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  “No, there’s nothing up there for me. Nothing but bad memories and injustice. Until I get settled into something and can afford my own place, I’m going to be staying with my grandfather. He lives in Boulder. Mr. Loving said he’d move the press meetings and interviews he has set up for later today up there. He said he thought you wouldn’t mind dropping me at the bus station in Denver.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s actually more convenient for me than going over to Cripple Creek.”

  They were quiet until about five miles past Penrose, where the boundary of Fort Carson first rubs along the eastern shoulder of Highway 115. Then Tom said, “I can’t get over the fact that anytime I want I can open the door to the car and just walk away. You don’t know what that feels like.”

  She said, “If you decide to exercise that option, I hope you’ll let me bring the car to a stop first.”

  He laughed. “I promise. You know I don’t know how to thank you for what you did for me.”

  “Tony wanted to stay close to the courthouse, in case something came up at the last minute. The wheelchair makes it a struggle for him, anyway. When the warden called about the predawn release, Tony asked me if I was available. Thought I might be interested. I was. It’s no big deal.”

  “I’m not talking about the ride this morning, although I’m grateful for that. I’m talking about what you did . . . for my case. Mr. Loving told me what you did to help me. I know that I wouldn’t be . . . free . . . without you.”

  Kelda didn’t respond at first—in the mirror she’d noticed the headlights of a car far behind her and then watched as they suddenly disappeared. She replied, “What you just said? That’s thanks enough. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Tom couldn’t let it go. “Why did you do it?”

  She squirmed and changed the position of her hands on the wheel. “I didn’t do it for you, Tom. I was doing my job and it turned out that you were the beneficiary. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

  “It wasn’t the right thing for an FBI agent to do. You jeopardized your career for me.”

  She shrugged. “No, I didn’t. I think the Bureau will get over it. Besides, I’m a little more bulletproof than most agents.” She was making a reference to the insulation she had in the Bureau because of Rosa Alija, though she assumed that Tom Clone didn’t know about Rosa Alija.

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “You helped a convicted murderer get off of death row? You think the FBI will forgive that? If that’s true, then things have really changed since I got locked up.” He paused. “I was running out of appeals, you know.”

  She shook her head in disagreement, but her eyes stayed focused on the rearview mirror. In the distance the pair of headlights reappeared, then flashed off again. “I don’t know about that. Tony Loving seemed to think he still had a few appellate tricks up his sleeve. He wasn’t convinced you were ever going to be executed. So it wasn’t exactly like I had to rush right in there and pull the IV out of your arm.”

  Tom Clone shuddered at the image. “Mr. Loving’s an optimist. Appellate lawyers have to be, I think. But appeals run out. They would have executed me, maybe later this year. Maybe next. Look what happened to Gary Davis. There were a lot of people who said he’d never actually be executed. Well, he was. Me? I thought I was running out of hope. But I didn’t know about you.”

  “I did my job. I followed a lead. The evidence supported your release. That’s all it was.”

  “Mr. Loving says there are a lot of people who are disappointed that I’m out.”

  Kelda said, “That may be true. But here’s what I believe, Tom: For the death penalty to survive in this society, we have to stop using it on the wrong people. If I ended up helping you, that was my motivation. To try to protect part of our justice system. It wasn’t about you.”

  “You support it? The death penalty?”

  “I don’t really want to go into that right now, if you don’t mind.”

  He exhaled and said, “Okay.”

  Neither spoke for about a minute. Finally, Tom asked, “You’re not working this morning, are you? I mean, it isn’t actually the FBI that’s giving me a ride home from prison, is it?”

  “FBI agents are always working. We’re just not always on duty. And I don’t go back on duty until tomorrow. The Bureau has nothing to do with this, I assure you. If my SAC knew I was giving you a ride home from prison, he’d . . .” She let the thought slide away and checked the mirror again. The speck behind them was now definitely a car, and the car was closing on them so fast that Kelda glanced at her speedometer to assure herself that her Buick was actually maintaining its speed.

  It was.

  Kelda became concerned that the car behind her—she pegged it to be a Chevy Suburban, an old one—was going to ram her Buick from the rear, and she tensed to prepare to take an evasive maneuver onto the shoulder. But as the Suburban closed to about two hundred yards it switched into the other lane and shot past Kelda and Tom at a speed that she guessed was close to a hundred miles an hour.

  Tom said, “Damn, what the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Kelda said. “Just some jerk.” In half a minute the Suburban was once again a speck in the distance, this time in front of them, not behind them.

  Thirty seconds later things started happening so fast that she wasn’t sure whether she first lost control of the steering or whether she first heard the pop. Maybe the two events happened simultaneously. Regardless, her instincts took over. She turned the wheel in the direction she wanted the car to go, but the car had already begun fishtailing on the thin layer of sand and gravel on the highway. Within seconds the Buick had spun 180 degrees and Kelda busied herself trying to get control of the car. She found herself checking the road that had been behind her through the windshield, while in the rearview mirror she eyed the second approach of the Chevy Suburban that had zoomed past her only seconds before.

