One Careless Moment (28 page)

“I can't believe you did this,” says Castellino.

I'm in the parking lot of the grocery store, in a motorhome with Castellino, Batiste, and a surveillance technician wearing headphones. It's nearly six o'clock and still hot enough to roast a lizard. The cops are not enjoying the sunshine — they've both got flak jackets under their plainclothes and, even in the air-conditioned motorhome, they're sweating. More plainclothes officers are camped in the parking lot. One is bent over an open hood, pretending to have vehicle trouble; another is dressed like a tourist, resting in the shade. And there are more in the store, ready to pounce. I can see them on the monitors, dressed as store clerks, pretending to stock shelves. The inside of the motorhome looks like the bridge of the Enterprise. Four monitors are on a feed from the store's security cameras. The scene on a fifth monitor keeps bobbing and weaving, showing shoppers in unflattering close-ups. Everything is grey, like watching an old high-school yearbook come to life.

“The produce aisle,” says Castellino, shaking his head as he watches the monitors.

“I needed someplace public, someplace a nineteen-year-old might pick.”

“Well, you outdid yourself.”

The technician adjusts a knob on the soundboard, looks at Castellino. “They're ready to send him in, sir.” Castellino nods and the tech relays the message. A moment later, Harnack appears on one of the monitors, glancing around, trying very hard not to look conspicuous. He's wearing a loose jacket with big pockets and is pushing a shopping cart.

“How's the feed?” says Batiste.

“Good. Coming in five-by-five,” says the technician.

Harnack is wired for sound. The plan is to get Hutton to say something incriminating. To do this, Harnack is going to change his mind, ask for fifty grand. Hopefully, Hutton will be pissed enough to let something slip. “Because we sure as hell can't charge him on the basis of a call in which we had no involvement,” Castellino had explained earlier. “A call that we don't even have a goddamn record of.” He wasn't happy about any of it — my explanation that Hutton was trying to pressure the squatters into selling their pot through him. My theory that Hutton killed Karalee Smith to cover his tracks, or that I'd been talking to the squatters and had known about the pot gardens for days without telling him. When I wouldn't reveal how I came across some of this information, he grumbled about withholding evidence and obstruction of justice, but he was willing to cut me some slack because my plan — as misguided as it was — was now in play and he didn't want anyone else to get hurt. In other words, it was time for the professionals to step in. Which suited me just fine. I've had enough of Carson Lake and this curse. I just want this to be over.

“He's in Produce, sir,” says the technician.

“I can see that,” snaps Castellino, staring at the monitors.

Harnack was thrilled the cops were following through on this. They tried to talk him out of it — it was too risky — but they might as well have been talking to a lemon. Harnack wanted to be in the middle of the action. He wanted to make the drop. He wanted to be wired for sound. He wanted a gun.

“Not a chance,” said Castellino. “There'll be plenty of guns there already.”

It was a bad location, the tactical leader had explained. Terrible. Too many civilians. Too many cover areas. So the idea is to get Hutton to follow Harnack outside the store, where he'll be more likely to say something incriminating, then grab him.

That's how they set it up, anyway. Now it's all up to Harnack.

We wait, watch Harnack linger in the produce aisle. Castellino has him do some shopping in the rest of the store, so he won't look so suspicious. Harnack pushes his cart off one monitor and onto another. Inside the motorhome, the two cops stand behind the technician seated at the control panel. I try to watch without getting in the way.

Very little happens. Time begins to slow. A digital clock in the control

panel reads ten past six. Then quarter past. No one moves.

“Where's Special Agent Noble?” I ask Castellino.

“Gone back to Washington.”

“Where the real crooks are?”

Castellino ignores me, staring intently at the monitors, still firmly pissed off. Twenty past six. I pull aside the drapes, peer out the window, and am reprimanded by Batiste. Suddenly, Castellino swears, frowning at the monitors.

“What the hell is she doing here?”

Del is on one of the monitors, pushing a cart along an aisle in the store.

“Shopping, by the looks of it.”

“You didn't tell her about this,” says Castellino. “Tell me you didn't tell her.”

“I didn't tell her.” It must have been Harnack. He wanted her to see him in his moment of glory.

