Not Dead Enough (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

The next morning Archie and I sat in the car across the street from the Shaniko Methodist Church waiting for someone to show up. A modest, single-story structure sided with board and batten hewn from old growth firs, it looked at least a hundred years old. The sign out on the highway told me the population of Shaniko was four hundred sixty-nine, but right now, at eight-forty, it looked more like five or six, max. I sipped a cup of black coffee I'd bought at a little diner just outside town. The coffee was better than I expected, which boded well for the rest of the day. I'm off my game without a decent cup or two in the morning.

At eight-fifty a dusty green pickup pulled into the church parking lot. A big man with a mashed potatoes and gravy waistline got out. He wore dark slacks, a faded cowboy shirt and freshly polished boots. I told Arch to stay put and intercepted him as he was unlocking the back door.

“Excuse me. Are you Reverend Hinkley, by any chance?”

He looked around at me and smiled without any effort. “In the flesh. What can I do for you?” He had combed-over, black, thinning hair and a lopsided nose that made me wonder if he'd ever boxed. His eyes were a soft brown, his gaze disarmingly friendly.

I offered my hand. “My name's Cal Claxton. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Sherman Watlamet.”

His face clouded over. “Is Sherman a friend of yours?”

“No, Reverend. I take it you heard what happened yesterday.”

“Yes. I'm afraid I have. It's all over town.”

“I was the one who found him. I'd driven out to his ranch to talk to him.”

He shook his head and looked at me in bewilderment. “My Lord, what a terrible thing. Who would shoot a kind man like that? Our whole congregation's in shock.” He paused for a moment and appraised me. “Are you with the Sheriff's Department, Mr. Claxton?”

“No, I'm not. I'm an attorney.” I handed him a card. “Could we talk for a few minutes?”

Reverend Hinkley's office was a small cubicle cluttered with books and papers. There was a single picture on the wall of Jesus praying in the Garden, light streaming down from the heavens onto his upturned face. One of the books on his credenza was Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion, and I wondered whether the Reverend had an open mind or was preparing to tell the local library to remove the book from its shelves.

He offered me a seat. I said, “I have a client who has asked me to look into the disappearance of her grandfather, a Wasco Indian named Nelson Queah. Mr. Watlamet and Mr. Queah were seen together the day of the disappearance. I'd gone out to Watlamet's ranch to talk to him about this. That's when I discovered his body.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “That must have been horrible for you. I understand he was shot from long range with a rifle.”

“It was a high caliber weapon, for sure.”

He nodded in my direction. “I see you're injured.” He wasn't probing like a gossip or voyeur. There was genuine concern in his eyes.

I shifted in my seat. “Yeah, the killer shot at me but missed. I took some splinters when the bullets hit the house. I'm fine.”

His eyes got larger. “Dear God. Something happens like that must make you wonder about mankind.”

There was an invitation in the statement. I almost dumped the feelings that the shooting had stirred up in me but caught myself. I was here to get information from the Reverend, not the other way around. “Well, I was a district attorney for the city of Los Angeles for many years, so I've seen a lot, Reverend. But, in all honesty, you never get used to something like this.”

“I'm sure you don't, Mr. Claxton. I'm sure you don't.”

I cleared my throat. “I'm wondering if Mr. Watlamet happened to say anything about the disappearance of Nelson Queah to you or anyone else in the church?”

The wariness returned to his eyes. “Are the shooting and this disappearance related?”

“I have no reason to believe that's the case. The disappearance happened quite a while ago.” I hoped he wouldn't ask how long. The answer might cause him to doubt my sanity.

He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together on his belly, and looked straight into my eyes. “Mr. Claxton, words are often spoken to me in confidence.”

“I know, Reverend. And I respect that. It's just that Mr. Queah's granddaughter cares deeply about him, and she's been suffering in his absence. Mr. Watlamet was one of the last persons to see him alive.”

He kept his eyes on me. They had softened again. “I see. Are you a religious man, Mr. Claxton?”

As a lapsed agnostic, I was afraid the conversation might veer in this direction. I stroked my mustache with my thumb and forefinger to buy a little time. “Uh, not in the conventional sense, Reverend. I sometimes feel spiritual when I'm out in nature. When I'm fly fishing, mostly.”

Smile lines sprang from the corners of his eyes. “Christ is in all things, especially nature, don't you think?”

I wasn't sure I could put a name on it, but I nodded in agreement.

“Where do you fish?”

“Oh, I'm just a beginner, but I like the Deschutes. That's my favorite river.”

“It's a great river. The salmon fly hatch's superb, and the winter steelhead, oh my. I love the John Day, too. Can't beat the smallmouth bass there.”

I smiled and nodded in agreement. “Haven't had the pleasure, but I've heard that.”

Reverend Hinkley's smile was now a broad grin. “You know, last July we had a trip on the Day you wouldn't believe. A big mayfly hatch brought every smallie in the river to the surface. Lordy. You should have seen it, Mr. Claxton. The river was boiling.” He leaned back in his chair, and a laugh roared from his chest like a thunderclap.

