Not Dead Enough (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Jake

Jake started sprinting toward his truck after firing two final rounds at the man in Watlamet's house, the man with the double barrel shotgun. I hope to hell I hit the bastard but no way I'm waiting around to find out. Time to get out of Dodge. He reached the truck, stuffed his rifle behind the seat, and took off in the direction of his campsite.

He pounded the steering wheel as he sped away. “Goddammit. Goddamnit. That dude saw me. This was supposed to be easy.”

It wasn't until he pulled off the highway and began the climb into the narrow canyon that he stopped talking to himself. And only after he pulled off the road below the mouth of the abandoned mine and tucked his truck in behind a pile of tailings did his pulse come back to normal.

He double-timed up a steep ridge to where he knew there was a cell phone signal and tapped out a text to the number he'd been given:
Target is down. One problem. Someone saw me as I was leaving. Not sure if I took care of him. I'm back at campsite. Need guidance.

Seventeen agonizing minutes later he received a reply:
Stay where you are. Check back tomorrow, mid-morning.

After hiking back down, he slipped under the shade of the low tarp he'd rigged earlier, took a long pull on a bottle of water, and lit up a Camel. But the cigarette did nothing to calm him. He laid back using his backpack for a pillow and let out a deep sigh that turned into a moan. You fool. You never should have agreed to this.

His thoughts flashed back to the night he'd arrived at the guest house…

He'd let himself in, like the text said. But no one was there. Instead, he found two envelopes with his name on them, and he almost giggled. “Damn, this is like some kind of spy shit.” He opened the thick envelope first, whistled softly, and sat down on shaky legs. It was stuffed with money—a wad of crisp, new one-hundred dollar bills a couple of inches thick. One hundred and fifty of the little beauties. He counted them twice and did the math. A cool fifteen thousand.

A note tucked into the bills read: “Down payment. Another $15,000 paid upon completion of task.” When he tore open the second envelope his hand shook slightly, and he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. The details of his job—what he was to do, who he was to do it to, and how—were precisely laid out on two pieces of typed paper. There was an explanation, too. It made him feel a little better. Some crazy old Indian hermit was going to dredge up the past and hurt a lot of innocent people. This was unacceptable to the Old Man, and he needed Jake to put a stop to it. The Old Man would consider it a great personal favor.

But Jake still felt shitty after it all sank in. Kill a man? Sure, he'd killed his share of big game—long horns, elk, deer, even a couple of bears. But a man? That was different. Then he glanced over at that stack of bills. Thirty thousand bucks would change his life, big time. He could pay off some debts, get caught up on his alimony. A sliver of hope slipped into his thoughts. Maybe Amy would change her mind after this. Maybe we could start over...

But then the thought of the awful task in front of him came back in full force. He sat there in the guesthouse for a long time, going back and forth. What finally swung it for him was the Old Man, what was said in the note about doing him a personal favor. Maybe this would really count for something. God knows, nothing I ever do is good enough. Sure, the money was great, but he knew deep down he would have done the job for nothing, just to please the old bastard.

And besides, the job's a no-brainer, and no one will miss the old Indian, anyway.

Jake's thoughts were brought back to the here and now by a gust of wind that slammed into the weathered tarp above him. He sat up. “No-brainer, my ass. Now there may be a witness out there. I hope to hell I killed that son of a bitch, too.”

When the sun finally sank behind the rim of the canyon, he fired up the propane stove inside the protective ring of rocks he'd built and waited for a pot of water to boil. Freeze-dried beef stroganoff with noodles was his favorite camp food, but this particular night it didn't taste that good. As a matter of fact, the food caught in his throat and the only thing that went down easy was a fifth of I. W. Harper.

But the whiskey didn't keep him from seeing the old Indian's face in the scope of his rifle. Over and over again.

He woke the next morning with a splitting headache, but as he hiked back up the ridge he felt more hopeful. I pumped two rounds in right where I saw the muzzle flash of that shotgun. I must have hit him. Hell, they can just pay me the rest and I'll go home, lay low and let this thing blow over.

