Not Dead Enough (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

Jake

With 9X magnification, the Z3 Swarovski rifle scope puts the target right in front of the shooter, even at three hundred yards. When Jake squeezed off that single round, the woman went down and violently convulsed twice before going still. He knew she was dead, and the knowledge left him with a numbing sense of disbelief. He had killed a cop. Not just a cop, a woman.

He had never thought of himself as a bad person. That all changed when he shot the old Indian and chased that stupid lawyer off a cliff. Now his fall was complete and irreversible.

The only thing stronger than his guilt was the fear of getting caught. It wasn't jail time or the needle he feared so much, but the thought of letting the Old Man down, of fucking up what should have been a simple job, of being called an idiot. The Old Man would be screwed, too. Jake would never talk, but surely the cops would find some link between them.

He double-timed it down the ridge and started breaking camp as fast as he could. By this time, the numbness he felt had been replaced by a sense of raging panic. She'll be missed in no time. Get the hell out of here! His breath came in ragged gasps as he tossed everything in the back of his truck. Looking over the scene a last time, he noticed the empty propane canisters lying in the fire ring. “Shit.” he said aloud. “Just leave your fingerprints lying around.” He tossed the canisters into the bed of the truck, got in, and started his engine. He had studied the area before selecting this particular canyon, so there was no need to refer to a map now.

What he needed was a place to hide his truck in that godforsaken country. No map would help him with that.

Jake didn't look at the body of his victim as he tore past her on his way out of the canyon. He headed east and then swung north on Route 207 in the direction of Fossil, where the country was even more desolate and unpopulated, a moonscape of rugged hills folding down into narrow arroyos, all of them rocky and most of them dry. He slowed down when he reached Route 19, which headed off to Spray. A sign at the junction proclaimed that Spray was The Home of the Best Small Town Rodeo in the USA. When he ditched his truck, he would need another car. He took the turnoff.

Five miles outside Spray he passed a property on his left marked by a rusty mailbox listing at a forty-five degree angle and a weathered gate with the shredded remains of a for sale sign on it. The sign had taken a direct hit from a shotgun blast, probably fired from a passing car. An unpaved driveway led across the mesquite-dotted landscape and disappeared behind a rocky hillock. He checked for traffic, hung a U-turn, and pulled up in front of the gate. It was chained shut and secured with a hefty padlock, and a four-foot barbed wire fence ran in either direction along the road. He tried to spit out the window, but his mouth was dry as cotton. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel and swung his truck back in the direction of Spray.

A quarter mile down the road he saw a spot where the fence sagged. He let a truck pass in the opposite direction before pulling over. He got out and put his shoulder to a leaning fence post until the sagging barbed wire was on the ground. He swung his rig around and drove across the rusty strands. His tire treads were thick. Those barbs were nothing to worry about. Then he hopped out and pushed the fence post back up to reestablish the fence line.

Weaving his way through the mesquite, he joined the driveway well past the gate and followed it around the hillock until he was out of sight from the road. He stopped in front of an old ranch house that looked like a good fart would blow it over. He exhaled a breath of relief. He was positive no one had seen him on his way in, and the place looked like it had been deserted for a very long time.

The barn behind the ranch house was sturdier and its doors secured with a chain and padlock like the one out on the gate. But the double doors to the hayloft didn't appear to be locked. There wouldn't be a bolt cutter in the barn. He wouldn't be that lucky. But a hacksaw or a chisel?

It was worth a shot.

He fetched a rope from his truck and tossed it over a wooden boom that jutted out from above the double doors like the front of an old sailing ship. He tied the rope off, climbed hand over hand, and then pried one of the doors open with his free hand. The hinges yielded with a screech so loud Jake feared for a moment the sound might carry to the highway.

He swung himself into the loft, and after finding nothing of use up there, navigated a rickety ladder to the ground floor. An ancient Ford tractor rested on blocks in the middle of the barn, but there was enough room to squeeze his truck in. He searched the cabinets on the walls and the drawers below a workbench but found nothing he could use to break the padlock. “Damn my luck. anyway,” he said, pushing down frustration that was rapidly turning to panic.

He noticed a stack of large canvas tarps and a thick roll of heavy twine in a far corner. He grabbed the two largest tarps and the twine, carried them up the ladder, and tossed them out of the loft.

After climbing back down the rope, he moved his truck behind the barn. Twenty minutes later he had finished covering it with the tarps, which he secured in place with the twine. “Looks like an old tractor under there,” he said as he stood back admiring his work. “Won't fool the owners, but hell, they're probably long gone.”

