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Levi just shakes his head.
“Are they being held?” I ask. “Can we question them when we get back, or is it gonna be too late?”
“I’m not sure what kind of authority you think National Forest rangers have,” Levi says.
“They can arrest people,” I say, now sitting on the edge of this uncomfortable chair. “I looked into this. On federal lands, they have the authority to make arrests and hold suspects.”
“Sure, in theory,” Levi allows, rubbing his face with one hand. “But in reality, I don’t know a single ranger who’s ever made an actual arrest. I don’t even know how. That’s not really why we go into forestry.”
I slump back into the chair and sigh.
“Jenna did give them a citation for sawing on public lands without the proper certification,” he says. “Do the names Marjorie and Donald Thompson mean anything to you?”
I stare at the airport ceiling, something tickling my brain.
“Yes,” I say slowly.
Levi waits. I stare at the ceiling and do my best to remember how I know that name, because I’m positive I know it from somewhere. Marjorie Thompson.
Who the fuck is Marjorie Thompson?
Come on. Come on.
It’s been a long day, even though it’s not even eight at night yet. I woke up too early, sat in the dark, cried, quit my job, and decided to move back home and live with my boyfriend before it was even six in the morning, and I am not a morning person.
Then there was spending a horrifying amount of money on plane tickets, the drive to Sioux Falls, a flight, an airport, another flight, and now I’m sitting here feeling like my eyes are covered in sandpaper and my sinuses are half-desert, half-sludge.
“It’s not a big deal,” Levi says. “We work with the state police on stuff like this, we can—”
“The historical society,” I say, the words coming to my mouth before they even pass through my brain.
I sit up. I stare at Levi.
“You stole her pen because she was a jerk to me,” I say. “She’s the tree murderer?”
“We don’t know that,” Levi says. “We just know that she and someone who I assume is her husband were in a highly-patrolled area with an unauthorized chainsaw.”
Now I’m pacing back and forth in the airport, in front of Levi.
“It makes sense,” I say. “She knew the story. She had all the same documents that we did. God, she even knows how to use microfiche! There’s a reader in the historical society!”
“I sure hope that knowing how to use microfiche isn’t a crime,” Levi deadpans.
I ignore this.
“We’ve gotta go get the data from those cameras,” I say, still pacing. “I hope she cut down one of those trees.”
Still seated, and now tossing his phone up and down in one hand, Levi just raises his eyebrows.
“You know what I mean,” I tell him. “If there was another tree crime, I hope it was to one of the trees that we can get solid evidence from. When can we head out? Tomorrow morning? I’ve got a memory card reader somewhere, though I might have to get a separate dongle to connect it to my phone…”
“June,” Levi says, and stands. He takes my shoulders in his hands.
“I’m getting ahead of myself?” I say.
“A little,” he says, that half-smile I love on his face. “Let’s get home first, okay?”
I lean into him, and he wraps his arms around me. A woman walks by, dragging a suitcase and talking loudly on her phone about how many appetizer trays they’ve got somewhere.
“Wedding,” Levi says.
“Could be a golf tournament,” I answer.
“Do you know any other airport waiting games?” he asks.I fall asleep on the final flight, my head on Levi’s shoulder again while he borrows my phone and watches a documentary about sea turtles.
As we drive home on Interstate 81, I watch the trees flick by and try to stay awake. Even the gas station coffee I got isn’t doing much, though it seems to be working for Levi, who occasionally borrows my cup for a sip and then inevitably grimaces at the taste.
“It’s bad coffee,” I allow, tucking one foot under me in the wide expanse of his truck’s cab.
“All coffee is bad coffee,” he says. “It tastes like acidic dirt.”
I take another sip and consider this.
“Sure, but it’s really addictive, so it tastes like good acidic dirt,” I say.
“You’re going to put a coffee maker in my kitchen, aren’t you?” he asks, that smile in his voice as he drives.
“I am,” I confirm. “And not just the French press that’s already there. I’m gonna get the biggest coffee maker I can find and take up all your counter space.”
Levi just sighs dramatically, and I laugh.
“I’ve thought of lots of ways to re-decorate your house,” I lie. “First is the huge TV I’m going to put over your fireplace. Then I’m going to get about fifty of those tiny, skinny tables that don’t really do anything but that everyone seems to have in their houses, and I’m going to put them everywhere. And a rug. I’m going to get the loudest rug I can find.”