He went on to tell me about the trip, which led into a lengthy exchange of fly fishing stories, mainly from his end. It was a relief to think about something other than bloody murder, and to tell the truth I almost forgot why I'd come to see the Reverend, whom I learned was an uncommonly good fly fisherman. No user of foam poppers and treble-hook spinners, the good reverend fished the right way—using dry flies that float on the surface.

The fact that I was a fly fisherman must have compensated for my shaky religious underpinnings, because when I finally steered the conversation back to the subject of Sherman Watlamet, Reverend Hinkley leaned forward and said, “You know, Mr. Claxton, what Sherman told me the other night is confidential. But since he's now in the Lord's hands and since you're an honorable man, I'm going to share some of what he said to me.”

“Thank you, Reverend. I'll treat the information with great discretion.”

“Sherman joined our church a couple of years ago. He's been a blessing. Our only Native American.” He gazed down at the blotter on his desk for a few moments and then chuckled. “You know, there's nothing like the passion of the newly converted, Mr. Claxton. Sherman was no exception. He loved Jesus with all his heart.”

I smiled. “I'm sure he did.”

“A couple of nights ago he called me and said he wanted to come by to talk about something important. About setting something right, I think is the way he said it.”

A small current of excitement went down my spine. I nodded but kept quiet, fearing if I said anything I might break the spell.

“His soul was in great torment. Said he'd done things that were wrong, that he was ashamed of. Said he wanted to get it off his chest.” The Reverend closed his eyes and shook his head at the memory of it. “He wanted to know if it was right to tell the truth, even if it hurt someone, a friend.”

“Couldn't the truth hurt him as well?”

Reverend Hinkley smiled. “He didn't care about himself, Mr. Claxton. When you have the fire of the Lord in your heart, you're fearless. I told him the Lord spoke only the truth, and if he wanted to be like Jesus, he would have to do the same thing, no matter what the consequences.” Reverend Hinkley's eyes brightened with a film of moisture. “He cried when I said this. I told him to talk to his friend. To ask his forgiveness.”

“Did he mention any names, Reverend?” I asked as gently as I could.

“He didn't mention anyone named Queah. He was worried the truth might hurt a man named Cecil. Cecil was an old friend of his.”

“Cecil?” I recognized that name. “Did he mention a last name?”

The Reverend paused for a moment and wrinkled his forehead. “No. I don't believe he did, Mr. Claxton. All I remember is the name Cecil.”

“Did he tell you what it was he wanted to set right?”

“No. I'm afraid he didn't. All he said was the passing of a man's wife got him thinking, a man he had wronged in the past. I didn't probe.” Then he paused again and met my eyes. “This could have something to do with Sherman's death, couldn't it, Mr. Claxton?”

“I honestly don't know, Reverend. But I think you should consider passing this information along to the Sheriff's Department. They may contact you, but if they don't, I'd call Deputy Grooms, and tell her what you just told me.” I wrote the name down for him.

***

Frampton? Farmer? What the hell was Cecil's last name? Archie and I were back on the highway, heading north toward I-84. Out on the horizon, white clouds scudded east to west like a thawing ice floe. I figured the wind was up in the Gorge, and hoped it wouldn't rain now that I was missing a back window. I couldn't for the life of me remember the last name of the Cecil mentioned in Nelson Queah's letters—the guy who had offered him a job if he would stop protesting against construction of the dam. I thought about calling Winona when it came to me—Ferguson. That was it—Cecil Ferguson.

I pulled off the road and let Archie out to stretch his legs. An eighteen wheeler whooshed by, and my dog instinctively moved away from the highway. We walked a few yards into the sage brush, and I dialed one of the numbers I retrieved off Watlamet's phone. A female receptionist answered at the Rose City Senior Living Center. “Uh, this is Jim Smith from Fed Ex,” I said. “I've got a package here for a Cecil Ferguson. Just checking to make sure I've got the right address.”

“Yes,” she answered brightly, “he's one of our residents.”

Bingo. “Thank you. Uh, do you have a room number?”

“He's on the fourth floor, four-oh-two, but you can leave the package at the desk.”

Well, well, every now and then I get lucky.

We got back in the car, and I Googled the address of the Rose City. I looked back at Archie. “You up for one more stop, big boy?”

Chapter Twelve

The Rose City Senior Living Center was on Eighty-second Avenue in Southeast Portland, an area known not so affectionately as Felony Flats. Across from a used car lot and wedged between a beer joint and a mini-mart, the building had a weather-stained façade, squinty little windows, and a low, covered portico propped up with faux Greek columns needing paint. A large, free-form sculpture made from bent tubes of stainless steel welded together stood on one side of the entrance—the builder's contribution to the arts, no doubt. It looked like a train wreck to me.

As I approached the entrance, I fell in with a middle-aged couple. When they were buzzed in, I smiled, held the door, and then followed them into the elevator and got off on the fourth floor.

Cecil Ferguson had been a big man once, but age and some wasting disease had stooped him at the shoulders and taken most of his body mass except for what held him together, skin stretched over bone, mostly. He had thinning, red-gone-to-gray hair, and his wavy nose and hollow cheeks swarmed with tiny blood vessels, most of them broken. His pale blue eyes blazed at me, as if all the life left in him had retreated there to make a final stand.