He felt a weird sense of betrayal about leaving his truck like that. He loved his rig as much as anything he owned. He had extracted his rifle, backpack, and some tools from it, including a screwdriver, wire cutters, and black tape he would need to hot-wire another truck.

As he moved to higher ground, away from the house and barn, he turned back toward his truck. “I'll come back for you when the heat's off.”

He would wait for nightfall and then work his way into Spray. If he's lucky, he figured, the car he steals won't be missed until morning. And by that time, he'll be at the coast and out of sight. Yep, the coast. It was a long way, but he could hole up there, and there was a garage to hide the stolen car.

It was a decent plan. The Old Man might even approve, but no way he was asking permission. He didn't give a shit. That's where he was headed.

Jake was exhausted. He lay back with his head against his backpack, but he was scared to close his eyes, fearing that images of the woman writhing in her death throes would come back to him. But his eyes did finally close, and when they did, an unexpected chain of thoughts, little fragments of hope really, came to him instead—I never intended for this to happen…maybe with time I can forgive myself and….

Chapter Thirty-five

Philip lifted a mug of coffee to his lips and took a swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in the process. We had returned to his family cabin, managed a few hours of sleep that night, and were both up before sunrise. The room smelled of smoke from the woodstove and of coffee Philip had brewed up, coffee so strong I feared it would dissolve my spoon. The flickering light from a kerosene lamp played softly off his ceramic mug. I had just made a comment about how hard I thought it would be for the sniper to hide out in that desolate county. “I mean strangers standout. That's how Grooms found him in the first place.”

Philip nodded. “Yeah. He must've run out of supplies and had to show himself. Probably wasn't planning on having to camp there so long. People have to eat.”

I got up, walked to the window, and took a sip of coffee, a very small sip. The coppery rim of the sun had just appeared above the knife-edge silhouette of the Mutton Mountains. Stifling a yawn, I asked, “What do you think he'll do next?”

Philip shrugged. “The truck's his biggest problem. If he can hide it somehow he's got a shot.”

“He's not Houdini, man. How's he going to hide a big truck in that country?”

“Who knows? But if he does, he can stay hidden during the day, move at night and get outside the perimeter that Bailey and the State Police have put up by now.”

“You think he's capable of that?”

Philip nodded. “He's no babe in the woods. Dug a pit and lined it with rocks so you couldn't see the glow of his stove from the road. Rigged a tarp so he didn't need a tent. That's how he cleared out so fast. He's spent some time outdoors. A city boy would have stayed in a motel. No, my guess is our boy's either ex-military or an experienced hunter. The shot that took Grooms down was better than three hundred yards. One round in the center of her chest.”

I winced inwardly as the image of Grooms being gunned down like an animal played in my head. “At least the bastard's on the run.” Outside, the trees to the east began to appear like apparitions in the diffuse light of the rising sun. I felt no joy in this sunrise.

Philip drank some more coffee. “I heard you mention Braxton Gage to Bailey. You still plan to talk to him?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed them with my fists. “Yep. After talking to Bailey, I'm even more convinced I should give it a shot. Hell, I tried to tell him Gage might be tied into this. He made it clear he wasn't interested, like Gage's someone he wouldn't mess with unless he caught him with a hot, smoking gun.”

Philip nodded and smiled knowingly. “Gage could buy and sell Grover Bailey, and his whole damn county, for that matter.”

We sat there without speaking. Light from the now-risen sun poured through the window, the beam illuminating the smoke and dust motes like a photographer's flash. Birds began to sing. Finally, my friend spoke. “Cal, what happened to Grooms out there wasn't your fault. You know that, right?”

“Right.”

“No guilt, right? No ghosts from L.A.?”

“No ghosts.”

“Good.”

I didn't like lying to my best friend, but what was I supposed to say?

***

After breakfast Philip dropped me at my car and headed back to Madras. “Let me know if you hear anything more on Big C,” he said as he pulled away. I had called Sheriff Bailey earlier and gotten an update on her condition. All he could tell me was that she had a shattered sternum and extensive internal injuries and that the ICU docs were mum on her chances of survival. I had a notion to drive over to the hospital in Bend and check on her in person, but it would be a symbolic gesture only, since she was sure to be isolated in the ICU.