  The Buick continued to skid until its two passenger-side wheels plopped off the shoulder onto the dirt. She braced herself—she feared that the car was going to flip.

  Abruptly, the sideways movement stopped and the Buick came to rest on the dirt shoulder.

  Tom Clone said, “Shit. That was some driving. Did we get a flat, or what?”

  Kelda asked, “Are you all right?”

  He nodded.

  The Chevy Suburban was right on their tail now. It had crossed the road and stopped about a hundred feet away from the trunk of the Buick. As she had suspected, the grill identified it as an older model. It had once been blue, but the paint had oxidized to something that was closer to gray. The sun reflected off the windshield, obscuring the identity of the occupants. Kelda thought she saw the silhouettes of at least two people inside.

  As the driver-side door opened, she reached for her handgun.

  She had a feeling this wasn’t a Samaritan.

  CHAPTER 5

  Fred Prehost was the lead Park County detective who showed up at the Greens’ house the evening in 1989 that Ivy Campbell was murdered.

  If you caught Prehost in a confessional mood over a beer some evening in one of his hangouts in Cripple Creek, he’d probably admit that the crime scene wasn’t handled perfectly—not according-to-the-book perfectly—but he’d argue that, given the department’s general lack of experience in dealing with violent crimes of that nature, the Park County Sheriff’s Office had done a pretty darn good job of working up the murder of Ivy Campbell.

  He’d tell you proudly that the neighbors who lived within a half-mile radius of the house were all interviewed before midnight the day of the crime. He wouldn’t admit that given the density of the residential area in question, the canvass covered a grand total of nine families, nor would he mention that three of the nine weren’t even using their Park County residences the night of the murder.

  He’d boast that the land around the crime scene—a total of almost two acres—was scoure
d carefully for evidence by noon the next day, though he might not admit that the sheriff’s deputies who walked the perimeter that had been delineated by Prehost and another detective named George Bonnet—whom everybody called Hoppy—didn’t really know exactly what they were looking for while they were walking, and that they didn’t collect a single piece of evidence that would ultimately be used at the trial.

  Prehost would argue that the house itself was left largely undisturbed for the crime scene specialists from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, who, he would point out repeatedly, didn’t show up untilthe next morning . He certainly wouldn’t specify what exceptions were included in the phrase “largely undisturbed.” But he would emphasize the fact that the state criminalists seemed to take their sweet time getting themselves and their equipment to the scene.

  Maybe by the time a couple of pitchers of Stroh’s were empty, Fred Prehost might admit what he and the other Park County investigators didn’t do correctly, and what they failed to find. One of the things they didn’t do correctly was protect the dirt road and gravel driveway leading up to the Greens’ home. At least a dozen different law enforcement and rescue vehicles had traveled the path up to the Greens’ door by the time somebody considered that the road itself might be concealing some evidence.

  What the Park County Sheriff failed to find was the murder weapon, whatever sharp object it was that had been used to almost decapitate Ivy Campbell. The coroner who did the post on Ivy Campbell’s body narrowed the murder weapon down to a “large-bladed, sharp object.”

  Fred Prehost was confident that the “large-bladed, sharp object” was the Chicago Cutlery knife missing from the butcher-block set in the Greens’ kitchen. But despite everything the detectives did to find it, the knife was never discovered.

  CHAPTER 6

  Kelda had her Bureau wallet ready in her lap when the man who climbed down from the cab of the Suburban arrived at the door of the Buick. The first thing she noticed were the big rings he wore on the pinkies of both hands. She noted that he was dressed in worn dress trousers and scuffed black cowboy boots and a white T-shirt that had only recently been in a plastic bag that said “Fruit of the Loom.” His rolling biceps more than filled the sleeves of the T-shirt. A brimmed hat like the stupid one her brother wore to go fly-fishing shaded his face. She took a second glance at the biceps and wondered about steroids.

  She muttered to Tom, “We have company—that car that sped past us a minute ago. Don’t say anything. Not a word. I don’t trust this. I think this guy may have spiked the road. That’s why we got the flat.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Not a word, you hear me? I’m handling this.”

  Tom twisted around to look back at the Suburban. He said, “It’s not just the driver. There’s somebody else in that car. In the passenger seat.”

  She was staring at the rearview mirror. “I know. I see him, too. Now shut up.”

  She lowered the window in the door beside her seat. The morning air that blew inside the car bore only the slightest chill. After a moment’s hesitation she decided to leave the engine of the Buick running. She was considering the likelihood that she might have to take off quickly and wondered how badly the car would handle with a flat front tire. Pretty badly, she concluded. Certainly not well enough to outrun an old Chevy Suburban that she had just seen cruising at close to a hundred.

  The man leaned down and peered into the front seat. “You folks having a bit of car trouble?”

  “Just a flat,” Kelda replied in an even voice. “We’ll take care of it. I have a jack and a spare. No problem.” The man was so close to the door she couldn’t see down to where he was holding his hands. That concerned her.

  “Why don’t you get on out of the car?” he said. “I’ll see what I can do to help.”

  Kelda replied the same way she’d replied before. “I said we’d take care of it. Thanks.”

  The man leaned down a little farther and looked across the front seat at Tom Clone. Kelda thought the stranger’s eyes hardened.

