Deadly Currents (3 page)

Duh, girl.
She had been there when customers asked for guarantees that they wouldn’t fall out of a raft. Then they would snooze through the safety talk and complain that wearing a helmet, mandatory on a Numbers or Royal Gorge run, would ruin their hair.

Customers would refuse to blame the beautiful but deadly river, because that would mean accepting the risks they themselves took on. So they would cast the blame on Uncle Bill, his equipment, the training or the management he gave his guides, whatever. Unless …

Unless King had a heart attack. Then the death wouldn’t be the fault of the Arkansas River or Uncle Bill.

Or me.

Mandy turned the car around and headed for the Chaffee County building on Crestone Avenue. It was almost noon. Maybe Quintana would have the autopsy results by now. He should be willing to share them with her, given the close working relationship between the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area (AHRA) rangers and the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office deputies. They trained together, lunched at the same hangouts, and jointly investigated crimes that occurred within the park boundaries. Heck, Tom King’s accident was her case until she turned it over to Quintana. She would need whatever new information he had come up with for her own incident report.

She parked outside the old blond-brick office building that sat next to a brand-new jail and entered the lobby. Travel posters on the walls proclaimed the merits of Chaffee County, with the most 14,000-foot mountains in the United States, and the small communities nestled along the Arkansas River valley—Buena Vista, Nathrop, Salida, Poncha Springs. Her favorite poster showed a crown of jagged peaks ranged against a brilliant blue sky with the white waves of the Arkansas River slapping against dampened rocks below. Somehow the artist had captured both the playfulness and exhilarating power of the moving water.

Mandy hiked up the wide, worn stairs to the third floor, where the sheriff’s detectives’ offices were situated. She hadn’t ever been to Quintana’s office, so she had to snoop a little before she found the frosted glass door with his nameplate beside it. She knocked on the glass.

“Come in.”

Quintana stood up from his desk when she entered. “Hello. I didn’t expect to see you today. I heard Steve tell you to take the day off. Thought you’d be resting up.”

Mandy shook his hand then took the seat he offered. “I did sleep in a little. I’m kind of sore, too, but curiosity got me moving.”

Quintana’s desk was crammed full with a computer and stacks of case files. A bookshelf overflowed with law enforcement textbooks, statutes, bound documentation, and more files. Every bit of wall space seemed to be covered by some plaque or photo of Quintana shaking someone’s hand or posing with a group. In one photo, she recognized the mayor with his arm draped companionably over Quintana’s shoulders. In another, Quintana stood next to someone who looked like Elvis—in his later, pudgy years.

She pointed at the photo. “Who’s that?”

Settling back into his chair, Quintana smiled. “My older brother. He’s an Elvis impersonator on the weekends. Does shows at retirement and nursing homes. Pretty successful at it, too.”

“Cool. I’ll have to catch one of his shows sometime. Rocking out to some Elvis tunes would be fun.”

“Is my photo collection what you’re curious about?”

“It’s a great collection, but no. I’m wondering if you’ve got any autopsy results yet, if you know what caused King’s death.”

Quintana pulled a couple of handwritten pages out of the top file folder on his desk. “Your timing’s good. We sent King’s body to the Pueblo coroner’s office yesterday. Since the forensic pathologist had no other cases waiting, he did the autopsy this morning.”

“Has he finished the report?”

“Not yet, but he called me with some preliminary results, and I made these notes. He doesn’t have a firm cause of death yet, but he ruled out some possibilities.”

“Like what?”

“Like drowning.” Quintana looked up at her. “Not enough water in the lungs. And like a head wound. King’s skull was intact, and the brain was in good shape.”

“What about hypothermia or heart attack?”

“Hypothermia’s a no. And he said King had arteriosclerosis, but he didn’t find a clot in a coronary artery.”

Mandy sank back in her chair. “Oh, so no heart attack?”

“Not necessarily. The coroner said you often don’t find direct evidence of heart failure.”

“Really?” Mandy sat up straighter.

Quintana smoothed his mustache. “Clots can flush out or dissolve, and heart tissue damage that causes death looks very similar to the damage that occurs postmortem. As he explained to me, it’s more a case of ruling out everything else. If there’s no other cause, you blame it on heart failure.”