It was Sunday morning, and I felt depressed and anxious, depressed about my friend Grooms and anxious about the work I'd put off or lost outright over the last two weeks. My early retirement check from the city of L.A. didn't amount to much, and I needed my private practice, such as it was, to make ends meet and underwrite my growing fishing habit.

I took a couple of deep breaths and pushed the anxiety down. Back in L.A., as an ambitious prosecutor, I fed on stress and adrenaline like a junky. I had a wife, I had a child, but my work consumed me. I was doing it for them, I used to tell myself after logging in another late night or forgetting an anniversary or birthday. I didn't face the truth about myself until my wife died. That's when I realized my work wasn't everything. But by then it was too late. Way too late.

I had just pulled away from the cabin when my cell went off. “Cal? It's Winona. I've got some news.”

“So have I.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm on the Warm Springs Reservation,” I told her.

“Oh, good. I'm at Grandmother's in Celilo Village. Any chance you can come over here?”

I glanced at my watch. I was dead tired and a jog over to the Gorge would add miles to an already long trip. “What's your news?” I said, trying to hide my reluctance.

“I found a file of old newspaper articles in my grandmother's stuff. I'm not sure, but I think they might be important.”

“Newspaper articles?”

“Yes. They seem to be about the people connected to Grandfather's disappearance. Grandmother collected them. I think you should see them.”

She had my attention. “I'm on my way.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Celilo Village—or what remained after it was unceremoniously moved by the Army Corps of Engineers fifty years earlier—was jammed against the south edge of the Gorge, the naked cliffs behind it rising like prison walls. I parked in a field outside the fence line, next to a group of aluminum boats stacked on trailers, and let Archie out. Just inside the main gate, four teenage boys scuffled for a loose ball below a rusty rim nailed to the front of a storage shed. Two smaller boys watched from the sideline. On a broad avenue to my right, I could see that the construction of the new village houses was progressing. In contrast, the old, prefab houses looked even smaller and more dilapidated than when I'd last seen them at the commemoration.

The new housing's a decent gesture, I thought to myself, although fifty years seemed a long time to wait for restitution.

Winona's grandmother's house was the third on the left, the one with the boxes stacked on the front porch. Winona was waiting in the doorway holding a broom. She wore faded jeans cinched up with a wide belt, cowboy boots, and a tee shirt with a picture of a leaping Chinook salmon, its body flexed in an inverted U. The words Got Habitat? were written below the fish. Her hair was pulled back and tied off, her dimples in full bloom.

“Hi, Cal,” she said brightly. “You made good time.”

I smiled back. “Traffic was light.” Archie left my side and approached her with his butt in full wag.

She bent down and grasped him gently by the ears and made eye contact. “You're such a handsome boy. Yes you are.” Then she looked up at me. “Come on in.”

The small living room was empty except for an overstuffed couch along one wall, and dust still hung in the air from her sweeping. She steered me to the couch and handed me a thin, discolored file folder when we sat down. She said, “I found this in a photo album my grandmother kept. It was between pages that were stuck together. I missed seeing it when I found her letters.”

I opened the folder, began leafing through a handful of yellowed newspaper articles, and looked back at her.

Her eyes were bright, her cheeks slightly flushed. She said, “It looks like Grandmother kept adding to it for several years.”

On top were the articles covering the disappearance of Nelson Queah and the car accident that claimed the life of Timothy Wiiks as reported in The Dalles Chronicle. The headline of the next article read “Gage Cement Honored for Exceeding Construction Goals.” Below it was a photograph of two men receiving a plaque from a man in military uniform. The caption under the photo said the two awardees were Braxton Gage and Cecil Ferguson, who were being singled out for their work on The Dalles Dam by the Army Corps of Engineers. The Ferguson I'd met bore only a faint resemblance to the strapping man standing next to Gage. I skimmed the article and didn't note anything of interest.

Another headline proclaimed “Braxton Gage Re-elected Chamber Head” and was followed by an article praising his civic leadership. Below a couple of articles describing Gage Cement's rapid growth was an item on its move into shipping on the Columbia River. The headline read “Gage Buys Portland Shipping Firm, Plans Major Expansion.”

Several more articles chronicled Gage's meteoric rise in shipping on the Columbia River. Toward the bottom of the stack, Cecil Ferguson was back in the news, but it wasn't good news this time. In two separate incidents he was arrested and charged with assault for his involvement in fights at local bars. I had difficulty picturing the frail, wisp of a man I'd met as a barroom brawler.

