Dead Man’s Fancy (22 page)

“She just called from the road,” Stranahan said. “The scat analyst admitted he talked to Amorak about the signpost. He said he didn't lead him to the rock personally, but there is only one draw up through the cliffs and it wouldn't be hard to find from the description. Martha believes his story. She doesn't think he's involved with Amorak. He's just a talkative sort and bumped into Amorak at the campground, like we figured.”

“Okay.” Walt dug a finger into the corner of his eye. “Right now he thinks we're putting together bits and pieces, that we don't have anything solid linking him to Martinelli's disappearance. I mention the scat analyst, he's going to feel the noose tighten. He's familiar with the system; he'll clam up before he denies something we can prove. I'm surprised he's given us as much as he has.”

“He's arrogant,” Harold said. “That's his Achilles.”

Hess nodded. “In Chicago I had all kinds in the box—drug dealers, I'm talking big time, mobbed up politicians, gang bangers, two professional button men. There's no formula, but I look in this guy's eyes, he's telling me he did it and he's telling me to go fuck myself at the same time.”

“How long can we hold him?”

“His twenty-four hours are up tomorrow afternoon. But I'm guessing he'll be cut loose first thing in the morning.”

“No chance of charging him?”

Hess shook his head. “Not unless he trips up.”

He didn't. But he didn't shut up, either. When pressed by Walt, he agreed that he knew Jake Thorn, had met him at the campground and, yes, they might have talked about wolf signposts. Wolves were his brothers. He was fascinated by wolves. Why wouldn't he quiz Thorn about them?

“Did you see Nanika Martinelli on the fourteenth of September, the day she disappeared in Papoose Basin?”

“No, I didn't.”

“On any day since that night?”

“No, I didn't.”

“On any day before that date over the past two years?”

“No, I haven't.”

“Were you aware she worked at the Culpepper Ranch as a naturalist and fly-fishing guide?”

“No.”

“Were you aware that prior to her employment at the ranch, she had worked for Sam Meslik's outfitting business on the Madison River?”

“I've never heard of Sam Meslik.”

“Why did you have this copy of the
Bridger Mountain Star
in the panniers of your motorcycle?” Walt slid a yellowed newspaper from under his clipboard.

“There's always a few newspapers floating around in my panniers. I pick them up to start campfires with. I don't read them.”

Stranahan looked at Harold. Harold flexed his cheek muscles. This was news to both of them.

“Can you read this headline? It's from July eighteenth.”

“It says,” Amorak peered at the paper, “‘Poor Whitebark Pine Nut Season Spells Strife for Grizzly Bears.'”

“Not that one.”

“‘Fly Fishing Venus Catches Clients for Madison River Outfitter: Trout a Bonus.'”

“You see the photograph of her?” Walt jabbed at the paper with his forefinger. “Be hard for you to miss, your brotherly concern for her and all. The story mentions Meslik in the first paragraph.”

Amorak shrugged. “Like I said, I just pick them up.”

“But this paper is more than two months old. It should be ashes by now.”

“Must have got lost in the shuffle. Pannier's like a belly button. Collects all kinds of shit.”

Walt stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Going to let you think if you want to change your mind about seeing this paper.”

“Enlarged prostate, huh? You gotta pee again? Getting old must be hell.”

Walt came around to the back of the glass and caught Stranahan's attention. “The deputy who pulled him in searched the panniers for wolf poop, not weed. But you said he possessed drugs and that was prior to the search, so either way we're on firm ground here. The search ought to stand up. I think we have enough to go to the DA, but it's not that simple. We have to present a case to him. That's not going to happen tonight. In the meantime we can't hold him. In my opinion he's a flight risk, but the law's the law.”

“You think, huh?” It was Harold.

“I wouldn't be sure,” Stranahan said. “You said it yourself, Harold. He's arrogant. Unless he thinks we're sitting on a card, like we have a witness who saw him with Martinelli in the time frame, he'll figure he can ride it out.”

“And he'll probably be right.” Walt worked his Adam's apple. “We'll let him sleep on it.”

