Gone Awry

Prologue

It was this time of night that Lily hated most: lying in bed with the darkness close around her, listening to the abominable sounds below. The clink of glasses, the voices rising and falling in muffled conversation, the silences in which only the crickets spoke, punctuated by explosions of angry, drunken shouting. All would be quiet, then it would begin again. And she would cry herself to sleep, sobbing in the darkness which had descended over her life.

Tonight was the same. Dismissed to her bedroom with a drunken wave of her mother’s hand, she fled from those horrid, watery, hateful eyes.

Her mother’s friend, who rarely spoke to her except for curses and threats, ignored her in the same way as one might ignore a spot on the dirty floor of their tiny cabin on Cuerno Verde Road. Her footfalls echoed loudly against the pine board walls as she scurried up the stairs to find her bed at the back of the house. Wiping away her tears, she lay down, picked up a book,and forced herself to concentrate on the words before her. Lately, she had begun to find solace in books, particularly the stories and plays of William Shakespeare.

True, the words were strange and old-fashioned, but their quaint rhythms touched her and held at bay the terrible noises in the dark. The illustrations delighted her eight-year-old imagination, and she drifted away into the dream world of The Taming Of The Shrew and The Merchant Of Venice. Today, she had even found a book entitled Shakespeare’s Globe, which depicted color plates of the costumes and sets of the famous venue, as well as maps of the world as Shakespeare knew it. She settled against her stained pillow, when suddenly the well-known voice wrenched her from her fantasies.

Lily! Get down here! Lily!

Oh, God! she cried. Leaping from the bed, her books tumbled across the floor. Footsteps thumped on the stairs as she fumbled to retrieve them. But it was no good. Still scrambling after the worn red leather volume of The Works Of William Shakespeare-Vol. II, the door banged open before her.

I called you! What the hell are you doing? her mother bellowed.

Get movin’!

I… uh… I’m… Lily stammered, terrified.

What’s this crap? her mother’s mottled, swollen face was an inch from Lily’s as she screamed. Her breath was foul with liquor and she sneered and giggled.

What’re ya readin for? Get your ass movin’ NOW! Get down to the store and get us some smokes, YA HEAR ME? There was the snap of flesh against flesh as her hand struck Lily’s cheek. The girl tumbled back against the bed, gasping with pain. Her mother snatched at the book.

Ya think yer so smart! Ya little bitch! she flung the book at Lily’s head; ducking at the last second, Lily darted past the reeling woman and down the stairs.

Crashes of breaking and rending followed her, as did the shrieks and bellows of rage. She burst out the door and fled into the darkness, tearing her way past branches which reached out for her, oblivious to the stones which tore her bare feet bloody.

Finally, gasping for air, she sank down in the cool darkness. As her senses began returning to normal, she felt the pain in her side, the stinging on her cheek, and growing terror in her heart. Sooner or later, she’d have to return, and face the inevitable. More immediate was the fact that she was completely lost. Lily was accustomed to wandering the woods near the cabin, but her headlong flight had taken her in God-knew-what directions. She stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of her whereabouts. Momentary panic; then she chose a direction and painfully got to her feet. Her steps took her slowly through the surrounding trees, breath coming slower now, with the occasional gasp of pain. Within minutes, she stumbled into the clear. A road! But which road? She turned to her left and limped along, hoping for a mailbox, a road sign, tears drying now. For the first time in her life she began to feel angry. Not a child’s petty anger over some schoolyard insult; hard, deepening anger. There were no confused, adolescent thoughts of revenge, just anger. And as she limped along, she knew, just knew, that her life would never be the same. Lately, she had begun to identify with Kate; the woman had given in to Petrucio’s rantings and beatings, until she was utterly defeated. But now, tonight, Lily understood exactly what she must do. And how she must do it.

Chapter One

Anastasia sniffed indifferently at the ants which crawled across the huge maroon mat. The air was absolutely still on this baking August afternoon in the Wasatch mountains of Utah. It was the kind of afternoon when you found a cool spot and settled in with a drink and a book, which was precisely what David and Althia Harrowsen had done.

David looked up from his copy of Rough Riders as he reached for his glass.

Sorry dear, what did you say?

Althia Tee Harrowsen was leafing through a newspaper.

There’s a little playhouse over near the hotel. They’re doing a melodrama for the tourists at 8. I thought it would be fun to…

David held up a hand to interrupt, frowning.

Oh, no! Not again! Remember what happened the last time we went to one of those!