“Get her out of there,” says Batiste, and Castellino makes the call. One of the undercover grocery clerks moves from Produce, intercepts her in Dairy. The two grey figures converse. Del shakes her head, pushes her cart away. The clerk takes a few steps after her and stops. We hear his murmured voice on a speaker set into the control panel.

“Three here. She refuses to leave.”

Castellino keys a mike. “Does she know what's going on?”

A brief hesitation. “Yes sir. I believe so.”

Castellino grinds his teeth, looks at me like it's my fault. “Keep her away from Produce.”

“Copy.”

We watch the monitors. Del passes from one to another, pushing her cart, tossing in the odd can or box. She edges toward the produce aisle but holds in Bakery. Harnack looks toward Bakery and smiles like a schoolboy. Castellino leans on the control panel, frowning intently.

Six thirty-five. Harnack is getting bored, poking melons. Del's cart is full of bread.

Castellino checks in with tactical, who inform him that absolutely nothing has happened outside. The suspect's vehicle is nowhere in sight. Castellino sighs heavily, wipes sweat from his brow. “He did say he was coming, right?”

I nod. We continue to wait. Radios hum. The tension is unbearable.

Castellino is grumbling under his breath. Something about idiots, amateurs, and wasting resources. Suddenly, I see a familiar face on one of the monitors. A balding brush cut and a dark, pocked complexion. “That guy,” I say, pointing at the monitor. “He works with Hutton and he was on the fire. I think he may be involved.”

The three of us crowd over the control panel. Castellino has the technician zoom in.

“That's him,” I say. “Henry Dancey.”

Castellino alerts the officers in the store. We watch, transfixed, as Dancey shoves his cart from Dairy to Produce. Castellino gives Harnack a heads up and Harnack freezes, a cantaloupe in his hands, watching Dancey. Dancey pushes his cart past Harnack, without stopping.

“Did you see that?” I say. “Did you see the way Dancey looked at him?”

Castellino says nothing, eyes narrowed as he stares at the monitors.

“He was scoping him,” I say. “He'll probably make another pass.”

Without taking his eyes from the monitors, Castellino holds up a hand in the universal gesture for silence, and I shut up and content myself with watching the show. Harnack watches Dancey retreat. Del watches Harnack. The undercover grocery clerk watches everyone. Dancey makes a few more trips down the aisles, from monitor to monitor, then he heads for the checkout, pays for his groceries, and leaves the store. Seven fifteen.

“That's it,” Castellino says softly.

“You're giving up?”

“Yeah,” he says, fixing me with a cold look. “We're giving up. One of two things just happened. Dancey was sent in and suspected something was amiss, or your buddy Hutton was pulling your leg, to make you look like a fool. Either way, it's over.“

Castellino calls tactical, who call in their men. Harnack is told to report to the motorhome, and to bring Delise Brashaw. In a few minutes, it becomes crowded in command central. “What happened?” says Harnack, looking concerned.

“Nothing,” says Castellino. “Nothing happened.”

“But he said he'd be here,” whines Harnack. Castellino ignores him, looks at Del.

“Why were you in the store, Ms. Brashaw?”

Del looks around, wide-eyed. “I was shopping.”

“Shopping,” Castellino says sarcastically.

Del begins to protest, as does Harnack as a matter of principle, until Castellino shoos them out, along with everyone but Batiste and me. Batiste sits in the vacant technician's chair, crosses his long legs and stares at me. Castellino frowns and strokes his moustache. “Tell me again,” he says, “why you think the chief of the volunteer fire department set the fire that killed Bert Brashaw.”

“He wanted to make some money on the squatters' marijuana.”

“Yes,” says Castellino, chewing his lower lip. “So you said. And you know this how?”

I hesitate, thinking about my promise to Del, my deal with Erwin. Then I think about Telson, and Bert Brashaw and Karalee Smith. I was wrong to think that I could make up for any of this. I pull out a rumpled photo from the back pocket of my jeans and hand it to Castellino.

“Hutton has a brother in a bike gang.”

Castellino glances at the photo, then looks at me. “You set it up on the basis of this?” he says, holding the picture like it might be covered with cat litter. “You put people's lives at risk on the basis of an old photograph?”

“He knows the area,” I say, plowing on. “He guides hunters —”

“Coincidental,” says Castellino. “Tell me you have something more.”

