“Did Dale?”
“A long time ago, yes. Unfortunately, that’s the man I keep remembering.” May looked down at her hand. At the wedding ring on her finger. “I feel like I’m bleeding. And there you sit. Drinking champagne.” She looked up again. “What’s wrong with you?”
“This can be a harsh job,” she answered truthfully. “Sometimes, the only way I can get through it is—”
A commotion broke out in the restaurant. Glass shattered. A table crashed to the floor. A woman screamed.
“Oh, no,” May breathed. Her face was pale.
Meghann frowned. “What in the—?” She turned around in her chair.
Dale stood in the open doorway, holding a gun in his left hand. When Meghann looked at him, he smiled and stepped over a fallen chair. But there was no humor in that smile; in fact, he appeared to be crying.
Or maybe that was the rain.
“Put down the gun, Dale.” She was surprised to hear the calmness in her voice.
“Your turn at the mike is over, counselor.”
A woman in a black pinstripe suit crawled across the floor. She moved slowly until she made it to the door. Then she got up and ran.
Dale either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He only had eyes for Meghann. “You ruined my life.”
“Put the gun down, Dale. You don’t want to do something stupid.”
“I already did something stupid.” His voice broke, and Meghann saw that he was crying. “I had an affair and got greedy and forgot how much I love my wife.”
May started to get to her feet. Meghann grabbed her, forced her down, then stood up herself.
She raised her hands into the air. Her heart was a jackhammer trying to crack through her rib cage. “Come on, Dale. Put the gun down. We’ll get you some help.”
“Where was all your help when I tried to tell my wife how sorry I was?”
“I made a mistake. I’m sorry. This time we’ll all sit down and talk.”
“You think I don’t know how screwed I am? Believe me, lady, I know.” His voice caught again. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Jesus, May, how did I get here?”
“Dale,” Meghann said his name in a calm, even voice. “I know how—”
“Shut up. It’s your fault, you bitch. You’re the one who did all of this.” He raised the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Joe awoke with a fever and a stinging throat. A dry, hacking cough brought him upright before he’d even fully opened his eyes. When it was over, he sat there, bleary-eyed, in desperate need of some water.
A glittering layer of frost coated his sleeping bag, its presence a testament to the altitude. Though the days in this part of the state were as hot as hell, the nights were cold.
He coughed again, then climbed out of the sleeping bag. His fingers were trembling as he rolled up the bag and tied it onto his backpack. He stumbled out of the still-dark forest and emerged molelike and blinking into a sunny day. Already the sun was angry as it climbed the cloudless sky.
Joe dug the toothbrush, soap, and toothpaste out of his pack and, squatting by the rushing rapids of Icicle Creek, readied himself for the day.
By the time he finished, he was breathing hard, as if the exertion of brushing his teeth was on par with running the Boston Marathon.
He stared at himself in the river. Though his reflection wavered in the current, the clear water captured his image in surprising detail. His hair was far too long and as tangled as the underbrush that had formed his bed for the last two nights. A thick beard covered the lower half of his face; it was a quiltlike combination of gray and black. His eyelids hung low, as if in tired defeat.
And today was his birthday. His forty-third.
In another time—another life—this would have been a day for celebration, for family. Diana had always loved a party; she’d throw one at the drop of a hat. The year he’d turned thirty-eight, she’d rented the Space Needle and hired a Bruce Springsteen impersonator to sing the soundtrack of their youth. The place had been packed with friends. Everyone wanted to celebrate Joe’s birthday with him.
Then.
With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. A quick check of his wallet and pockets revealed that he was nearly broke again. The money he’d made last week mowing lawns had all but disappeared.
Slinging his backpack into place, he followed the winding river out of the National Forest. By the time he reached Highway 2, he was sweating so hard he had to keep wiping his eyes. His forehead was on fire. He knew he had a fever. One hundred degrees, at least.
He stared at the black river of asphalt that flowed down to the tiny town of Leavenworth. On either side, spindly green pine trees stood guard.
Town was only a mile or so away. From this distance, he could see the Bavarian-themed buildings, the stoplights and billboards. It was, he knew, the kind of town that sold handmade Christmas ornaments year-round and had a quaint bed-and-breakfast on every corner. The kind of place that welcomed tourists and visitors with open arms.