Beneath Devil's Bridge(33)

I pull on my biking gloves, wondering if Maddy has listened to the podcast yet and whether Trinity will contact her for an interview. Perhaps Trinity has tried already. I wouldn’t put it past Maddy to pretend she hadn’t. I shrug into my waterproof jacket, grab my helmet off the passenger seat, and exit the truck. The sound of the nearby river is loud. It’s swollen as it thunders through the gorge. As I take my bike out of the back of my truck, Eileen’s red Volvo wagon pulls up, her tires crunching on the gravel. She parks next to me.

Beth’s mom is sixty-three now. Three years older than I am, but she’s still a firecracker of energy and whip fit. Eileen powers down her window and pops out her head of strawberry-blonde curls. When she started going gray, Eileen began dyeing her hair, and her once deep-red mop is now a more muted shade.

“Hey, woman,” she says brightly. “How in the hell are you, and why have we waited so long to do this again, huh?”

I laugh. She has that effect. Her effervescence is contagious.

“Yeah, well, farming keeps me busy,” I say as I set my bike down and the tires give a small bounce on the gravel.

She gets out of her Volvo, starts taking her mountain bike off the rack on the back. Wind gusts. Eileen’s hair blows. I think of Beth, who looks like her dad and not at all like her mom. Beth is willowy tall and almost white blonde. Her once-waist-long hair is as straight as a pin. Beth is married to Johnny, Granger’s son. She and Maddy used to be the tightest of friends, but they gradually grew apart over the years since the murder of their classmate. No one was left untouched, and we’re all still inextricably linked to that past.

I feel uneasy as I watch Eileen and consider how to broach the topic of the podcast with her. I figure I’ll do it once we have some miles in our legs.

The trail starts out easy—nice and undulating on a firm bed of needles and packed dirt. I feel my limbs warming and my body limbering up as the trail begins to twist and climb toward a campsite that lies along the shores of Lake Wuyakan. I’m out of breath in no time. My muscles burn and my chest heaves. There’s no room for talk now, and it feels good this way.

Not long after a super-steep pitch, we reach the campsite and the turquoise waters of the lake. Panting, sweating, we stop. I unclip my water bottle, take a swig, and grin.

“Feels good, right?” says Eileen, unclipping her own bottle. She points it at me. “You and Granger should come on our group rides. We’re still meeting every Saturday, at least until it starts snowing.” She takes a deep swallow of water. “The late snow this year has been a gift. Maybe we’ll . . .” She sees something in my face. “You okay? Too much too soon?”

I replace the cap on my water bottle. Hesitate, then say, “You haven’t heard about the podcast yet, have you?”

I’ve known Eileen since our girls were in kindergarten. That’s how I met her. She’d have mentioned it off the bat if she knew. Outspoken Eileen never minces her words, or her thoughts. She takes no prisoners, pulls no punches.

“What podcast?” she asks, slowly closing her water bottle as her gaze holds mine.

I tell her. “The first two episodes are already live. Apparently Trinity Scott will be loading new ones as soon as they’re ready.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“’Fraid not. And Clay Pelley is talking. Trinity is doing a series of interviews with him. Apparently, according to the blurb on the It’s Criminal website, he’s granted her twenty-minute sessions until she gets what she needs from him.”

Eileen pales. “You listened? You heard him? His voice?”

“He claims he didn’t kill Leena.”

“Oh, you cannot be serious . . . Are you serious?” She stares at me. I watch her face intently. I think of our girls, and how the stress of that time seems to have jabbed a wedge between them, and they were never again as close.

“Yeah, Eileen, I’m joking. I’ve always been such a big joker.”

“This asshole was our kids’ basketball coach. He was their guidance counselor. He was the prick who provided them with health information that included sex education, drug and alcohol abuse prevention. He was supposed to tutor them in healthy lifestyles, emotional health, antibullying . . . and he was a freaking perverted alcoholic pedophile himself!”

I say nothing.

She looks away, out over the still waters of the lake. Her chest rises and falls as her breath comes out in rapid puffs of white. Finally, quietly, she says, “Is that why you invited me for a ride?”

“No. I needed to burn off some steam after listening to him. After thinking about it all again.” I pause.

She turns to face me.

“I needed a friend.” I give a half shrug. “And they say you shouldn’t ride alone.”

She gives a soft snort.

“And I couldn’t not tell you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I see.” She glances at the lake again and is silent for a long while. “So this podcast is online? I can go listen?”

I nod. Take another swig.

Wind ripples suddenly across the incredible blue surface of the lake. Like a sign. A warning. I notice another sort of warning, this one nailed to the tree behind Eileen:

BEWARE. COUGARS IN AREA. KEEP SMALL CHILDREN CLOSE.

She follows my gaze and smiles. “A selfie?” she asks. “Of us two cougars. In front of the sign, for Instagram.”