Tee laughed a throaty, hearty laugh.

You think I’d forget? We didn’t get much rest on that trip! she laughed again. Of course, that was mostly your fault! If you hadn’t let that hotel-keeper talk you into nosing around in . . !

David got up and poured more Chateau Montpelier Cabernet.

Okay, I give! God, what a mess that was! he smiled. You turned into a pretty fair detective on that case. You’re my best partner, love. Bending over, he kissed her. Thanks.

My pleasure. Tee’s eyes sparkled as she looked up at him.

David sank back into his chair, rolling the wine glass thoughtfully between his palms.

That certainly was the strangest vacation we’ve had.

And the most exciting! Tee added. A simple little side trip to an obscure little town, and we end up in the midst of murder! she paused, letting the crisp gin and tonic roll across her tongue. Remember how it started?

David nodded.

Only too well. he said softly.

One could say that the heat caused it all. More exactly, it was the heat which raised clouds of deer flies from the Gambel’s oak, angry and biting. Of course, it would also be fair to say that if the County workers had been more careful in the way they had spread the chipped rock on Springer Lane, Mark Crawford wouldn’t have slipped on a thick spot whilst trying to swat the deerflies away, and twisted his knee, and things might have turned out well… differently.

Ray and Frances Deline walked their horses easily down the old farm road, no differently than any other Monday, except that it was hot, which was normal for July in Pueblo County, and very humid, which wasn’t normal at all. The clouds had rolled across the lip of the Wet Mountains before seven o’clock, vast, dark and bulging with rain. By the time they’d reached Springer Lane, there were a few pinpricks of water against their skin. The air was thick, the temperature approaching 90, and Ray was about to suggest that they turn back when he saw the young man sitting in the middle the road near Kinnikinick Lane.

Now, what do you suppose he’s doing? Ray asked himself aloud.

Frances wiped her thin, tanned and wrinkled face with a broad paisley handkerchief, pushing back a wayward lock of dark grey hair as she did.

Sitting, dear. she answered absently as she patted herself.

Why would a man sit there? he wondered. One of Rays’ quaint little habits was the way in which he’d screw up his face and ask himself about things, and Frances smiled through her perspiration. It was one of the reasons she’d loved him for thirty-six years.

Easy, Peaches Frances nudged her supple bay up close. You all right, young man? she called. Her chocolate brown eyes radiated compassion, wisdom, and an enduring strength born of handling horses and people with equal amounts of kindness and fortitude.

The young man looked up at her. Her first impression was of brilliant blue eyes; shining through was a sense of puzzlement, a questioning nature, in spite of the pain which had tightened the skin across his high cheekbones, accentuating his wavy brown hair.

Hurt my knee. I stepped wrong and twisted it. The voice was firm, friendly, and had a pleasing deep timbre to it. He swatted a deerfly. These flies bite! he said, dispatching one with a resounding whack.

Ray swung his six-foot three inch frame easily from his brown paint mare and squatted in the dust next to the man.

This gravel can be tricky, sometimes they don’t fill in the holes, they just cover ’em up. He scooped away the gravel with one ample hand; a nasty divot had been gouged from the road, deep enough so that a man could break an ankle.

County crew doesn’t do much of a job. Can you stand on it? he asked as he tossed the rocks aside and offered a gloved hand.

With a grunt, Mark Crawford pulled himself upright. Long-waisted, with legs and arms proportioned just right, he appeared agreeable in every respect.

Ooof! Ah! Tears started at the corners of his eyes. He stepped lightly, toe first as if testing the water before diving in. Ooooo! His voice trailed off as he put more weight on the leg, until he stood squinting through the tears, blinking as they ran down the crevasses in his cheeks.

Ray, go and get the truck. I’ll wait here. Frances said.

Think I’ll get the truck. Ray said to himself, and swung his angular frame into the saddle. Wait here. he called across his shoulder as he trotted off, sunlight glinting off of his balding head.

I’ll be okay. Really! Crawford said, trying to sound indifferent. He didn’t.

It’s no trouble. We were heading back anyway. It’s too sticky to ride anymore. Frances said as she eased herself down. Steady. she stroked Peaches’ thick, sweat-streaked neck. I’m Frances Deline. She pulled off her gloves and stuck out a small, sinewed hand.

Mark Crawford. he smiled up at her in spite of the pain.

My husband’s Ray. Frances examined his face more closely. You don’t look familiar. New around here?

Crawford flicked a hand at the flies which still buzzed nastily, nodding.