The door snicked open behind them. It was Ettinger. She walked to the glass, drummed her fingers on the butt of her Ruger.

“Give me the good news, boys.”

S
tranahan was critically eyeing the canvas on his easel, a misty oil based on studies of the River of No Return, when the phone rang. He tucked the brush behind his right ear and groped for the receiver.

“Sean, this is Fen.”

“Fen, ah . . . I'm painting.”
What the hell?

“Sorry, man, I know it's early.”

“No problem, just let me finish this horizon line while the paint's still wet. It won't take a minute.”

“I don't know if I can call you back.”

“Then just hold the phone.”

Sean cradled the old-fashioned receiver to his chest, staring off at the reverse lettering etched into the rippled glass of his studio door. He could feel his heart leaping against the receiver. He'd come into the cultural center early to pick up his mail and make a few business calls. Later, he'd planned to drive down to Sam's fly shop and tell Asena Martinelli that he'd done what she'd paid him to do, found the man she suspected of kidnapping her sister. The last thing he expected this morning was a call from that man.

“I'm back. Thanks. Where are you calling from? West?”

“No, man, I'm in Bridger. The dicks hauled me in. I spent the night as an honored guest of the facility.”

“Did they charge you?”

“No. I think someone at the wildlife center tipped them that I was dealing, but they don't have shit.”

“So . . . what can I do for you?”

“I need a ride. They picked me up at work and my bike's still in West.”

“Does Deni know?”

“Yeah, they swung by the tent so they could turn our shit inside out and she's okay, but she can't drive the bike and I got no way of getting back. I thought they were going to hook me up with a ride, but this fucker who drilled me said it wasn't part of the service.”

“So you need a lift, huh?”

“Yeah, man, I'd appreciate it. I don't know anyone else. I wouldn't have called you, but you left your card.”

“Where are you?”

“Law and Justice. It's their phone.”

Stranahan said he'd swing by the east door and hung up. An idea came to him. He dipped his brush in turpentine and picked the phone back up.

—

“I
gotta put my John Hancock on something.”

Amorak had appeared at the double doors and hollered for Stranahan to wait. Stranahan looked up and down the drive. Half the county force knew the Land Cruiser and he didn't want Amorak to catch him talking friendly to a cop. Jason Kent's half-ton diesel Chevy idled up behind him. Kent climbed out and ran the two fingers on his left hand through his crew cut. He itched at a razor scab under his short sideburn, cocked his pinkie at Stranahan and climbed the steps to the doors just as Amorak was pushing through.

“Who's the three-fingered man?” he said. He climbed into the Land Cruiser and looked hard at Stranahan.

“That's Jason Kent. He's the head of Search and Rescue. I'm a volunteer.” When in doubt, go with the truth.

“How did he lose his fingers?”

“Caught in a combine. He used to ranch out of Hardin.”

The answer seemed to satisfy, and Amorak settled back in the seat. “Vintage ride. How old is it?”

“Came out of the Toyota plant in seventy-six, year before I was born.”

“I was conceived in the backseat of a Chevy Malibu,” Amorak said, nodding at the memory. “When my mom kicked the old man out of the house, I saw her burning a blanket in the yard. It was the blanket that was in the car that night. She'd kept it all those years, but I didn't find out 'til later. Sort of sums up how she felt about having me.”

They turned onto Highway 191 and headed south up the Gallatin Canyon. Most of the aspens on the mountainsides were skeletons now, white bones against the green of the pines.

“Do you think they'll come after you?” Stranahan said.

“If they do, I just might be hard to find. But I like my job and got half a mind to stay put and say fuck 'em.”

“Have you made any progress finding a place to stay?”

“No, and the campground locks down on Tuesday. We could set up somewhere else, but the weather's going to chase us out sooner or later.”

“Hey,” Stranahan acted as if the thought had just occurred to him, “I have a friend who's got one of those forest lease cabins. She works for the Park Service and is doing an exchange where she'll be in Moab this winter. She's looking for someone to sit the place.”

“How much is she asking?”

