How had he fallen so far? An unexpected grief washed over Spud. A year ago he was a broke landscaper who gambled too much and hated his mother, but he wasn’t a murderer. Now he had his mother’s death on his hands—and Sandy’s. So many times in his life he had thought about the spirit of his father, hovering over him, watching him. Spud stared up at the stars. How disappointed his father must be.

Spud had never given much thought to having a soul, although he wanted to believe that his father could still be near him. But now, he hoped that there was no such thing, because if there was, his own would be black, and forsaken, and damned.

Ten feet away, inside of Reed’s tent, he could hear Reed scolding. “Stop squirming and go to sleep. We have a lot of walking to do tomorrow.”

If Spud could find a path to redemption, would his father forgive him? Maybe that was the reason for Spud’s journey. All of the planning and the pain—it all led to Pip. Yes, he could kill Reed. He was sure of it.

That was the thought that calmed Spud’s mind as the night breeze lulled him to sleep.

What happened next started out as a dream. He stood in a marsh, the body of Sandy Voight at his feet. She looked up at him through clear water, her eyes seeking him out as if wanting to ask him, “Why?” She reached up from the depth, her hand tugging at his shoulder. He tried to pull away, but the tug became more demanding.

Spud awoke to see a shadow standing over him. At first he thought Reed had come to kill him, but then a tiny voice whispered, “Spud, can I sleep with you?” It was Pip with his sleeping bag in his hand.

Spud smiled in the darkness, his heart lifted skyward by the boy’s small show of affection. Spud gave the child his sleeping pad, an extra layer of insulation to keep Pip’s sleeping bag off the cold ground. Then he helped Pip get settled in next to him.

CHAPTER 60

Max awoke in the full-throated darkness of the night to the sound of rustling material. He had gone to sleep not sure what the morning would bring. He had confessed to murder, an act that had filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief. Someone else knew. It was out there for Lyle to do with it what he wished, and Max didn’t give a damn what that might be.

But the relief of the confession had quickly vanished, eclipsed by Lyle’s threat.

Max had gone to sleep with the hope that it had been the whiskey talking, although Lyle didn’t seem impaired enough to blame it on alcohol. Max’s hopes fell by the wayside when he unzipped the mouth of the bivvy to see Lyle rolling up his sleeping bag. Next to him, the flame of the tiny stove sparkled beneath a pot of water. Lyle was almost ready to hit the trail and Max was still wiping the sleep from his eyes.