“When will he know for sure?”

“After the toxicology and blood test results come in, in a day or two.”

“Toxicology?”

“It’s standard. Could show evidence of alcohol or drugs. And the blood test could reveal diabetes or some other disease, though King’s wife said his last physical two years ago was clear.” Quintana put down his notes. “Want to tell me why you’re so anxious to know?”

Mandy blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m afraid King’s death will hurt Uncle Bill’s business. I hoped I could deliver news to him today that it was caused by a heart attack. Then he could tell that to any anxious customers who might blame him.”

“Or you.”

Mandy shot Quintana a look, but the man’s expression wasn’t accusatory. Instead, she read
…
compassion?

Her hands went cold and her mouth dried up, but she had to face this. “Or me.”

Quintana folded his arms, an awkward movement with all the equipment on his uniform belt. “This is your first year as a river ranger, right? And probably your first death.”

Mandy nodded.

“I bet you’re having the same reaction patrol officers have when they encounter their first death. And many have it with every one. It’s a wicked combination of emotions. The strongest one is guilt—wondering if you could have prevented the situation or turned it in a different direction somehow.”

Blood rushed to Mandy’s cheeks, and she smoothed her hands on her jeans to regain her composure. “You nailed it.”

Quintana leaned forward. “Maybe knowing everyone goes through this, that it’s part of being a public safety officer, will help.”

Mandy met his gaze, and for the first time that day, felt a little calmer. “Maybe it does.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got the final report.” Quintana leaned back in his chair and frowned. “You’re not the only one who’s anxious. The coroner can’t release the body until he’s drawn a conclusion, and King’s widow has already called me to ask when they can schedule a funeral.”

“I can’t imagine what she’s going through. It must be awful.”

Quintana pursed his lips as if debating whether to say something then shook his head. “She sounded more angry than sad. Said she was calling her lawyer.”

“I don’t understand. Was she wondering about the will?”

“No. Maybe you should warn your uncle. She said she was going to sue somebody.”

River guiding is a cowboy sort of job. Guides have inherited
the legacy of ruggedness and self-reliance once attributed
to mountain men and pioneers.

—
What the River Says
, Jeff Wallach

Questions whirled in Mandy’s
head while she drove to her uncle’s combination home-and-business a few miles north of town. What did King’s widow hope to gain by suing Uncle Bill? Everyone signs a liability release agreement when they go whitewater rafting with a commercial outfitter. If King signed one, too, how could his widow win the case?

She parked under the ancient cottonwood tree shading the small gravel car park beside the two-story wood-frame house. She got out and made a quick scan of the equipment in the back lot. The bus was still there, with two eight-passenger rafts tied to the top, instead of stowed in the storage shed where they belonged. But the thirteen-passenger van with its attached raft trailer was gone. So, a three- or four-raft trip had been planned and prepared for, but only one or two rafts had gone out, allowing all the customers and their guides to fit in the van.

Not good.

Mandy opened the front door that led into a customer check-in entryway, with company logo T-shirts and hats, sunglasses, and sunglass cords hanging on the wall for sale. She looked over the countertop, where those liability forms got signed, into her uncle’s small office on the other side. He sat at the cluttered desk, a phone pressed to his ear.

He didn’t look happy.

“But sir, I can’t give full refunds for last-minute cancellations. That’s clearly spelled out in our policies on the website and on the confirmation letter I sent you. I’ve already scheduled guides to work your trip.”

Bill Tanner swiveled his barrel-shaped torso in his chair, saw Mandy, pointed at the phone and rolled his eyes. He rubbed his lined forehead with sausage-shaped fingers, then picked up his reading glasses to check his computer screen.

She hiked herself up on the countertop to wait.

As her uncle listened on the phone, his frown deepened. “No matter which outfitter you use, whitewater rafting is an inherently risky activity. If you check with the rangers at the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area office, you’ll see our safety record is good—as good as any other outfitter’s.”

He paused, tapping a pencil on his desk. “Yes, even with the recent death. We still don’t know the cause. It could very well have been a heart attack.”

He listened some more and sighed. “This isn’t Disneyland. We can’t make guarantees because we don’t control the river. We just ride it.” Another pause. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, too. But with only one day’s notice, the best I can do is a fifty-percent refund. There’s sunk costs I can’t recoup. You’ll be missing out on a great run.”