Anything more I have isn't much — the scrap of flagging, Hutton's reaction when I questioned him about the call that dispatched the volunteer fire department. And it's all based on hunch and illegal searches. Castellino has a challenging look in his eye. Batiste is watching me with clinical disinterest.

“Where did you get the photograph?” says Batiste.

“From a friend.”

“A friend?”

I nod, wondering what their reaction would be if I told them exactly how I got the photograph, or the scrap of flagging. Or how Erwin coerced me into breaking into their cabin. Best not to bring it up — they don't much believe me anyway.

Batiste gives me a hard look. “You know what I think, Mr. Cassel?”

He doesn't wait for me to answer, which is just as well.

“I think you're playing a dangerous game.” He sits up, his expression cold. “There are only two sides in this game and they are divided by the rules. The side that doesn't play by the rules does the killing. The side that does play by the rules tries to stop them. There's no middle ground. If you can't decide what side you're on, you had better get out of the game.”

I'm in the Hogshead Pub when Del finally catches up with me. Her long red hair is back in a ponytail and she's wearing a work shirt and jeans. She takes a seat beside me at the bar, gives me a long, knowing look. “I'm sorry this didn't work out,” she says. “It sounded like a great plan.”

“It wasn't that great. Can I buy you a beer?”

She nods. I motion to the bartender, who draws a glass of draft, sets it in front of her.

“Don't blame yourself,” she says finally. “You tried.”

I give her a wry smile. “The ultimate excuse.”

She takes a sip of her beer, sets it carefully on the counter. “It's not an excuse, Porter — you really did try. And I'm thankful for that. The police wouldn't be nearly as far as they are without you.”

I can't help chuckling. She actually seems to believe this.

“No — really,” she says. “Think of everything you've accomplished.”

“I'd rather not. I got your father killed, and probably Karalee Smith. I broke every law in the book. I'm surprised they haven't tossed me in jail.”

Del starts to protest, but I cut her short.

“Look — just save it, Del. If you think I did some good, well, that's something, I guess. But I can't help thinking everyone would have been better off if I hadn't showed up.”

She gives me a searching look. “You don't really believe that?”

“I'm not sure what I believe. Except this place is cursed. For me, anyway.”

Del watches my face until I become uncomfortable. I know I'm feeling sorry for myself, wallowing a little, but every man has an inherent right to wallow. I take a gulp of beer to hide my discomfort. “Anyway,” I add, “I told the sheriff pretty much everything, although I'm not sure they believe me.”

“So, now what?”

“Nothing. I go home. Finally.”

She nods, like she knew I would say this. I raise my glass. “Cheers.”

She doesn't meet my mocking toast. Instead, she stands, giving me a hard look.

“Fine,” she says. “I'm going now. You just sit there and drink yourself stupid.”

She's gone and I'm left wondering what happened. I drain my beer and consider her suggestion.

Outside, it's finally starting to cool. Everything hurts. My ribs, spine, and head. My soul.

I go two blocks before I cave in and call a cab. I fumble with the key — I can barely wait to get into the room, to lie in bed and pull the covers over my head. To sleep. The light on the phone indicates I have messages. I hesitate, then think maybe it's Telson. But it's nothing but hang-ups.

I'm just getting into bed when the phone rings. I lunge for the receiver. 

It's Harnack. He's hysterical. They're going to kill him.

17
•

“CALM DOWN,” I tell him. “Tell me what happened.”

“What happened?” he shrieks. “I stepped inside my house and they grabbed me. Knocked me cold. Now they're going to kill me! Jesus fucking Christ ...”

He starts to sob. It's not a pleasant sound.

“Where are you, Lyle?”

“I don't know.” He sniffles, his voice catching. “Just some place.”

It seems odd they're letting him talk like this. “Put them on the phone, Lyle.”

There's some scuffling and I hear Lyle telling someone that I want to talk to them. His voice is a little distant, shaky. Then the phone goes dead and I stare at the receiver in disbelief. I set it carefully in the cradle, like it might explode. A minute later the phone rings and I jump.

“Hello?”

“They don't want to talk,” says Lyle, his voice filled with suppressed fear.

“Well, then, you talk, Lyle. What the hell is going on?”

“The diary,” he says tearfully. “They want the fucking diary!”

“What, exactly, did you tell them?”