Stranahan shook his head. “I don't know. But the cabin's on Cougar Creek, it's on the way.”

Lothar announced their arrival before the Land Cruiser came to a stop. Katie Sparrow opened the door wearing an untucked man's check flannel shirt, the sleeves hanging down over her hands.

“Shut up,” she said to Lothar. She put her hand on the back of the shepherd's neck. He growled deep in his throat. “Quiet.” The growl idled down. “Go say hi.” The dog nosed Sean's crotch, looked askance at Amorak and then circled the Land Cruiser, hiking a leg at each tire.

Katie lifted a bang of hair from her right eye. She smiled, showing a darkened front tooth. “Hell, Stranny, you could have called.” He hugged her and bent his head to her ear. “Don't overdo it,” he whispered.

She broke away and looked Amorak up and down. “Who are you?”

“I'm Fen.”

“Fen's looking for a place to stay this winter,” Stranahan said. “I didn't know if you were still trying to find someone to sit the cabin.”

“It would be for my girlfriend and me,” Fen said.

“Do you have a job?”

“I'm a caretaker at the Wildlife Center. I work with the wolves.”

“This place gets hellacious cold,” she said. “And no one plows the road so you got to shoe in once the snow gets deep. But I put a blower in the woodstove and routed heat into the bedroom. I'm not going to say yes because I haven't made up my mind, but seeing that you're here you can look. Don't mind the clutter.”

It wasn't the same cabin Stranahan had spent the night in. The couch where he'd slept was covered with newspapers, the coffee table strewn with the remnants of a TV dinner and an empty wine bottle. There was a cigarette stubbed out in a tea saucer. Katie didn't smoke. She must have driven into town and bought a pack after Stranahan called from his office. A book lay open, facedown.
Fifty Shades of Gray
. Stranahan smiled to himself. It was a nice touch.

“When is it you have to go to Moab?” he asked.

“Third week of October. The job runs 'til middle of April.”

“How much are you asking?” Amorak said.

“You're going to have to let me think about it. I'll get back to Stranny.”

Amorak nodded. “I'd have to know pretty soon.”

Katie extended one arm in the down-stay gesture that Stranahan had seen her use with Lothar. “I said I'll get in touch with him, I'll get in touch with him. I got to get ready for work now. It was nice meeting you.”

Back on the porch, she kissed Stranahan on the mouth. “Don't stay away so long next time.”

“You tapping that?” Fen said, when they started back out the drive. “None of my business, but a woman all alone with her dog and her chick porn, tickling her clit, be a shame to let that go to waste . . . Shit, man, I hope she decides to rent.”

—

D
eni was huddled in her blanket, sitting in front of a snapping fire. When she wrapped her arms around Fen, he crooked an arm under her knees and lifted her, swung her in a circle and slowly set her down. “Everything's okay, baby girl,” he said.

He looked at Stranahan. “I can't pay you, man. I got fifteen dollars 'til the next paycheck. But I can give you a smoke for the road.”

“That's all right,” Stranahan said. “I have a client who wants a painting of the Firehole River. I'd been thinking of coming down, anyway.”

“No, man, you went out of your way. Wait here.”

Amorak disappeared down the high bank. Stranahan could hear his footsteps on the gravel bar, fading as he hiked upstream.

Deni looked over shyly. “Do you think I could ever paint like you?”

“Sure,” Stranahan said. “I can see that you're sensitive. That's the first requirement for being a good artist.” He gestured up the river where Amorak had disappeared. “Doesn't it get lonely with him away at work all day?”

She nodded, facing him with her eyes growing large. “It's scary when I'm the only one in the campground. But I got my granddaddy's gun from the war that he took off of a dead soldier in Italy. I mean it was Fen's granddaddy, but we say it was mine 'cause of the felony and Fen can't really own a gun, not legally. He keeps it under the rock with his stash unless he's doing his business or scheduled to pick up game meat. He says he doesn't want to go into the boonies unless he's got some protection.”

Stranahan nodded his agreement. “Good thing he didn't have it on him when the deputy picked him up.”