But the text that came in read:
There's a loose end.
Sit tight for 24 hrs.

Jake's throat constricted as he read the text, and he had difficulty swallowing. Shit. Missed the bastard. This ain't over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Nine

Once inside Watlamet's house, I put Arch and the shotgun down, pressed a handkerchief to the wound on my neck, and rummaged through his kitchen for a clean towel. Still trembling, Archie shook himself and came over to me. I dropped to one knee and brushed the remaining bits of glass from his coat using the towel. When I finished he scrubbed my face with puppy kisses while I hugged his neck with one arm. “Thanks, big boy,” I said in a husky voice. “You saved my life.”

I flopped down on a threadbare couch and leaned back for a moment. The shock of what had just happened sunk in. It was my turn to tremble, the shakes starting in my gut and rippling down my legs. I felt like an idiot and was glad no one was around to see me like this.

After I calmed down I started poking around the house. I glanced at my watch and figured I had, at the outside, a couple of minutes. In any case, I'd hear their sirens coming in. I felt a twinge of guilt at the prospect of mucking around in a crime scene. After all, I'd spent a career in law enforcement. On the other hand, I wasn't going to disturb anything. And I felt like I'd earned the right to know if there were any clues in Watlamet's house that might tell me who had killed him and nearly blown my head off.

I saw nothing of interest in the living and dining rooms. A desk containing a pile of papers—mostly bills, credit card receipts, and copies of a church newsletter—stood in a corner of the kitchen. I glanced through them without spotting anything. In the bedroom I found a cell phone that I'd missed in my earlier search. It lay on a nightstand, partially obscured by a lamp and a large, leather-bound Bible. Using a pencil, I flipped it open and scrolled down to Recent Calls. Under Calls Made, there were two numbers, under Calls Received, three. I jotted the numbers down on a business card from my wallet. As I closed the phone, I heard a siren in the distance.

I waved with both hands to the Wasco County Sheriff's cruiser that came down Sherman Watlamet's dirt drive. I knew they'd be on high alert and wanted to make damn sure they saw I was unarmed and had no reason to confuse me for the gunman who'd shot the Indian rancher through the head.

I gave a deputy—C. Grooms by her name tag—a quick rundown on what had just happened. She seemed satisfied that I was the innocent bystander I claimed to be, and when I told her I didn't want an ambulance, offered to give me first aid. Her partner was, by this time, over in the cottonwoods looking for shell casings. The medical examiner and forensic team hadn't arrived yet.

A big woman with blond hair combed up in front, Grooms had biceps that filled her short-sleeved shirt and small gray eyes that were hard, like ball bearings. She retrieved a first aid kit from her patrol car, took a closer look at my neck, and made a face. “I'll bandage this up for you, but you're gonna need to get those splinters removed.” I nodded and she set about the task as she began questioning me. “So, Mr. Claxton, you said you got a look at the man in the truck who passed you comin' in here?”

Thinking of all the witnesses I'd questioned in my career, all the expectations I'd had about their ability to remember important details, I had to laugh inwardly. Now the tables were turned, and I wasn't so sure how much I'd picked up in my quick encounter with the man I assumed was the shooter. “Yeah, I did get a look, and then he turned away. He looked surprised as hell to see me. Not a lot of traffic out here.”

“Seein' the way he circled back on you, he must consider you a witness, for sure.”

I nodded. “I'm afraid you're right about that.”

She smiled and snipped off a piece of tape. When the tip of the scissors touched my neck, I flinched. “Hold still,” she said sternly. “Tell me what you saw, Mr. Claxton.”

“He was Caucasian, mid to late forties, give or take. Big eyes in a long, narrow face. Prominent nose. Dark, heavy sideburns, long hair, maybe. Couldn't tell for sure because of the cowboy hat.” I closed my eyes to picture the fleeting moment better. “Uh, medium build, maybe, fairly broad shoulders. That's about it.”