“I told them you have it.” He's nearly hysterical again.

“Yes,” I say slowly, as it dawns on me they're probably listening. “I have the diary.”

“They want you to bring it, or they're going to kill me.”

“No one is going to kill you, Lyle. Where am I supposed to bring the diary?”

There's a crinkly sound — paper being shoved into Lyle's hand. He reads mechanically.

“142 Aspen Grove Estates.”

Aspen Grove. I try to think where that might be. Then I realize the conversation is nearly over, and I don't have a diary to give them — Harnack had a bible in his pocket at the store. He also had half the Missoula County Sheriff 's Department in the other pocket. I have neither. I need time.

“Lyle, the diary is in a safe deposit box at the bank. I can't get it until tomorrow morning.”

“What?” He can't believe this.

“Just tell them, Lyle. And trust me. I'll get you out of there.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding marginally calmer. I hear him repeating the message to his captors.

“He says the diary is at the bank —”

There's a thud and a crash, followed by Lyle's whimpering. He's crying, begging for them not to hit him again. It's pathetic and more than a little heart wrenching. I listen hard to make out the response — deeper, like bass on a bad radio. Someone picks up the phone.

“Get your ass down here!”

“Who is this?” I inquire politely.

“The tooth fairy. Don't bullshit me about the diary.”

Too late, I'm thinking. “It's at the bank,” I say flatly. “You're going to have to wait.”

There's an ominous silence. I'm pretty sure it's Dancey, but I've never heard him on the phone.

“The bank opens at nine,” says the voice. “I'll call you at nine fifteen.”

“That's not enough time —”

“You don't answer and your friend dies. Any cops and he dies painfully.”

The line goes dead. I wish I still had the Cornbinder so I could look for 142 Aspen Grove Estates, although I doubt that would help much; I'm sure there'll be a different location for the meet tomorrow. Instead, I call Del at the greenhouse. She sounds surprised to hear from me.

“Aren't you drinking yourself stupid?”

“Apparently I don't need to drink for that. I need your help. Something has happened.”

She agrees to meet me at the motel in a half-hour. In the meantime, I go for a walk to the drugstore, buy a cheap diary — the type I imagine a waitress would use. When I return to the motel, Del is waiting. I unlock the door, usher her in. She looks confused as she sits on the bed, her hair down, framing a tense, worried expression.

“What's happened, Porter?”

“The vfd guys have Lyle. They're going to kill him if I don't give them the diary.”

She looks dumbfounded. “You're kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“But there is no diary,” she says, frowning.

“Not yet.” I hand her the blank diary from the drugstore. “I hope you're a good writer.”

She looks at the thin booklet in a dubious, puzzled sort of way.

“Avoid using dates,” I tell her. “And when you do, smear them a little. Start with a month or two ago. Put in references to Telford Hutton, but start with anonymous contacts, and make sure those dates are the hardest to read. Talk about Erwin — her brother — and how she can't wait to get away from the pot-growing lifestyle. And put in lots about Lyle — he was supposedly seeing her, so make it convincing. Use details that he can confirm. I'm sure that won't be too difficult.”

Del gives me a cold look.

“And spill some coffee here and there. Make it look used.”

“No problem,” she says quietly. “How long do I have?”

“All night. The swap will happen tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe we should go to the sheriff.”

Now she wants to go to the sheriff.“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

She frowns. “You're probably right. I'm just worried about you and Lyle.”

“We'll stick to the plan. When Lyle is safe, we'll bring in the cops.”

“What if it's a trap? What if they don't let either of you go?”

“Don't worry — I've got a trick or two up my sleeve.”

We work on the diary until three in the morning, trying to make it specific enough that Hutton will believe it should he decide to flip through before releasing Lyle, but vague enough that he won't catch any obvious errors. It's trickier than cheating on your taxes. We dribble a little coffee on it, toss it around for a minute or two. By the time we're finished, it looks pretty authentic.

“Thank God that's done,” says Del, rubbing her wrist. She's got carpal tunnel syndrome and we're both a little frayed. We agree it would be best if she spent the rest of the night here — I don't want to lose track of her until this is over. She takes a shower while I take a crescent wrench to the bright orange carrot on the roof of the van, make it a little less conspicuous. By the time I'm done, Del is in bed, sleeping.

I take the floor.