The articles were interesting, but they didn't appear to give me anything new to go on. I thought about the need to get back to Dundee and fought back a wave of frustration. Winona meant well, but there wasn't anything I could get my teeth into. I said, “The usual suspects. Your grandmother seemed to suspect Braxton Gage as much as I do in this.”

“I thought this might give you more incentive for going after him,” Winona answered, a pleased look on her face. “It shows Grandmother suspected Gage fifty years ago. Why else would she have saved these? I think she and Grandfather must have talked about it before he disappeared. Not all their communication was written, you know.”

“Good point,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. I didn't need any more incentive. I needed hard evidence. “‘Going after him' is putting it a bit strong, but I am trying to set up a meeting with him.”

She raised her eyebrows above enlarged eyes. “Is that wise?”

I opened my hands, face up, and gave her the same logic I used with George Lone Deer—it doesn't matter if Gage's in or out. Either way I'll learn something.

Her face clouded over. “Sounds dangerous to me.”

“Laying back's more dangerous the way I see it.” I dropped my gaze back to the articles in the folder. Toward the bottom was a grainy picture of two men kneeling on either side of a dead mountain lion. The men were holding the head of the lion up by its ears, smiling broadly. The caption read “Hunters Slay Cougar Responsible for Cattle Kills.” The head of one of the men had been circled with a pen. It was a young Sherman Watlamet. I did a double take when I read the name of the other man. I looked at the picture again. It was him all right, although the thick, blond hair threw me for a moment.

I handed Winona the article. “Did you notice this? Watlamet's hunting partner. It's Royce Townsend.”

She squinted in the weak light and then put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I missed that completely. I guess I'm not surprised. Jason told me his father was quite the hunter in his day.”

“I almost missed it, too,” I said absently, straining to remember what Royce Townsend had said when I asked him about Sherman Watlamet at his party last week. Didn't he say he didn't know him?

As if reading my mind, Winona pointed to the picture. “Obviously, Grandmother was interested in Watlamet, not Royce. See, she circled him.”

When I finished reading the file, I said, “Can I take this with me? I'd like to copy it.”

“Sure. I hope it was worth the trip over.”

“Oh, definitely,” I replied.

We sat in silence for a few moments. I wasn't anxious to share what had happened to Grooms, so I didn't push it. She said, “Would you like some coffee?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

We made small talk while the coffee perked, the aroma filling the tiny kitchen, which was empty except for a propane stove, a small refrigerator, and a lone house plant hanging in the window above the sink. The plant's translucent leaves glowed softly in the sunlight. “So, what's your news?” Winona asked, eyeing me over a chipped mug of steaming coffee.

I dropped my eyes and took a careful sip from my mug. “I'm afraid it's not too good.” I faltered for a couple of beats. “Deputy Grooms was shot by the sniper yesterday. She's still alive, but it's touch and go.”

“Oh, God, no. Not again,” she cried and then slid slowly down the wall until she was sitting on the worn linoleum.

I sat down next to her and began to tell her what happened. I was doing okay until I got to the part about discovering Grooms lying there in the road. I had to stop when a lump the size of a softball formed in my throat, and my eyelids began fluttering to keep the tears back. “We, uh, saw her cruiser on the road in the canyon. She'd decided to look for tire tracks without waiting for us.” I stopped again to gather myself. The words were sticking in my throat like dry leaves. “We found her next to the car. She'd been shot at long range just like Watlamet.”

There was a long silence, punctuated only by a soft whirring when the refrigerator kicked on. Finally, Winona said, “I'm so sorry, Cal.”

“She's a good cop, and I consider her a friend. I should have warned her not to go in that canyon. I should have insisted she wait for us or get backup,” I said, barely choking out the last of the sentence.

“It was her job, Cal. Be fair to yourself.”

I pulled my knees up and dropped my chin on my chest, the words stuck again. I wasn't about to speak until I had control of myself. There was a click, and the whirring of the refrigerator stopped. A distant shout drifted in from the direction of the basketball game.

After a long pause, Winona said, “Does this have anything to do with the death of your wife in Los Angeles?”

I turned to her with what must have been a look of utter shock. It was the last thing in the world I expected her to say.

She smiled sheepishly. “I don't mean to pry, Cal. It's just that Philip mentioned that you were still mourning the death of your wife. I don't know anything more than that. Maybe what happened yesterday dredged everything back up.”

“Yeah, there's probably some truth in that.”