“Good. What was he wearing?”

“The cowboy hat was gray, and he wore a dark shirt, blue maybe.”

“I see,” Grooms said, not looking up from a pad she was jotting notes on. “Could you identify this man if you saw him again?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure I could.”

“Do you think you could help our artist come up with a sketch of this man?”

“I suppose I could do that. It'll be pretty rough.”

“But better than nothin'. How about the truck?”

I puffed a breath through my lips and shook my head. “Late model, dark blue pickup. Nondescript…Ford or Chevy, maybe.”

Deputy Grooms rolled her eyes at my inability to differentiate between a Ford and a Chevy but didn't comment. “Did you see the plates?”

“Nope. I was worried about him being the man I'd come to see—the victim, Mr. Watlamet—so I really didn't focus on the truck.”

She snapped her notebook shut and said, “Excuse me,” and then walked briskly over to the squad car. I knew she was going to call in a BOLO for the truck and the man I described. There was a good chance he was still on the road.

When she came back she asked me more questions about why I happened to be visiting Sherman Watlamet. I laid out the entire story and told her that Philip Lone Deer had helped me find Watlamet. I gave her Philip's phone number and address. She asked me who my client was. I told her that was privileged, but if she felt she needed it, I would seek my client's permission to give it to her. She told me to go ahead and do that.

“Do you think this killin' here's connected to the disappearance of Mr. Queah in any way?” she asked when I'd finished.

“I don't see how it could be, but you know what they say about coincidences.”

She allowed a faint smile. “Right. You gonna keep workin' on the disappearance?”

I shrugged. “It'll depend on what my client wants to do now.”

Grooms locked onto me with those hard, gray eyes. “You might want to consider quittin' while you're ahead, Mr. Claxton. But if you learn anything new, you be sure to call me.”

Later that afternoon I was sitting on a park bench in The Dalles watching Archie sniff around. I had just finished up with the sheriff department's artist, a young woman who quickly and deftly captured the essence of the face of the man I saw. To be honest, I was more than a little skittish about this. The sketch was bound to get into the papers and reinforce the shooter's notion that I was a star witness. Of course, I didn't know whether he knew who I was, and that was something I needed to talk to Philip about. Just what had he told people in his search for Watlamet? Had he used my name? I wondered. As if on cue, my phone chirped. It was Philip returning my call.

“How'd it go with Watlamet?”

“Uh, not too well.”

“Why? What happened?”

“He's dead. Someone shot him with a rifle at long range just before I got there.”

“What? You're kidding.”

I went on to tell him what I'd found and how Archie had saved me from getting my brains blown out, too. After I finished he said, “Where are you now?”

“I'm sitting in a park in The Dalles watching Archie take a leak.”

“Don't go home. Bring the hero dog and come to my place. We can talk about this. You can go home in the morning. I'm glad you're okay, man.”

“Me, too.”

Chapter Ten

“Hold still, damn it!” Philip was bent down next to me with a large magnifying glass in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. The tools came from his fly tying workshop. “I don't know whether I can do this, Cal. Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

“Come on. Tying a number sixteen fly's a lot harder than extracting a few splinters from my neck. You can do this.”

“You got something against hospitals?”

“Just not a big fan. Carry me in to one, okay. Otherwise I'm looking for a work-around.”

Philip shook his head. “Okay, but this work-around's going to hurt. The next little bastard's straight in like an arrow. I'm going to have to dig it out.”

I gritted my teeth at the stab of pain as he began probing around in the wound.

“Got it. Now, hold on. This next one's the size of small log.”

When the last splinter was out and I was rebandaged, we went into the kitchen and popped two beers. Philip said, “My wife's visiting her sister, and I only cook camp food. We can go out if you want.”

“Tell you what, if we can find something in the fridge, I'll cook. I owe you for medical services.”

Philip opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of ground beef. “Uh, how about hamburgers?” Archie eyed the meat, sat down at Philip's feet, looked up at him and whimpered.

