A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (win 10 ebook reader .txt) 📕

That night, Jake and I walked around our property well after dark. I’d bathed him, fed him an extra helping of his dinner, and threw his favorite chew toy. We were venturing out together for the first time in a week. I knew I couldn’t be overly protective, but I sure wanted to keep him close.

While he was sniffing something mysterious in the meadow, I looked up at the sky sparkling with stars I’d never seen before, city lights having stolen their luster my whole life. I felt a jolt run through me, a reminder that the power of nature was always available, though most of the time I was too worried or self-absorbed to notice. A visceral sense of gratitude and creativity took hold of me. 

In D.C., I’d experienced something similar whenever I looked at the Jefferson Memorial or the U.S. Capitol. Glorious, imposing buildings. Or the astounding cherry blossoms along the Tidal Basin, when spring wasn’t too cold or wet for them to thrive. The inspiration they offered kept the mean old bastards in that city from blinding me to all we could be as a nation and as individuals.

Standing there, I felt my heart beat fast as I thought about how much I really did love my new life. I could see funky old Coburn’s in the moonlight, and I was struck by how my humble store drew on every skill I’d acquired over my lifetime. I felt a sense of purpose like never before. And there was Jake—running free. Home again. Happy. 

The next day, though, I returned to my usual troubles. Besides Gregg and what to do next, I woke up in the night worried about where Abit had found Jake. I was so relieved that he was safely home, I’d forgotten to ask. And I wondered when Alex was going to get back to me about Gregg.

Two of those questions were answered later that afternoon, while Abit helped me put up supplies in the storeroom and stock the shelves out front. The phone rang when I was in the bathroom, so I shouted at Abit to answer it.

“Really? You want me to answer the phone?” he asked. I could hear how incredulous he was.

I cracked the door and shouted, “Yes, please. I’ll be out in a minute.” (I’d learned that a small store offered little to no privacy.) “And hurry up—the phone’s about to go to the machine.” I heard a voice so serious I thought, for a moment, that someone else had come into the store and grabbed the phone. Then his voice became more animated. He even laughed. Who in the world was he talking to?

When I came out front, Abit mouthed, “Alex.” He was really enjoying himself, and I didn’t want to break in. I was glad he no longer seemed suspicious of Alex. He recounted how he’d found Jake and then said, “We don’t know exactly. It wasn’t that far from the Ledford’s, but we know they hadn’t taken him and tied him up.”

Then he said, “Here’s Della,” holding the phone out but suddenly grabbing it back. “Er, when are you coming own here again? You promised me a ride in the Merc.” I chuckled at him and took the phone.

“Hi there. What’s up?”

“Great news about ol’ Jakey Boy.”

“Yeah, we’re all pretty happy about it. Thanks to Abit,” I said, looking over at him in the canned goods. He was beaming and started juggling three small cans of creamed corn (a favorite here—especially since the empty can made a dandy receptacle for tobacco juices). When did he learn to do that? I wondered.

“I did that research on Gregg you asked for.”

“And?”

“Well, he must have lied on his Forest Service application, because after some digging, I found some youthful indiscretions.”

“How youthful? Were they sealed?”

“Yeah, teenage shit, I’d imagine. So maybe he didn’t have to lie. I shouldn’t have made him sound like Kipland Philip Kinkel.”

“Who?”

“Oh, some sick teenager in Oregon who went on a killing spree. You know how it is with journalists—we know way too much trivia.”

“So nothing serious in his background, at least not beyond his teenage years? What did he do before the Forest Service?”

“He was involved in banking, of all things. Which could speak to his skill in forgery, if he kept up his delinquent ways, that is.”

“Oh, that’s a stretch. But I’d never pictured Gregg as a banker.”

“Which is probably why he’s not one any longer. You don’t seem like a bookkeeper, either.” He was referring to my first job, right out of college, when that was all I could get, even with a journalism degree.

“Anything else?”

“He was married for about five years in the ‘60s; they didn’t have any children and divorced in 1968. One thing—she did get a restraining order against him. I couldn’t find any violations of that, though, so I don’t know if he just lost his shit when she left him.”

That worried me, given what Kitt said and my own experience with his ill-tempered rejection. I didn’t want to talk about that with Alex, so I asked, “When did he leave banking?”

“About the same time as his divorce. That’s when he worked with runaway kids. Not sure how he qualified for that, but so many kids were in trouble then, he probably fell into it. I couldn’t find anything much after that and before the Forest Service. He’s been a model employee there—quickly rising to ranger in your Podunk town.”

“He doesn’t work in a town. He oversees half a million acres—or at least his district.”

“Okay, he’s ranger of the year. Whatever. That’s my report. I still think you need to be careful around him. Looks can be deceiving.” 

I thought to myself, you’d better believe it as I pictured Alex taking off his wedding ring so someone could run her fingers through his wavy hair with good conscience. “Thanks, Alex. I really appreciate your research. But I haven’t heard any reason to stop believing he’s the good guy we all think he is.”

“Not ‘all.’ If he’s been framed, someone in that wilderness you call home doesn’t like him.”

“Or someone needs a patsy, and it has little to do with who.”

“Whom.” 

I felt like hanging up. He was right that time, but so what? Nobody used “whom” in conversation. “Okay, I guess that’s it,” was all I said.

Abit’s head popped up like a whack a mole. He dramatically mouthed “When?” I knew what he meant, but I