He could hear Fen's footsteps coming back from upriver.

“Where are you from, Deni?”

“I'm . . . Fen doesn't. He doesn't like me to say about that.”

Her face blushed as Amorak climbed up the bank.

“What have you two been talking about?” he said. His eyes were on Deni. The wolf pendant against his chest hair caught the sunlight.

“We were talking about art,” Stranahan said.

Amorak stared at Deni until she dropped her head.

“Here you go, man,” he said, offering Stranahan the joint. Stranahan nodded his thanks and put it in his shirt pocket as Deni came up from behind Amorak and wrapped her arms around his middle. She pushed her fingers into his jeans pockets. “Are we going to be able to stay?” she said, her voice muffled against his back.

“Yeah, we might have found a place to get out of the cold.”

“I'll leave word for you at the wildlife center when I hear from Katie,” Sean said. “Well, I hope they leave you alone now.”

He was already thinking forty miles up the road, the clock ticking on a conversation he wasn't looking forward to having. He ignored the phone vibrating in his pocket and lifted his finger in a Montana salute, Deni still clinging to Fen like a joey kangaroo, and was back through West Yellowstone and halfway up Targhee Pass, the shortest route from West Yellowstone to the Madison Valley, when he remembered the call. He'd missed two, the second from Ettinger.

She picked up immediately. Stranahan pulled over and filled her in.

“I thought the Park Service paid for her housing.”

“They do, but Amorak doesn't know that.”

“So he bought Katie's coal miner's daughter routine?”

“I bought Katie's routine.”

“Such an enterprising young woman,” Martha said. No attempt to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“What is it about you and Katie?”

“Nothing. What is it about
you
and Katie?”

“. . . Nothing.”

“Then we're in agreement. Are you still determined to tell Asena Martinelli about finding this guy?”

“It's my contractual obligation. If she hadn't hired me, we wouldn't know Amorak's name, let alone where he worked.”

“Wait a few days. Something's come up. I'd like to talk about it in person, later today if you can. It's possible he's done other crimes.”

“Killed other women?”

“No, it's unrelated.”

“I've waited already.”

“She could screw this up by doing something stupid.”

“What can she screw up? You said yourself the chances of persuading the DA to charge are slim to none. Is what's come up going to change that?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I'm going to tell her. She isn't a bunch of nerve endings like Nicki. Asena's a rational person.”

“Rational people make rash decisions when their loved one's are murdered.”

“She might know something that would make your case.”

“She's already told you what she knows.”

Stranahan ran his eyes up to Lionhead Mountain. Snow dusted the ridgeline, a sprinkling on the stone mane of a cat you could only see by squinting your eyes. Stranahan squinted.
Well, maybe not.

He heard Ettinger sigh. “Okay, but it's against my better judgment. Damnit, I hate it when shitheads go free . . . come back with something I want to hear, okay? And keep in mind I'm holding you responsible.”

“For what?”

“Anything . . . eventualities.”

Stranahan saw the first call he'd missed had been from Sam. Sam's place was his next stop, but he wasn't going to drive the forty miles if Asena wasn't there.

“Kimosabe.”

“I'm returning your call, buddy.”

“I'm reminding you about the walk and fish tomorrow morning.”

“You signed me up for a guide day?”

“Patrick Willoughby. He wants to fish the fall-run browns at Madison Junction.”

“I thought he'd left and they'd shut down the clubhouse for the winter.”

“They did. He's just swinging through for a day. You're to pick him up in West at the Three Bears Motel. Six a.m.”

“I guess I forgot.”

“Well, unforget.”

Stranahan rapped his fingernails on the steering wheel. He was strung tighter than piano wire. The last thing he needed was to break momentum. But then, thinking about it, maybe it was just what he needed. He'd been crowding Amorak. If he didn't back off, he risked scaring him away. Wait a few days and then talk to him again about Katie's cabin. Stall for time.

“Is Asena there?”

“She's on the river. I got double-booked and she guided a client. She'll be taking out, ah, 'bout an hour from now.”