I was out for a walk; it’s beautiful up here.

We think so.

I’m down here from Denver. I’ve never been to this part of Colorado.

Not a lot of people know about this part of the state. We kinda like that. Frances offered.

Yeah, I can imagine. There aren’t too many places like this left along the Front Range.

The crunch of tires on gravel heralded the approach of Ray with the pickup.

Good, here’s Ray. We’ll drive you up to the house and you can rest that knee. We only live a few minutes up the road.

Really, Mrs. Deline, I’ll be okay. You don’t have to.

Don’t argue. We’ll put some ice on that knee and drive you back to town later. Frances ordered.

Okay. Crawford could see there was no point in arguing. I’m staying at the Greenhorn Mountain Inn. he grunted. There was a continuing hammer-blow throbbing in his knee, and he rubbed it, trying in vain to sooth the pain.

Ray ground to a halt beside them; Frances gave a quick wave, tucked one tiny booted foot into a stirrup and slid onto creaking leather. Peaches hooves left little puffs of dust as they cantered off.

See you at the house. she called over her shoulder.

Thanks for your help, Mr. Deline. Carefully, Crawford stood and limped to the truck; with agonizing slowness, he swung himself inside.

I see you’ve been introduced. Ray said. Yes, but not to you. You and your wife are very kind. Name’s Mark Crawford.

What brings a stranger to Rye? Ray said in his distracted sort of way as he climbed in.

Crawford laughed.

I’m not used to being recognized as a stranger, if you know what I mean. In Denver, everybody’s a stranger. I’m just down here looking around.

For what? Ray asked as he cranked the engine. Not much interesting about this place. A slight smile crossed his weathered face.

The pale yellow folder was thick, stuffed and bound with page after page, and David Harrowsen wasn’t even a quarter-way through. He shifted uneasily in the lounge chair, adjusted the reading glasses firmly onto his large nose, and resumed reading. Stamped across the top of each page, in bold red ink, were the words For Official Use Only-Property of CBI.

Leaf-dappled sunlight waved and danced across the floor of the trailer as David read. Anastasia, the precoscious Bichon, snoozed on the couch, and Brahms’ Symphony No. 4 caressed the air with it’s gentle Second Movement.

David?

He looked up from his reading.

Tee Harrowsen leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

I thought you were going to be right back. David grumped.

How do you know I haven’t been? Tee’s green eyes were bright with laughter as she dropped onto the couch next to Anastasia. The dog stretched, yawned, and allowed herself to be scratched without comment.

It’s nearly 11. We were going for a hike, remember?

We aren’t on a schedule! Been catching up on your reading, I see. Tee snapped.

David closed the folder and dropped it on the floor.

Sorry. The Zephyr Golden Palace casino robbery. It’s going to trial next month. I may be on leave but court acknowledges no such luxuries.

Tee stood and stretched to her full five-feet nine. She was lithe and lanky, her blond hair streaked with silver. The firm flesh of her arms hinted at more than just occasional exercise; years in the dance studio had toned and shaped her body with lean, hard muscle, belying her forty-five years.

Well, no more reading today! If I catch you at it again. she tried to sound angry, but her soft smile betrayed her. David stretched and kissed her gently.

My apologies, fair lady. I am but a foolish lout before thy beauty. She laughed, a tinkling sound against the sundrenched heat of the morning.

Then get thy carcass up, good sir! she bowed. He grabbed her and pulled her to him; Anastasia barked and danced around them, annoyed at being ignored.

I know, I know, you want some too! David mocked the dog, who answered with a shriek. She leapt onto Tee, and the three of them tumbled to the floor, giggling. Even an RV has room enough for horseplay, though their neighbors at the Greenhorn Inn and RV Park might cast odd glances and shake their heads at the unusual sounds coming from the gleaming Carriage fifth wheel. Be it the happy barks of the Bichon, or Tees’ high, robust laugh, the booming majesty of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, or the thumping rhythm of The Band, there was always something going on at the Harrowsens’ campsite.

David pushed his two girls from his lap and got to his feet. Tall and powerfully built, his face fixed with a perpetual mischievous scowl, only the wrinkles around his blue eyes seemed out of place. Twenty-five years as a police officer make for a lot of them.

