got to his feet. “I’ll lock up on my way out,” he said. Then: “By the way, I hung up the phone downstairs. It’s working now.”
The phone. She’d run outside with it, trying to dial 911, and then she’d bumped into Steve. She vaguely remembered setting the phone down somewhere—the dining-room table?—after Steve had brought her back into the house. She must have left it turned on. Anyone trying to call would have gotten a busy signal.
“Call me if you need me,” he said, heading into the hallway. She heard his footsteps pounding on the stairs. After a moment the muffled thud of the front door shutting.
She started to get up, then dropped back. The room whirled about, and her head throbbed. She’d spend the night on the sofa, she decided. As she reached for the throw at the end, the phone rang. She leaned over to the table and lifted the receiver.
“Vicky. Thank God.” John O’Malley’s voice. She knew it instantly. “I’ve been trying to reach you all night. Are you okay?”
She curled up against the back cushion and allowed the comfort of his voice to wash over her. “Steve got here in time,” she heard herself explaining. “I’m all right.” She pushed away the memory of the blows and hurried on, telling him how Nathan Baider had walked in, like a spirit suddenly appearing out of nowhere, and how she had run out of the house.
The line went quiet a moment. “One of Baider’s men died tonight at Bear Lake,” he said. He told her about Wentworth and Delaney, how Delaney had broken down and told the detective everything. How Wentworth had spotted Grover at Bear Lake, the Indian who had worked for him at the Kimberly Mine. He’d assumed Grover had found out about the deposit somehow and had come to Bear Lake to spy on them, intending to blackmail Baider Industries or blow the whistle. He went up to the ledge to kill him. Delaney had gone along, but he hadn’t expected Wentworth to kill the Indian.
Vicky tried to follow what he was saying through the throbbing in her head. Nothing was making sense. “Grover was on a vision quest,” she managed.
That was right, he said. “The irony is, Grover didn’t know anything about the deposit. Neither did Eddie, but when Wentworth spotted Eddie in Lander, he figured Grover and Eddie were working together. Eddie also had to die. They went after him. When they picked him up this afternoon, the guy was so scared he told them Ali Burris knew they’d killed Grover and was going to tell the sheriff, so they picked her up, too.”
Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. It made sense now, the picture was clear. She uncurled her legs and set her bare feet on the carpet. “There’s another irony,” she said. “There won’t be a mine at Bear Lake after all.”
“I know,” he said. “Delaney told Slinger how he and Wentworth had salted the mine. They sent Baider soil samples that included gem-quality stones, which Baider used to prove that the deposit was valuable. He was determined that his scheme would succeed, Vicky. He was willing to have people killed. He would have had you killed.”
“You, too, John O’Malley,” she said. Then she got up and walked over to the window, still feeling shaky. Outside, a section of pavement shimmered like a diamond under the street lamp. But it wasn’t a diamond. Was nothing as it seemed? Everything an image of something else?