“Who the hell are you?” He stood in the doorway, his bony fingers gripping the edge of the door, his hoarse words stalling between us from lack of breath.

“My name's Cal Claxton, Mr. Ferguson. I was wondering if I might speak to you for a few minutes.”

“How'd you get in here?” The eyes got hotter. The anger that burned there seemed endemic, like something he'd carried around most of his life.

“I came in with some folks who're visiting one of your neighbors.”

He considered that for a moment. “What do you want to talk about?”

I hesitated for a couple of beats and decided to go straight at him. “Your old friend, Sherman Watlamet.” A momentary image of Watlamet's shattered skull and wall-spattered brains flashed through my head.

He laughed. “The chief? You know the chief?”

“Uh, I met him the other day, yes.”

He didn't move. “You a cop?”

“No. I'm a lawyer.” I handed him my card. “I just want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Ferguson. It won't take long.”

He stepped aside. “What the fuck. I'm not going anywhere.”

Light filtered into the sparsely furnished room through soiled, gauzy curtains. The image of a female judge in a courtroom was frozen on a TV screen in the corner, and the warm air reeked of cigarettes and urine. Ferguson flicked off the TV and sat down in a recliner that had an oxygen cylinder propped against it. I sat across from him in a hard-backed chair. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit up with the casual grace of a longtime smoker.

With the smoldering cigarette dangling from his lips he said, “Doc says I gotta quit these coffin nails, but I figure what's the point?”

I smiled and nodded. “Tough habit to quit.”

He inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of blue smoke out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned like tiny gas flames. “The chief called me a couple of nights ago all hopped up on Jesus. Said he was gonna unburden himself or some shit like that. Is that what you want to talk about, Mr. Lawyer?”

“Yeah, I think it is. I represent the granddaughter of Nelson Queah. I believe you knew Mr. Queah back when the Columbia dams were being built.” I paused and waited for a reaction.

The line that was Ferguson's mouth turned up at the ends like a smiling serpent, and he remained silent.

“Queah disappeared the day they flooded the falls at Celilo. His granddaughter wants to know what really happened to him, you know, to put the matter to rest for the family and the tribe.”

Ferguson leaned back in the recliner, took a drag on his cigarette, and appraised me. Then he smiled again, showing yellowed teeth and stretching the skin on his chin to translucence. “You can't prove a damn thing, you know.”

I struggled to hide my surprise. “I know that, Mr. Ferguson. This isn't a criminal investigation. All I'm after here is the truth about the disappearance of Nelson Queah. We don't think he killed himself or fell in the river. We think it was foul play.”

“Why should I give a rat's ass about some Indian or his granddaughter?” He laughed, a single “hah.” “Talk to the chief, Mr. Lawyer. He's the one who wants to unburden himself.”

“I can't do that, Mr. Ferguson. Sherman Watlamet was murdered yesterday. Someone shot him with a high-powered rifle. I found the body.”

“What?”

“He's dead.”

Ferguson looked at me in disbelief for a long time, as if the words circled in his head with no place to land. “No, they wouldn't do something like that.” He shook his head adamantly. “No. You're wrong. It was some sort of accident.”

“I can assure you it was no accident. The shooter took a couple of shots at me as well. Do you know something about this, Mr. Ferguson? Who's they?”

Ignoring the question, he wrapped his chest with his arms, closed his eyes, and began rocking back and forth. In a low, barely audible voice, he said, “Should've kept my fucking mouth shut.” He shook his head. “Ah, Sherman, you dumb son of a bitch.” Then he stopped rocking and covered his face with his hands.

I leaned forward in my chair and spoke softly. “Who killed your friend, Mr. Ferguson?”

After a long pause, he looked up slowly and gave me the serpentine smile again. Then he started to laugh, and the laugh turned to a deep, hacking cough. When he removed his hand from his mouth, a thin rope of spittle trailed down his chin. He drew himself up and looked at me, his eyes burning. “I'm no rat, Mr. Lawyer. And you can't trace nothin'. I called 'em from a payphone.”

“You're not a rat if you tell me about it. These people killed your friend.”

“Not gonna happen.” He paused again, and I waited, sensing he had something more he wanted to say. “But I'll tell you this. The Chief did some pretty bad stuff in his day, but he never killed nobody, not directly, anyway.”

“What did he want to confess?”

Ferguson puffed a breath through his lips and smiled. “I don't know. Probably that he took money to lie about what happened to Queah, maybe some other stuff he did to his Indian brothers he wasn't too proud of. I suppose for an Indian that's a big deal. Nobody else gives a shit.”

“What happened to Queah?”

He looked at me again with those blazing eyes and struggled to get up. “You need to get outa here now.” I got up and he followed me. When I turned at the door he smiled a knowing smile. “Tell his granddaughter he's resting at his favorite spot—the bottom of the falls. I cracked his skull and put him there. Now get the hell out of here.” He shut the door with more strength than I thought he had.