I smiled. “Looks like Arch has first dibs on that.”

Philip laughed. “Good point. The hero dog deserves a special treat tonight.”

“You got any pasta?”

“Yeah. Should be some in the pantry.”

“Smoked salmon?”

He looked insulted. “Of course. In the fridge.”

I found a nice chunk wrapped in foil along with some green onions and white wine, and after rummaging through his wife's spices I picked out some dried dill.

I started heating a pot of water for the pasta. “So, tell me how you found Watlamet.” I handed him the onions and nodded toward the chopping block between us. “Chop these while you're talking, and if you've got a couple of cloves of garlic, chop those, too.”

“I tried every contact I had over at Yakama Rez,” Philip began. “They asked around to their friends. You know how it goes. All dead ends. They knew of him, but nobody had a clue where he was living.”

“Did you tell them what it was about or mention my name?”

“I didn't use your name at all with those guys, just said someone wanted to talk to Watlamet about the disappearance of a Wasco Indian, Nelson Queah, to get their attention. Of course, I used your name with Watlamet, so he'd know who to expect.”

“So how did you find him?”

“My father remembered Watlamet used to be a hunting guide. He suggested I call Henry Johnson. Henry's a Yakama who used to hunt elk with Dad in the Wallowas. He got back to me a day later. Said he had to make about a dozen calls to track Watlamet down. He'd pretty much dropped out.” Philip handed me the chopping block.

I scraped the now-chopped garlic and onions into a skillet of hot olive oil that spattered and sizzled. “What was your take on Watlamet when you met him?”

Philip stroked his chin and thought for a moment. “Like I said, the guy's a loner, or was a loner. Some of the people I talked to used the term ‘apple.' You know, red on the outside, white on the inside. I was a little surprised by his spread. He was living above the poverty line, for sure.”

I nodded as I added some wine and dill to the skillet. I was pretty sure that's what my wife put in the sauté. Then I added the pasta to the big pot of water, which was now at a roiling boil. “You said he seemed a little reluctant at first—”

“Yeah. When I mentioned Nelson Queah he seemed to react, you know, his eyes kind of flared. But then he nodded and said something like, “Yes, I will talk to this friend of yours.”

I crumbled the smoked salmon into the sauté, and then I remembered the secret ingredient—lemon zest. Luckily, there was a lonely lemon in the fridge, so after adding some chopped lemon peel, lemon juice, salt, and pepper, I let the whole thing simmer while the pasta cooked.

We went back over everyone Philip had talked to about Sherman Watlamet one more time, but nothing else of interest surfaced. By this time, the pasta was ready. I drained it, put it back in the pot, and dumped in the sauce. “Got any parmesan cheese?” Philip found a small hunk, which I grated and added to the pot. All that remained was tasting my masterpiece and announcing that dinner was ready.

Philip opened a cheap cab and poured two glasses. We both ate hungrily and silently for several minutes. He said, “This is great, man. I didn't know you could cook like this.”

“I didn't either. I got tired of eating crap food, so I've been dabbling in the kitchen. Sometimes a recipe just comes back to me. I guess I'd paid more attention to my wife's cooking than I realized. I exhaled a breath. “She was a great cook. To her, food was the glue that held our family together. Of course, it really wasn't. She was the glue.” I felt a surge of emotion and caught myself. “Anyway, I'm getting better at cooking, I think.”

“For sure,” Philip said as he piled on a second helping.

Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Philip changed the subject. “What's the deal with this sketch you helped make? Will it be in the papers?”

“Uh, it'll circulate through the law enforcement systems for sure. I don't know about the papers.”

“Hmm. So, what're you going do to protect yourself from this guy?”

I shrugged. “Any suggestions?”

“I think you have to assume the shooter knows who you are. So, don't make yourself a target. Stay away from the windows at your place, keep the blinds drawn, that sort of thing.”

I nodded and frowned. The thought of having to skulk around at my own place was disquieting.

