Mountain Rampage. Scott Graham

and I both know the source of your problems.”

      “What do you mean by that?”

      “Clarence and Kirina, my other crew leader, have had to call me more than once this summer on account of your people in Falcon House.”

      Parker straightened in his chair. “You never told me anything about that.”

      “It was always late, past midnight. A little too much drinking, a little too loud with the partying. They settled down when I talked to them. I didn’t want to bother you.”

      “But you’re telling me now.”

      “You’re the one accusing my people of whatever’s going on over there. You need to remember that this pool of blood on the ground wasn’t necessarily found next to Raven House. It was found between Raven House and Falcon House—between your people and mine.”

      “But it’s still your brother-in-law’s knife we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

      “All I’m asking, Parker, is that you give Clarence the benefit of the doubt until we learn more from the police.”

      The resort manager steepled his fingers in front of him, his elbows on the arms of his chair. “Your wife’s brother.”

      “My wife’s brother.”

      “You want me to sit around and wait for whatever the police decide to do.”

      “Not much else we can do, the way I see it. I got the sense from the officer that it’ll be a while before they get any official lab response on the blood they found. The field school ends Friday. Three days and we’ll be gone.”

      “Three days.” Parker folded his hands in his lap. “I’ll be counting.”

      Chuck descended the main stairway, his footsteps echoing in the building’s cavernous central hall with its enormous support beams and huge, elk-antler chandeliers hanging from thick chains. He pushed through the heavy, wooden entry doors and stood aside as a troop of chattering Girl Scouts, green sashes over their shoulders, filed into the lobby.

      He pulled his phone from his pocket and walked toward a pair of Adirondack chairs arranged on the covered porch at the front of the building. He lowered himself stiffly into one of the chairs, its high back creaking as he leaned against it. A couple leaned on the railing and looked out at the fields, where a group of youngsters played kickball, another bunch of kids shot arrows toward a tall, wooden backstop on the far side of the expanse of grass, and, just across the conference center parking lot, a dozen adults stood in line at the edge of the yellowing grass, fly poles in hand, honing their casting skills under the tutelage of a gray-bearded man wearing a multi-pocketed fishing vest and a hat ringed with feathered flies.

      Chuck texted Clarence. Any word from the police?

      Clarence’s reply was immediate. Nothing yet. I’m thinking tomorrow.

      Stay close. Don’t go anywhere.

      Wouldn’t think of it.

      Chuck checked the time on his phone. Coming up on four o’clock. Clarence was probably right—the cops, having been up all the previous night, were finished for the day.