“Philip didn't know that much about what happened. Do you want to talk about it? Maybe it would help.”

I'd heard the theory that ‘it helps to talk' plenty of times but never really bought it. For me, talking about my wife's death was a slippery slope, a third rail, something to be avoided at all costs. I was reminded of the shrink they made me see after her death, the one who worked for the city. I almost smiled at the thought of her. She was one frustrated psychiatrist when I got through with her.

I answered, “I don't think so. I don't think it would help. To talk, I mean.”

Silence poured back into the room like a viscous fluid. The refrigerator clicked on, sounding like a diesel engine. Winona put her hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed. “Are you sure, Cal?”

I sat there, frozen in fear and manacled by my own obstinacy. A tear broke loose and burned its way down my cheek.

She kept her hand on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of her touch. She squeezed again. “Just try. One word at a time.”

Maybe it was the second squeeze, I don't really know, but the resistance I'd held all that time suddenly fell away. There was no drum roll or fanfare, just a silent sloughing off, like dead skin. My voice stirred in my throat, although at the same time I seemed to become an observer as well as the one speaking. “My wife killed herself. She was depressed, and she, uh, decided life wasn't worth living anymore.” I heard myself say the words. It was the closest thing to an out-of-body experience I'd ever had.

I felt Winona shudder slightly, but she remained silent.

“It was a rainy Saturday. I was, uh, working as usual. That was me—a hotshot workaholic lusting to get ahead. I found her when I got home. Claire got home right after me. Thank God she wasn't the one who found her.”

“Claire's your daughter?”

“Yeah.” I paused again, trying to check my avalanching emotions. The sight of my wife's body—banished from my memory for so long—hit my conscious mind like scalding water. I could see myself desperately trying to revive her. I could hear myself screaming at my daughter to call 911. But her body was cold. The pills had done their job.

My observer-self watched Winona and I, curious to see what would happen next. I tried to go on but couldn't. “I can't—”

In the softest voice, Winona stopped me. “Yes, you can, Cal. Go on.”

My eyes brimmed with tears. “Not much else to tell. The meds weren't working worth a damn, but I figured it was just a matter of time, that her depression wasn't all that serious.” I shook my head and scoffed at the notion. “Complete denial. I didn't read the danger signals, didn't understand how desperate she was. After all, that would have required me to focus on something else besides my precious career.” I looked at Winona through tear-blurred eyes. “I wasn't there for her when she needed me. That's the long and short of it.”

My observer-self watched as she cradled me in her arms. The emotions I'd held at bay for so long finally broke loose, and I wept silently. I have no idea how long this went on. It takes time to drain a deep swamp. When I finally regained my composure, I realized Winona was holding me, stroking my head and chanting softly in my ear in her native tongue.

Awareness of the deep intimacy we were sharing came to both of us at the same moment. She released her hold on me, and I straightened up, feeling light, almost hollow. I exhaled, dried my eyes on my sleeve, and tried to smile. “I don't know what you were singing, but it sure helped.”

She rested her eyes on me and smiled wistfully. “Grandmother used to sing those words to me when I was upset, which was most of the time after my mother left.” She chuckled. “They're about the only Sahaptin I know. They mean something like “your sadness will end just as the sun ends the night and spring ends the winter.”

I suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed as my male ego began to re-emerge. My God, I thought, I just poured my guts out to a woman I hardly know. I've shared my deepest, most shameful secret with her. I said, “Look, Winona, I'm sorry you had to listen to all—”

She cut me off, her eyes flashing. “Don't, Cal. Don't do that. You needed to talk. It was a cleansing. Don't you dare apologize.”

Managing a weak smile, I stood up, lowered my hand and pulled her up. “You're right. It was a cleansing.”

She smiled. “You did all the heavy lifting. And Cal, I'm sorry about Grooms, and I'm sorry about your wife.”

She warmed up our coffees, and as we stood in the kitchen I went back to the story of Grooms' ambush. When I finished, Winona took my cup and began rinsing it out at the sink along with hers, her ebony hair rippling with highlights in the sunlight. With her back to me, she sighed deeply. “Timothy's mother called me two nights ago. She'd had another dream. She saw me walking in the desert with a wolf following me. She didn't know whether the wolf was stalking me or protecting me. She told me to be careful, Cal.”

“I didn't know a wolf could be a protector.”

She turned to face me. “Oh, yes. If a wolf's your totem, it will protect you. And seeing your totem in a dream is often a warning.”