“You have a weapon at home?”

“Nope.”

My friend shot me an incredulous look. “Why not?”

I shrugged. “Never felt compelled to own one. In my last job I became familiar with what a bullet can do to a human body. Too familiar.”

He cranked his brows down and shook his head. “That's the whole idea, Cal. I've got a .357 Magnum I can loan you.”

“Thanks, but I'll pass.” I knew I probably should take the gun, but at the time the threat to me personally still seemed pretty abstract.

After we finished eating, I asked to use Philip's computer to see what I could learn from the numbers I'd taken off Watlamet's phone. I reminded Philip that Grooms was probably going to contact him, and when she did, he wasn't to mention I had the numbers. Cops get pissy about people messing around in their crime scenes, I told him.

I pulled up the reverse phone number directory and punched in the first of the three outgoing numbers I'd jotted down. It corresponded to a Methodist Church in Shaniko, the nearest meaningful town from Watlamet's ranch. The second number was the residence of a minister named Aldus Hinkley in Shaniko, and the third was the Rose City Senior Living Center in Portland.

Looking on over my shoulder, Philip said, “What do you make of that?”

“Not much.” I checked the dates of the calls again. “But it's interesting that Watlamet seemed anxious to talk to the reverend at a church in Shaniko after you talked to him about me. Maybe I'll drop by there tomorrow on my way home and see what I can find out.”

“Wouldn't hurt. It's not too far out of your way.”

I tried the numbers of the two incoming calls next. The first belonged to a doctor's office in Shaniko and the second to a veterinarian in Fossil, a larger town north of Clarno.

We went back in the kitchen and poured some more wine. Philip said, “What about Winona. Have you talked to her since the shooting?”

I scratched my head and frowned. “Nah. Not yet. I guess I'm just putting it off. It's bad news for her. The last person to see her grandfather alive is dead now.” I retrieved her card from my wallet and called her. When she didn't answer, I left a message to call me but gave no details.

Philip eyed me appraisingly. “I know you've had a couple of meetings with her, but you haven't told me much about them. She's quite a woman, huh?”

I kept a poker face. I didn't want to encourage Philip to do me favors when it came to women. I wasn't looking for that kind of help. “She's been all business when I've talked to her. Are you two really related?”

“Well, we didn't hang out together as kids. I think she's a second cousin, once removed.”

“She seems pretty private. What's she really like?”

Philip shrugged. “From what I hear she's, uh, complicated. Married some Klickitat from over in Washington, a political activist. That didn't work. Lives alone in Portland now.”

“What's complicated about that?”

Philip smiled and shook his head. You know, the same old story—she's conflicted, caught between two cultures, all that bullshit. And she probably feels a ton of pressure because of the expectations, Stanford PhD and all.”

I thought of Philip. Half white, half Indian. He was caught in the middle, too. “Sounds familiar.”

Philip looked at me and laughed. “She's got it worse than me, man, a lot worse. Nobody expects me to change the world. For me, it's simple. Live in the moment. Screw the rest. That's how to survive.”

“Words to live by,” I said and instantly regretted it.

My friend looked at me again and held my eyes with an impatient, almost scolding look. “You're like her, Cal. Complicated. I know that what happened down in L.A. was bad. I'm not saying it wasn't. But at some point, you need to shrug it off and get on with your life.”

I nodded. “Yeah, you're right,” but inside I was screaming, shrug it off? How could I possibly shrug it off?

I was utterly exhausted and turned in early that night, but sleep didn't come quickly. I lay there in the dark listening to Archie breathe and thinking about what had happened—Watlamet's rag-doll body, his shattered skull, those incoming rounds with my name on them, and the question of whether I was now the target of some maniac sniper.

Fragments of that scene spiraled in my head like debris in a tornado. It was a feeling I'd experienced once before, and I manned the firewall separating me from those old memories with all my strength.

I finally fell into a fitful sleep, which was, thank God, dreamless.