Growing up in west Denver, David never had a thought of being a cop, except when playing cops-and-robbers around the playground at St. Agnes’ School. The Boy Scouts taught him to cherish the outdoors, as well as the value of serving others. The priesthood beckoned, to the delight of his staunchly Catholic parents, Sue and John. Sports didn’t interest David; he had neither the talent nor the time for them, instead working odd jobs to supplement John’s meiger earnings as a mechanic. His grades were good, and he enrolled at the University of Colorado-Denver, paying his way with a variety of jobs: bouncer, landscaper, janitor. Even so, the courses bored him: he loathed the idea of a career in business. Puzzles and riddles fascinated him, especially those involving that most puzzling of subjects, human behavior, but he was too pragmatic to go into psychology. When boyhood friend Alan Lewis joined the Denver PD, David rode with him several times, and was hooked. His parents were beside themselves when he announced that he intended to become a police officer. Ten months later, Littleton PD, a small suburban agency, offered David a job. Only after seven years, when David moved on to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, did John finally allow that he was, indeed, immensely proud of his son. Sue was more circumspect: she silently supported him in his avocation, and prayed nightly for his safety.

David had been an excellent street cop, but found his niche as an investigator, rapidly acquiring a reputation as a talented, aggressive agent. Twice, he was named Agent of The Year, and Director Allen Brown developed a great affection for the big redhead who’d rather spend weekends indulging his life-long passion for the outdoors than drinking and carousing with the other single agents. Brown made David his unoffical deputy, assigning him to work directly out of the Director’s office as a troubleshooter who handled only the most challenging, and sensitive, cases. There were rumors that Brown had fingered David as the next Director, but David was happy doing what he was doing.

In his twentieth year as a police officer, the confirmed batchelor met and married a most unlikely mate: stunning beauty Althia Fleming, a fixture of the American stage for nearly twenty-five years. They were intensely in love, and immeasurably happy. All of this changed with the appointment of Hartley Wise to succeed Brown.

Wise had been a chief for four agencies in ten years and was politically well-connected, a fact Governor Simeon Smith knew only too well. A Democrat, Smith needed a political appointee who would mollify the Republican legislature, so he defied tradition, which held that the Director of CBI should be appointed on merit, not patronage, and gave the job to Wise.

David and Wise clashed almost immediately; an arrogant misanthrope, Wise demanded personal loyalty from his subordinates, which David wasn’t prepared to offer. Plainly, Wise saw David as a threat. He re-assigned David to the Administrative Services Unit. David chafed at the new assignment, the blinding paperwork and bureaucratic haggling. He asked for, and was granted, an unpaid leave of absence.

So, David and his girls were here in obscure Rye, hidden at the foot of the Wet Mountains. No paperwork, no hassles, no reading. Only time with his wife and dog on the trails, with their beloved music, their cooking, while he contemplated his future. He pushed a handful of his now-silver hair aside.

Okay, okay! Let’s find a trail! he exclaimed.

Fine. On the way I’ll tell you about the wonderful little theater they have here! That’s the reason I’m late. I was talking to one of the fellows who volunteers there. They do a lot of work with the high school during the year, and some interesting summer stock. Just last month they did Bell, Book and Candle. Tee was exuburant, for she harbored a life-long passion for theater and dance, equalled only by the thrill of professional bicycle racing, and the abiding love she felt for David and Anastasia.

Althia Tee Harrowsen had loved to dance, sing and perform from her earliest memory. When she was seven, she’d taken her classic doll house and remodeled it to resemble a replica of a theater she’d found in a schoolbook; dolls became the cast, she wrote the scripts herself (usually knock-offs of cartoons) and gave performances for her girlfriends. Bert and Mary Fleming lived a quiet, modest life in the tiny community of Rexburn, Wisconsin with their two daughters, Anne and Althia; Bert worked at the local feed store, and spent his weekends fishing in the abundant streams and lakes of northern Wisconsin. Mary earned extra money sewing clothes for the children at the Fairburn County Home nearby. What little extra cash there was, went for Althia’s dance lessons; Anne was a tomboy with no creative interest beyond cowboys-and-Indians. Their home was filled with music: Gilbert and Sullivan, Strauss, and Louie Armstrong. Bert delighted in dancing with Tee and Mary, whirling them round and round in their diminutive kitchen while Anne, four years older and much too sophisticated for dancing with her father, sang along.

Throughout high school, Tee maintained her interest in all aspects of theater, even gaining several small parts in class plays during her sophomore year. Her first break came when her parents took her to see the travelling company of The Music Man at the University theater in Madison. Tee couldn’t sleep for a week in anticipation. She coaxed them into arriving three hours early, so to take in every bit she could. Stealing away at the first opportunity, she prowled around until she found her way backstage; rounding a corner, she suddenly found herself face-to-face with legendary director and producer Milton Feinstein, just arrived from New York.