After a few more nods and um-hums and sips from the can of root beer on his desk, he finally hung up. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That’s the fourth cancellation today.”

“I saw the bus didn’t go out,” Mandy said. “You get some no-shows this afternoon?”

“Yeah. Then they had the nerve to call and ask for a refund. When I refused, they said they’d complain to the Headwaters office. Fat lot of good that’ll do them, but I’ve lost them as customers. They’ll never raft with me again.”

“Rob came by this morning and warned me this might happen. At first, I didn’t believe him, but …”

“Happens all the time. Folks can be skittish.” Uncle Bill pushed himself out of his chair with a grunt. “But enough of my problems, baby.”

He gave her a hug. Then he stood back and looked her over. “I guess Robbie boy came by to check on you. I should have done that myself, but as you can see, I’ve been busy with the phone. How are you?”

Mandy slid off the counter into the office. “Sore, tired, but I’ll be okay.”

“Ah hah. You’re finding out that being a ranger isn’t all fun and glory. It can’t have been easy to deal with a death your second week on patrol.”

“Sure it isn’t easy, but everyone bringing it up again isn’t making it any easier. Look, I’m fine. I’m more worried about what this is doing to your business.”

“That’s not your worry. You don’t work here anymore, remember?”

So, he’s still bugged about that.
The thought stirred up old memories. Bill Tanner was a widower with no children of his own when Mandy’s parents had died. Since Mandy was living with and working for her uncle, as she had the previous summer, it was natural for her to stay on and transfer to Salida High School when classes started. She wasn’t eighteen yet, and her brother David couldn’t care for her. Heading into his junior year of college, he had his own education and grief to worry about. He had been relieved to be able to focus on finishing his accounting degree and starting his career.

Then, it was natural for Mandy to become a full-fledged rafting guide after she graduated. She fell into a pattern of working spring through fall for her uncle and serving on the Monarch Mountain ski patrol during the winters. Whenever she could, she took a course or two at Colorado Mountain College in Buena Vista until she earned an associate’s degree in outdoor education.

Her uncle had assumed she would take over his business someday. But a few years back, she started itching to prove herself, to tackle some challenge that Uncle Bill didn’t already know everything about. That’s what led to her moving into her own place, and this year, applying for the seasonal river ranger position.

And, it’s what led to their first serious argument.

Mandy put a hand on her uncle’s shoulder. “We’ve been over this before. Just because I’m not here every day doesn’t mean I don’t still care about the business—and you. You know that, you ole grouchy bear.”

He stared at his feet and scuffed the floor with one bedroom slipper. “I know. But you’ve got to know I still want you here. Who am I going to leave this business to, if not you, baby girl?”

Mandy noted the slippers. His gout must be bothering him again. She would have to find some way to quiz him about his diet without getting on his nerves.

“I’m not a baby girl anymore. And you’re not retiring anytime soon that I know of. Are you?”

Fear stabbed Mandy’s gut as she peered at her uncle. He was in his late fifties, overweight and with high blood pressure. Was he hinting something else was wrong?

“No, I’ll be manning this desk and driving the shuttle vehicles for quite a few years yet. Got to wait around for you to change your mind.”

She hugged him. “You’re more stubborn than a black bear trying to get at a hummingbird feeder, you know that?”

Uncle Bill grinned, showing off a straight row of gleaming teeth, a Tanner trait. “Where do you think you get it from?”

Mandy slid into the extra chair in his office. “Tell me about yesterday’s trip. Was it all locals?”

Uncle Bill dropped into his chair while holding one foot out, then gingerly lowered it to the floor. “Yeah. Lenny Preble set it up.”

“The environmentalist?”

“He said he wanted to show some developers and local politicians why it was so important to reserve recreation water rights on the Arkansas. He used funds from his nonprofit organization to pay for the trip, plus asked me for a discount.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“He was throwing business my way, a three-raft trip, so he and one other staffer rode free. And it was for a good cause. Anyway, he invited Tom King and Nate Fowler, a couple of city councilmen, and any spouses and grown children who wanted to come along, since we don’t take minors down the Numbers.”

