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The road through the pass has actually been cleared out pretty well in the last few days.
It’s the shortest path to the ghost town, and the police have been driving in and out a lot. I don’t even know what the boys did to the tires to get that big honking fire truck through the brush.
Still, horseback’s the easiest way for us. We make good time trotting down the packed earth under the bright morning sun.
We hear the noise of investigators still working over the town and trying to figure out what happened long before we break around the last bend.
I slow Plath, nudging her over until my knee bumps Libby’s thigh and Frost’s flank. I reach over to capture her hand.
“You sure you’re ready for this talk?” I ask as our horses jounce to a halt. “If it turns out to be…you know.”
Her eyes are a little too wide, but there’s no doubt or hesitation in them as she squeezes my hand and nods.
“I’ve put this off too long. Whatever it is, I’ll face it. I know I can face it with you, Holt.”
Hearing her say that fills me with a joy I can’t describe.
I hope I’ll always be worthy of this wild woman’s faith.
I know I’ll always aim to keep it.
We hold hands as long as we can manage while mounted, heading forward to take those last few yards into town at a slow, steady walk.
There’s crime scene tape everywhere.
Mostly around the half-demolished church, the graveyard, and the saloon.
A couple of cop cars, a forensics van from the FBI, people in uniforms and jackets with alphabet agency patches slowly picking things over with gloved hands, taking photos and tagging evidence.
Sheriff Langley sticks out like a sore thumb in his old-school sheriff’s browns.
He’s standing around uselessly, just watching people with his gloved thumbs stuck in his belt loops.
When he catches sight of us, though, he waves like we’re showing up for a picnic instead of stopping by a crime scene as witnesses.
Libby and I exchange dry looks, then dismount and get the horses hitched up.
At least if Langley’s his usual cheeky self, it’s probably not bad news.
Probably.
By the time we’re on the ground, he’s come stomping over to us on his pointy-toed cowboy boots.
“Morning, Libby, Holt,” he says. “Good of you to come out.”
“No problem, Sheriff,” I say.
Libby takes a deep breath, scrubbing her hands on her thighs, trying to force a smile.
“Morning, Sheriff,” she says sweetly. “You have something to show us?”
“Right this way.” He walks across the dusty road to where his cruiser’s parked.
Several evidence boxes are stacked on the trunk, a bunch of old ledgers and books piled inside. While we’re walking, Langley talks over his shoulder.
“There was this lectern that got shot open and busted up during your mess with that Eckhard guy. Found a bunch of old church records in it…but found some stuff I think belonged to Mark Potter, too, and might have something to do with the case. Figured you could confirm.”
Libby darts me a nervous look. I give back a warm smile.
It’ll be okay.
I know it will.
“Okay,” she says a bit breathlessly. “Let me take a look.”
Langley rummages inside the box, then comes up with a slim journal, leather-bound like the others, and passes it to Libby.
When she edges closer, holding the thing like it’s burning her, I don’t hesitate to wrap my arm around her shoulders, gathering her up.
Anything to support her.
I watch with my heart beating to kill as she flips the pages open.
It’s not as big a scribbled mess as the others.
It’s mostly a lot of other pages, all taped in. It takes me a minute to realize what I’m looking at.
More lab test results on the rock, I think, from various places all over the country.
Multiple independent assessments confirming it’s exactly what Mark Potter thought.
A visitor from another world. Worth far more than Bostrom would’ve paid him, if he’d pulled off his double-cross.
There’s stuff on Bostrom, too.
Damning stuff, illicit deals on antique goods with falsified receipts worse than the government’s infamous golden toilets. Stuff that’s clearly a lie to cover for other purchases.
I also see what looks like someone’s fudged accounting records, plus several newspaper clippings about valuables going missing from museums all across the Pacific Northwest.
He’s even got Polaroids.
Guess Mark did his homework on Bostrom.
If I’m being honest…it doesn’t look good.
Almost looks like Mark was fixated on Gerald Bostrom.
And if Bostrom has any surviving kin, I can easily see them using it to spin a story of Mark being paranoid and obsessed, building up a narrative in his head until he shot without cause.
I start to say something to Libby, anything to offer comfort, but her expression looks weird.
She’s numb, flipping through more pages, and when I make a single sound, she holds a hand up sharply, shaking her head.
