Old Chaos (9781564747136) (7 page)

It was Monday before Rob got around to checking what had happened to Charlie’s LHA notice, because he kept having to deal with accidents. The state people responded right away. The original survey, signed by Joseph Knapp, licensed geologist, and Charles M. O’Neill, M.S., did indeed constitute a Class II warning of landslide hazard. Rob called Professor Knapp, who turned out to be head of the geology department at Pullman. A genial fellow, Knapp praised Rob’s cousin as an exemplary graduate student, experienced, looking at a career in hydrology, whatever that might be.

Rob thanked Knapp. Just in case, he also ran a police check on Charles Morris O’Neill. Nothing questionable turned up. He was who he said he was, born in Chicago to Thomas and Mary O’Neill, B.S. from the University of Wisconsin and the M.S. from Washington State. He had worked in construction off and on, so he probably didn’t object to development on principle.

O’Neill was teaching a geology class for rockhounds in Klalo and was listed to teach academic classes in Vancouver when the new semester started. He had no criminal record and had served four years in the army without distinction or discredit. He was thirty-three, which meant he was born several years after Rob’s father was killed.

Thanks to a reserve generator, the courthouse and the annex that housed the county’s emergency and police services had power. After a morning wasted freezing his buns on a logging road north of State Highway 14, Rob set his cousin’s laptop to charge and slipped around to the courthouse to look at the records.

Slipped was the operative word. When he had crawled up the icy main stairway to the entrance of the Art Nouveau structure, Rob found only two offices open. That meant the records clerk would pay more attention to him than he liked, but he was too impatient to wait. She brought him the relevant documents, including Fred Drinkwater’s approved plan to develop the site.

Rob double-checked the plat numbers to be sure. The geologist listed in the county’s records was not Joseph Knapp but Martin Woodward of Vancouver, also a licensed geologist. The site was rated as Class III, approved for residential development. Construction had begun the previous May. Rob checked the date of Woodward’s survey. About three months after Knapp’s. He wondered how it had come to replace the original recommendation.

When he called Woodward, he got voice mail. Rob didn’t leave a message. Frustrated, he settled in to write up the nine accidents he had responded to in the previous seventy-two hours. He called again, before he went out to tend to one last wreck, but still got voice mail.

It was eight in the evening when he returned to Meg’s warm and welcoming kitchen. The pickup had been removed. Meg’s garage door looked awful but could probably be coaxed to work. He found Meg and Charlie at the kitchen table playing dominoes by lantern light. Charlie thanked him for charging the laptop. He looked better—shaven and wearing a WSU sweatshirt that clashed with his hair.

Kayla had already slid off to work in her little Civic, they said. Meg hadn’t waited dinner for Rob, but she’d saved some pot roast. He could have eaten roadkill. He took a hot shower while Meg dished up.

“Have you had time to check yet?” Charlie demanded.

“Let the man eat,” Meg said. “Your turn.”

He grumbled but placed a tile on the Mexican train. Meg laid a double on the train, a double on her own train and another tile on that one. “One,” she announced, smug. Charlie groaned.

Rob wanted to think through what he should say. The pot roast was caramelized to perfection and the vegetables tender as young love. Meg had made horseradish sauce. He ate, savoring, and edited what he knew.

The domino game progressed; Meg went out. While Charlie tidied the tiles away, she dished up ice cream that was on the edge of melting, she said, so they’d better eat it. She also set out a plate of cookies.

Rob smiled at her. “I’d like to see what you serve after earthquakes.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Everything in my freezer is thawing, and you make jokes!”

“They
are
working on the power lines. It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow, too.”

“You believe that?” Charlie ate a cookie.

“ ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’ ” Rob stirred his ice cream. “I’ll tell you what I found out, Charlie. Maybe you can fill in the blanks.”

Charlie pushed his bowl aside, eyes intent on Rob’s.

Rob mentioned his call to Joseph Knapp in Pullman and described the two conflicting reports.

“And you couldn’t reach this Woodward?”

“No. Do you know him?”

“I don’t, but Joe will.”

“If a developer disagrees with the state geologist’s conclusions, can he bring in his own man?”

“He can, as long as the guy’s a licensed geologist.”

“And then what?”

“Then the commissioners decide which version to accept, and argue it out with the state.”

“Sounds like a recipe for corruption,” Meg murmured. Both men looked at her. She went on clearing the table.

Charlie said, “There’s a lot of that around. It’s worse for archaeologists.” Most counties require the evaluation of a site’s historic significance as well as its physical stability. “The big developers have pet archaeologists on retainer and trot them out whenever an innocent government man finds a village or burial ground.”

Rob winced and avoided Meg’s eyes. He had reason to know the value of Native American artifacts. “I could call Chief Thomas. She told me there was no Klalo settlement out there, but she’ll know if there’s a history of corruption.”

“Good idea. You said the state has my report on file, though. If Drinkwater’s man got his survey accepted, the county should have notified the state people of the change.”

Rob whistled. “Somebody fucked up.”

“Or somebody suppressed the original survey before it got to the commissioners.” Charlie rubbed his face. “Christ, what a mess. As far as the state is concerned, nobody built out there. I wonder how Drinkwater, or whoever, found out about the Class II designation.”

“Maybe he called your supervisor and asked.” Rob watched his cousin.

Charlie’s hands dropped and his eyes blazed. “If you’re claiming Joe took a bribe—”

“Hey! I think like a cop. I doubt that Professor Knapp is on the take, but stranger things have happened.”