Are you lost, young lady, or merely searching for that sanctum-of-sanctums for the fair sex, the ladies’ room? His voice, gravelly and sharp from the incessant cigar-smoking which killed him ten years later, sent Tee into such a spasm of shock that she froze, unable to even breathe.

I assume you’re here for the matinee? Speak! Feinstein commanded.

Recognizing this dimunitive man whose brilliance and exacting attention to classic interpretation was the driving force in North American theater for forty years, Tee recovered her now-famous poise. She stuck out a hand, introduced herself, and asked for a job with the troupe.

Let us find the security people. Feinstein answered, took her by the hand and lead her outside, where her terrified parents spotted them. Mortified at their daughter’s behavior, Bert couldn’t apolgize too many times, while Mary only wept. Contrary to his public persona, largely manufactured by Feinstein’s publicity agent, he proved to be gracious and immensely charming. Told of Tee’s passionate devotion to theater, he arranged for their seats to be changed to the third row, center aisle, and invited Tee to sit in on a rehearsal for the understudies the next day.

The pretty, vivacious teenager sparked great interest in Feinstein, and thus began a life-long affection between them, for Feinstein recognized Tee’s budding talent. They corresponded frequently, and when the time came for Tee to enroll at the University of Wisconsin or to risk all and apply at the prestigious Martha Graham School in New York, Feinstein offered financial backing, reminding his young charge of his credo: Talent wins out. With his endorsement, she’d auditioned, been accepted, and the rest was theater history. Within five years she’d won leading roles in most of the off-Broadway revivals of the era, as well as small parts in four movies. Never a top bill, but able to make a place for herself among some of the very best talents of her generation, Tee earned a good living, and enjoyed a great life. She always intended to establish her own school one day. Marriage and a normal life were things she never considered; she chose to sacrifice these for the sake of her art. Then, on a visit to an opening night in Denver, she’d met a tall, red-haired CBI agent assigned to the gubernatorial security detail. She really had nothing in common with Agent David Harrowsen; nevertheless, after a difficult long-distance courtship of three years, the tall, soft-spoken lawman won her heart. So, Tee announced her retirement just before her fourtieth birthday, to accept the most unlikely role in her life: that of a cop’s wife.

Now, she rattled on with gusto about the tiny Fox Street Playhouse while David, grinning at her enthusiasm, rifled through several maps; he couldn’t help teasing her.

Great, another dusty, smelly exgarage masquerading as a theater! When does Olivier arrive? David rolled his eyes. Tee glared at him past lowered eyebrows.

A lot of wonderfully talented artists got their start in places like this one, Mister Wise-Guy! Art knows only the boundaries of the heart!

David shook his head.

See what I have to put up with, Annie? Shopworn, obscure quotations!

He reached behind the chair and withdrew a pair of well-worn hiking boots.

Who said that, by the way? Or do I want to know? he asked.

A great talent of our time! Someone whose contributions to the stage are limitless! Tee exclaimed. I did!

Hopeless! David sighed, ducking as she whisked a ball of wool socks past his head.

Just look at that, will you? David exclaimed. He swept one arm across the panorama before them: the Greenhorn Mountain Wilderness stretched to the south where the scraggy tip of Badito Cone peeked above the gentle swell of the hills in between. Beneath their feet lay the South Apache Creek drainage, cloaked in lodgepole and Gambel’s oak, running away to the east. Off to westward, nearly invisible in the mid-day haze, stood the crew-cut top of Santana Butte. The air was dry, and except for the buzz of the ubiquitous deerflies, absolutely quiet. David’s smile was that of the thoroughly contented soul, and he stood poised, drinking in the aroma of his beloved mountains. Tee and Anastasia were stopped a few feet away; Anastasia sprawled flat in the shade of an emerald-hued potentilla, thrusting her nose deep into the grass, sniffing at a mountain Aster which peeped at the Sun from the shadows.

Tee admired the view, but what she relished was the sheer joy David embodied at moments like this.

David sighed, arched his back in a langorous stretch, and unfastened the straps of his pack. He caught the appreciative look on Tee’s face.

Am I right to assume that you’re enjoying yourself? he grinned at her.

Just thinking: you’ve taught me so much about Nature. I’ve grown to love these moments. But you, my dear, absolutely revel in it. I love you that much more for it.

David touched two fingers to his lips and blew