“I picked up Nate Fowler’s daughter,” Mandy said. “I want to get her contact information from you and thank her for helping me with King. She kept her cool and didn’t get all hysterical on me. But why invite King and Fowler? What was so special about those two?”

“They’re in a bidding war over some combined forest and pasture land down south that has prime agricultural water rights tied to it. They both want to develop the land into high-priced country estates. Lenny said he’d like to convince whoever winds up buying the land to donate some of those water rights for recreation use.” Uncle Bill took a few gulps of root beer.

Another thing he should be giving up—those six or seven sugary sodas he drinks every day. The man’s sweet tooth was worse than the average black bear’s by far.
“And why the councilmen?”

“Most of the councilmen know darn well how important recreation on the Arkansas is to Salida. We’re not back in the eighteen hundreds when hard industries like the railroad and gold mining kept the town pump primed. Nowadays, the economy is driven by tourism. Without the river and the tourists dripping money that it attracts, there’d be damn few city taxes to pay the salaries of those councilmen.”

“You’re preaching to the choir here, Uncle Bill.”

“I know you know all this. But Frank Saunders isn’t on board, so to speak. That’s why Lenny invited him. And he asked two others who are river supporters to come, hoping they would help his case, lean on the developers and Saunders some.”

“Okay, why the Numbers? Why not take these folks on a tamer run?”

“Most of them have already run the tamer sections lots of times. Hell, I bet you could blindfold them all in Brown’s Canyon, and they could tell you what rapid’s coming up next. Plus, you know it’s the upper river runs like the Numbers that change the most when water levels drop.”

“It was running high yesterday.”
Over two thousand cubic feet per second
. “If the CFS had been any higher, I probably wouldn’t have made it to shore before Number Five. How did Lenny plan to get his point across about low flows?”

“He wanted to contrast high and low water runs through the Numbers and point out spots where low water made passage difficult. And he had photos taken during the 2002 drought to show them after the trip wound up. One of a fish kill was downright gross. Never got around to showing them, of course.” Morosely, Uncle Bill shook his head.

Hoping to cheer him up some, Mandy said, “I stopped by the Chaffee County Sheriff’s office today to ask about the autopsy results on Tom King. The pathologist can’t say what the cause of death is yet, but it sounded to me like he’s leaning toward heart attack. That could be helpful for you.”

“How so?”

“If it’s not drowning or head injury or some other river-caused death, then your company can’t be blamed.”

“But if the shock of the cold water caused the heart attack, we could be. Because if the man didn’t fall in the river, he might still be alive. Can the pathologist figure out whether the heart attack occurred before or after King hit the water?”

Mandy nibbled her lip. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Detective Quintana.”

The front door opened and Gonzo walked in, his wet river sandals slapping on the wood floor. “Hey, Mandy. Slumming today? Can’t get enough of this place?”

“Or of you.” Mandy shot him a wide smile and a wink, though her heart wasn’t really into their usual repartee.

Gonzo thrust his hip out, threw his head back and fluffed his tangled dreadlocks, as if posing for the cover of
Vogue
—or more likely,
Mad Magazine
. “Too sexy for you, I know.” For him, too, the wordplay seemed forced.

“Hey, sexy beast,” Uncle Bill shouted. “What’d I tell you about coming in here with dripping wet shoes?”

“Sorry man, but a customer needs change.” Gonzo handed a twenty over the counter. “I think he’s going to give me a sorry-ass five- or ten-dollar tip for taking his whole family down Brown’s. None of ’em could paddle worth a darn, they didn’t laugh at my river snake joke, and I bet they don’t turn their wetsuits right-side out for me either. Why is it that the customers who are the hardest to work with tip the least?”

Mandy passed him the small bills her uncle had dug out of his desk. “At least he
is
giving you a tip. Thank the river gods. He could be stiffing you.”

“Then he’d suffer from bad Gonzo karma.” He waggled his fingers as if casting a spell, then leaned on the counter to get a good look at Mandy. “Speaking of bad karma, how’re you doing today?”

“Could be better, a
lot
better, but I’ll live.”
Unlike King.
Mandy shuddered, then she noticed how bleary-eyed Gonzo looked. He must have drunk some of those beers last night that he was talking about.