“I bet you checked me out, too.” Charlie glowered. Then the steam went out of him. “I guess you had to.”

“Knapp was complimentary. Why the army?”

“Maybe I was following in your father’s footsteps.”

Rob went cold.

Meg said, “That was uncalled for.”

“Sorry,” Charlie muttered. “I joined up after high school for the education benefits. Fortunately I didn’t join the reserves, or I’d be on my third tour of Iraq.”

“Desert Storm?” Meg asked.

He nodded. “Three wonderful months. Lots of rocks. Mostly I was in Germany. I liked that.”

Rob had taken several long, calming breaths. He decided the best, and nastiest, course was to ignore both the insensitive wisecrack and the apology. “You’ll want to consider your next step carefully.”

Meg was running a sink full of hot water. Like the stove, the water heater ran on propane. “You guys do the dishes. I’m going to bed early like our pioneer mothers.”

“Me, too,” Rob said promptly.

“Dishes first.”

Charlie stood and went to the sink. Maybe he felt guilty. After a while Rob got up and found a towel. They worked in silence. Stiff-necked genes. Rob sighed. “So you’re teaching a class tomorrow. I hope you’re up to it.”

“I’m fine.” Maybe Charlie thought that sounded surly. He described the course, adding, “I hope my students are up to it. They have a great excuse to cut class. Uh, Robert.”

“What?” Rob dried a bowl.

“I appreciate your efforts. I’ll call Joe Knapp tomorrow and see what he knows.”

“He may not remember.”

“I’m sure he will. We joked around about fools building at the foot of a slide. He’ll have the data.”

“If he does and the state does, we can see what the commissioners have to say about the discrepancy. And we can talk to Maddie Thomas.”

“We
. Thanks.” He hesitated. “I’ll clear out of here as soon as the power comes on.”

“I hope you’re not going back to that campground. The manager moved his family into a motel yesterday.”

“I decided to rent a room from Kayla.”

Rob suppressed a laugh in time. “Uh, if it doesn’t work out, you can always move into my house. There’s lots of space.” And I’m hardly ever there. He didn’t say that.

“It’ll work out.” Charlie smiled dreamily at the saucepan he was scrubbing.

It warmed up during the night. When Kayla came in from work at half past six, she announced that it was raining—rain, not ice. By eight the temperature outside had risen ten degrees, and the electricity had been restored.

It rained hard for a week. By the second day the ice had melted, the schools reopened, and Maddie was planning the purification ceremony, really a ritual designed to avert bad luck, for the sheriff’s new house. Beth was polite about it. Maddie thought it was urgent and said so, several times. They settled on a date in early March. She hoped that wouldn’t be too late.

Rob called the geologist in Vancouver again. This time a tired female voice answered over the din of children squabbling.

He asked for Martin Woodward. “Your husband?”

“Father-in-law. We’re house sitting. The lucky bastard’s in Yuma until March first.”

Rob identified himself and asked for a phone number.

“Latouche County. Not in trouble, is he?”

“I want to ask him about a survey he did out here.”

She yelled at her kids and eventually came up with a Yuma number. Woodward answered on the third ring.

“Where?” the man asked when Rob had identified himself and described the problem.

“Latouche County,” Rob said again. “County Road 12.”

“Let me check. This will take a while. Have to boot up the computer.” He listened while Rob gave him the site specifics. “Can I call you back?”

Rob agreed and hung up. It must have been a slow computer. He was just about to go out for coffee when Woodward finally phoned.

“I checked it out. Class III, residential. Did the survey for Fred Drinkwater. What’s the problem?” He sounded bored.

“Do you recall the site?”

“Nice bit of open prairie, ideal for one of those upscale developments.”

“What about Prune Hill?”

“Never heard of it,” Woodward said. “Listen, I have a date to play golf in ten minutes.”

Rob read out the plat numbers again. “If you know the site, Mr. Woodward, you know Prune Hill.”

“Must be a local name.” The man sighed. “We surveyed the area, gave it the full treatment. What’s the problem?”

“A little disagreement with an earlier survey.”

“Joe Knapp’s kids. When a developer moves in on virgin territory there’s always disagreement. I took my team in, did the survey, crawled all over the hill, took core samples, read up on the history. There have been minor slides on the road, surface debris, but the slope’s stable.”

“What was the weather like when you did your survey?” Rob was staring out his office window at sheets of rain.

Woodward snorted. “How am I supposed to remember that? It was October, probably cold and clear. The state boys are always cautious. I’ve done half a dozen surveys for Drinkwater. Two of the sites were unsuitable for construction, and I told him so. This one was fine. Drinkwater was happy, said the commissioners okayed his plans. That’s all I know.” He hung up.

Rob stared at the rain awhile longer, then sat at his desk and pulled up his calendar on the computer. He called Maddie and listened to her. She knew a lot about the Board of Commissioners past and present. Then he made two appointments, one to see the sheriff and one to talk with Catherine Parrish Bjork, the new commissioner.

Mrs. Bjork was noncommittal, as Rob had expected, but he thought she might ask her fellow board members a few questions. He was careful to point out that she had nothing to lose. Mack was not noncommittal. He blew up.

“Landslide hazard? That’s nonsense. Why are you wasting department time on cockamamie complaints from nonresidents? Who is this O’Neill character anyway?”