  Without warning, the man thrust his hand toward her face. In the instant she prepared herself for the impact of his fist, she scolded herself for letting him get so close to her.

  Those biceps.

  But his hand stopped inches from her face.

  He was holding a badge. But he was holding it so close to her eyes that she couldn’t read it.

  The man said, “Like I said before, ma’am, why don’t you get out of the car. I’ll see what I can do to help.” Kelda didn’t move. The man raised his voice. The menace in it, she thought, was practiced. “Do it now! In case you can’t read, I’m a peace officer and I’m giving you an order.”

  She spun sideways on her seat and shoved her open ID wallet into his face before he could complete his smirk.

  She barked right back at him. “And I’m a federal agent. My name is Special Agent Kelda James and I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Get the hell out of my face, Officer. I told you I don’t want your help with my goddamned flat. Now, back off.”

  His chin dropped down half an inch and he stepped back, not in compliance, but so he could focus his middle-aged eyes to be able to read her ID.

  He sneered, “It’s ‘Detective,’ not ‘Officer.’ And I don’t give a damn who you work for, I want you out of the car, now. As I said, that’s an order. I’ve identified myself as a peace officer and I expect my order to be o-beyed.”

  She didn’t budge. Her voice still even, she said, “I’m sorry but I missed it. Your wallet. I’d like to see your badge again, Detective.” To Tom, she muttered, “Let me know if the car door opens up back there.”

  The man who had identified himself as a detective stepped another half step away from the Buick. With his left hand he reached behind his back.

  Kelda knew he wasn’t going for his badge. Her voice suddenly sharp enough to leave a paper cut, she rasped, “Don’t touch that gun. It would be a big mistake.”

  He looked back at her to discover that a 9mm Sig Sauer was aimed at the center of his chest. “Hands on top of your head,” she ordered. “Don’t screw around with me. I promise I don’t miss from this distance. And it’s quite obvious you’re not wearing a vest.”

  After a moment’s deliberation he moved his hands slowly until his fingers came together on top of his head.

  “So how many times have you fired from this distance?” he asked. His tone mocked her.

  She thought about the little girl. About Rosa Alija. About the man she had killed that day. She said, “Exactly enough times to know that you’re well within my range. I guarantee that from this distance I can empty this clip faster than you can belch, and still place every slug within three inches of your goddamned aorta.”

  A scent of recognition crept across his face. She thought he mouthed a profanity in reply.

  She said, “Now take another half step back and lower your right hand so I can see that badge of yours again.”

  He did. His eyes were cold and the same dirty, gray-brown color as the snow that freezes into ice in the gutters in winter. His chest rose rhythmically, each inhale inflating the front of his T-shirt. He was menacing without even trying to be.

  Kelda said, “Call back to your friend or whoever that is and tell him to get out of the car.”

  The man glanced back at the Suburban. “He’s a cop, too. I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  “Do I look like I care what you think?”

  The man beside Kelda’s Buick tucked his lower lip below his upper teeth, slotted the tip of his tongue between them and whistled, then gestured with his head. The second man climbed from the Suburban to join the roadside drama. He was slight and thin but almost as tall as the first man. His shirt was a dress shirt buttoned all the way to his neck, and he wore jeans that needed a few more washings to even approach a state where they were soft enough to wear comfortably. Even from that distance Kelda thought it was creepy the way the man’s eyes b
ulged from his face.

  When he was halfway between the two vehicles, Kelda said, “Tell him to stop right there. Not another step.”

  “That’s far enough, Hoppy.”

  “I want his hands behind his head, too. I’m sure he knows exactly how to do it.”

  “The lady wants your hands up, Hoppy. She’s kind of agitated. Go ahead and do what she says. In case you can’t see from where you are, she has a cute little semiautomatic pointed at my chest.”

  Kelda said, “I think you’re a little lost, Detective, aren’t you? This part of the road is Fremont County, hell, maybe even El Paso County—I haven’t really been paying attention to the road signs. But it sure as hell isn’t Park County, which is what I read on your badge. You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

  He seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

  “Talk to me,” she cooed.

  “Makes no difference what county I’m in, ’cause I’m not working. I saw a motorist in trouble. I stopped to help.”

  “That was going to be your rationalization for rousting me out of my car? Flimsy, Detective. Real flimsy. You want to stick with that? I have a witness sitting next to me, remember?”

  She immediately regretted focusing any attention on her passenger.

  The detective scoffed, “A witness, huh? Well hell, let’s talk about your little witness. I’m taking my hands down now and I’m going to put them on my knees. When I do I’d like you to point that little pistol of yours someplace else. You’re beginning to make me nervous with it.”

  Kelda didn’t respond as he lowered his hands, and she kept the Sig focused on an imaginary X over his heart. His eyes were now level with hers but he was looking past her, at Tom Clone.

  Kelda couldn’t tell, but Tom wasn’t returning the cop’s gaze; his attention was focused straight ahead out the windshield, back in the general direction of the Colorado State Pen.

  The Park County detective flicked off his silly hat with his right hand. “Hey, Tom,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”