Michael Koryta - The Ridge

L ITTLE , B ROWN AND C OMPANY

N EW Y ORK B OSTON L ONDON

For Tom Bernardo, whose generosity and friendship carried me
through this one, and in recognition of the incredible mission and
dedication of Joe Taft and the Exotic Feline Rescue Center of
Center Point, Indiana. Deepest thanks.

Spirits pay rent to the basements they haunt.

Joe Pug,

Nation of Heat

And I became a thin blue flame,
polished on a mountain range.

Josh Ritter,

Thin Blue Flame

K EVIN KIMBLE MADE THE drive to the prison before dawn, as he always did, the mountains falling away as dark silhouettes in the rearview mirror. In the summer the fields below had been rich with the smells of damp soil and green plants reaching to meet the oncoming sun, but now the air was cold and darkness lingered and the scents were of dead leaves and wood smoke.

It was an hour-long trip through winding country highways, traffic almost nonexistent this early, and he could feel the familiar weight of a sleepless night as he drove. He was never able to sleep the nights before the visits.

A steady rain was falling when he left Sawyer County, but down out of the mountains of eastern Kentucky and into the fields in the north-central portion of the state the rain tapered off into a thick fog, the world existing in gray tendrils. Foreboding, but peaceful and silent.

Shattered by a cell-phone ring.

He looked at the display, expecting to see his departments dispatch number, but was instead faced with one he didnt recognize. He considered letting the call go to voicemail, but it was 5:35 A.M. and even wrong numbers deserved to be answered at such a time, just in case.

Chief Deputy Kimble, he said, putting the phone to his ear.

Good morning. I hope I didnt wake you. I had a feeling I wouldnt.

Whos speaking?

Wyatt French.

Kimble shifted his hand to the top of the steering wheel and swung out into the next lane, away from a semi that was casting a thick spray back into his windshield as it chugged northbound, toward the Ohio River.

Howd you get this number? Kimble knew Wyatt French through one thing onlypolice work, and it was not as a colleague. He wasnt in the habit of giving out his personal number to the people he arrested or interviewed, the two roles Wyatt French had occupied in the past. Kimble had done such a thing just once, in fact, and endured eight months of physical therapy after that decision.

I have a question for you, French said.

I just asked you one of my own.

Mines a little more important. The mans voice sounded off, something coming up from beneath rocks or behind a sewer grate, someplace home to echoes and faint water sounds.

Youve been drinking, Mr. French.

So I have. Its a legal enterprise, chief deputy.

Conditionally legal, said Kimble, who had arrested Wyatt for public intoxication on three occasions and once for drunk driving. Where are you?

Im at home, where its absolutely legal.

Home. Wyatt Frenchs home was a wooden lighthouse hed built with his own hands. When he wasnt causing trouble in the Whitman town streets, a bottle of cheap bourbon in hand or tucked into his mouth between a bristling gray mustache and an unkempt beard, the department still had to field complaints about the man. The strange, pulsing light that lit the woods in the rural stretch of abandoned mining country where he lived drew curiosity and ire.

Youre on the road, French said. Arent you? Early for a drive.

Kimble, who had things more personal weighing on his mind than this old drunk in the lighthouse, said, Go to bed, man. Get some sleep. And however you got this number? Delete it. Dont call my private number again.

I would like a question answered!

Kimble moved his foot to the brake, tapped gently, dropping the speed down below the limit. Frenchs voice had gone dark and furious, and for the first time, Kimble had a sense of real concern over the mans call.

Whats your question?

Youre in charge of criminal investigations for your department, French said. For the whole county.

Thats right.

Which would you rather have: a homicide or a suicide?

Kimble had a vision of Wyatt as hed seen him last, weaving down the sidewalk outside a liquor store in the middle of the day. Kimble was on his way to buy a sandwich for lunch and Wyatt was on his way back from having attempted to buy a bottle of bourbon for the same. They bounced him out when he tried to pay with quarters, dimes, and nickels. That had been a few months ago. Since then, Kimble hadnt seen the old degenerate around any of his usual haunts.

Mr. French, he said. Wyatt? Dont talk like that. Okay? Just put the bottle down and get into bed.

Ill get more than enough rest once Ive had an answer. It matters to me, Deputy Kimble. It matters a great deal.

Why?

Silence, then, in a strained voice, The question was simple. Would you rather have a

Suicide, Kimble interrupted. There, you happy? I picked, and I was honest. But I dont want either, Wyatt. I hate them both, and if theres some reason for this call beyond alcohol, then

That provoked a long, unsettling laugh, the tone far too high and keening for Wyatts natural voice.

Theres a reason beyond booze, yes, sir.

What is it?

You said you would prefer a suicide. Im of a mind to agree, but Id like to hear your reasoning. Why is a suicide better?

Kimble was drifting along in the right lane, alone in the smoky fog and mist. He said, Because I dont have to worry about anyone else being hurt by that particular person. Its always tragic, but at least I dont have to worry about them pointing a gun at someone else and pulling the trigger.

Exactly. The very conclusion I reached myself.

If you have any thoughts of suicide, then Ive got a number I want you to call. Im serious about this. I want you

Now what if, Wyatt French said, the suicide victim wasnt entirely willing.

Kimble felt an uneasy chill. Then its not a suicide.

You say that confidently.

I am confident. If the death was not the subjects goal, then it was not a suicide. By definition.

So even if a man killed himself, but there was evidence that hed been compelled to in some way

Wyatt, stop. Stop talking like this. Are you going to hurt yourself?

Silence.

Wyatt?

I wanted to know if there was any difference in the way youd investigate, the man said, his words clearer now, less of the bourbon speaking for him. Do you pursue the root causes of a suicide in the same manner that you would a homicide?

Kimble drove along in the hiss of tires on rain-soaked pavement for a time, then said, I pursue the truth.

Always?

Always. Dont give me anything to pursue today, Wyatt. Im not joking. If someone has been hurt, you tell me that right now. Tell me that.

No one has been hurt yet.

Yet. Kimble didnt like that. If youre thinking about suicide, or anything else, then I want

My thoughts arent your concern, deputy. You have many concerns around you in Sawyer County, some of them quite serious, but my thoughts arent the problem.

Im going to give you a number, Kimble said again, and ask you to call it for me, please. You called me early, and on a private line, and Ive given you my time and respect. I hope youll do the same for me.

Certainly, sir. If there are two things Id hope you might continue to grant me in the future, it is your time and respect.