The Dying Hour (6 page)

H
igh winds from the Strait of Georgia tumbled inland over the stretch of State Route 539 where Karen Harding’s Toyota had broken down.

Investigators were finishing the scene work, loading her car onto a flatbed before a line of news types and onlookers. Jason Wade walked to the far edge of the yellow tape, quietly took a State Patrol trooper aside, and asked for Detective Stralla. The trooper made a radio check, then nodded to a Sawridge four-by-four among the police vehicles. As Jason approached it, calculating the time he had to get back to Seattle for his shift, the driver’s-side window lowered.

“I’m Jason Wade, from the
Mirror.
”

Stralla remained in his truck, shook Jason’s hand, observed his stubble and earring. Still, he warmed to the young reporter, maybe for his pursuit of the story, maybe for that ‘69 Falcon.

Jason recognized the woman who was sitting next to Stralla from news pictures. “You’re Karen’s sister?”

“Yes,” Marlene Clark said before Stralla cut in.

“You said you needed to talk about Luke Terrell.”

“You want to do this here?”

“Here’s good.”

“Okay.” Jason flipped through his notes. “I’ve got a few questions, to confirm some things for a story. Luke told me he’d called Karen from his bartending job the night she left Seattle. Is that right?”

“That’s right, he was working that night.”

“He said that in their conversation everything was fine. Is that true? Is that what he told you?”

Stralla and Marlene exchanged glances.

“What people tell us at first is not always clear,” Stralla said.

“So Luke gave you one story, and gave me another.”

“He could be inconsistent on his conversation with Karen.”

“So everything was not fine between Luke and Karen in the time before she left,” Jason said. “I mean, he was in her apartment the next morning, looking through it aggressively, according to the noises her neighbor heard.”

“What’re you trying to say?” Stralla checked the time.

“I think they had a monumental argument, that he’s not telling the whole story here, that maybe he lied to me.”

Stralla was impressed with Jason. He was smart. “Could be Luke got mixed up a bit there. We’re working on a time line,” he said.

“Well, if that’s the case, do you consider Luke a suspect?”

Marlene turned away and looked at the slopes.

“Hold on,” Stralla said as his phone began ringing and he shifted to get it. “It’s too soon to be pointing any fingers. We’re still sorting through things.” He took his call. “Stralla,” he said, then ended it with a terse “we’re on our way” and turned the ignition. “Jason, we’ve got to go.”

Frustrated, Jason pleaded for a few more minutes. As the motor idled, Marlene answered a few quick questions about Karen, then removed two nice photos from her wallet for Jason to use in the paper.

When he returned to his car, he called the
Mirror,
leaving a message on Ron Nestor’s voice mail telling him about the story. As he drove, he went over it in his head. Nothing made sense. Miles later, he was closer to Seattle but nowhere near the truth behind Karen Harding’s disappearance.

In the newsroom, Jason looked at the pictures of Karen Harding.

There was one of her on the beach. In another, she was baking at a charity for an African cultural fair. In another, she was radiant beside Luke, arms around his neck, snowcapped Mount Baker behind them. A young woman who wanted to devote herself to helping the children of the world’s poorest nations.

Vanished.

There’s the lead,
Jason thought, beginning his story when Astrid Grant tapped his shoulder.

“I get a shared byline on that story.”

“Excuse me?”

“This morning Ron Nestor assigned me to find Harding’s sister and boyfriend for a feature.”

“Yeah, and you couldn’t find them. You never left the newsroom.”

“You’re hogging this story, Jason. No one knew you were out there doing the same thing on your time. God, don’t you ever sleep!”

“I broke this story and I’m going to stay on it.”

“I could’ve been working on my lottery winners feature. I wasted my morning because you never called it in.”

“I did. I called in once I had the interviews nailed.”

“I made a lot of calls. I want credit for my time. I deserve a double.”

“You
deserve
credit, even when you fail? Is that how it works for you?”

After glancing around to ensure that no one could hear, Astrid dropped her voice. “Listen to me. I’m going to get the job, understand? I intend to get away from L.A. and work here as a staff reporter for the
Seattle Mirror.
”

“Good luck with that.”

“You’re the one who needs luck. From what I see, you’re the local poster hire for the program. I mean, did you
read
everyone else’s bio?” Astrid paused when a couple of senior reporters walked by, then resumed. “You’d be wise to stay out of my way.”

Jason’s jaw muscles tensed as he stared at his monitor. Without speaking he pushed himself from his keyboard and stood to face Astrid Grant, whose family lived in a Beverly Hills home valued at $3.3 million. Maybe her upbringing conferred her with a sense of entitlement. Whatever it was, Jason had swallowed enough.

“Jason Wade!” Ron Nestor summoned him from his glass-walled office. Astrid rolled her eyes as Jason walked to Nestor, who was holding the door open.

“Have a seat.”

One wall of Nestor’s office was covered with plaques, framed photos of him with the president, the governor, and a couple of Mariners players. Also up there were two commemorative front pages and a collection of press tags. Nestor set down a mug of his final shot of coffee for the day, then joined Jason at the small table.

“I’m glad you got us the scoop on Harding’s boyfriend and sister. Good legwork.”

“Thanks.”

“The next time you’re inspired to enterprise, even on your own time, you give the desk a heads-up.”

“I called you when I nailed the interviews.”

“Yes, but I need to know what you’re up to beforehand. It’s my business to know. That’s carved in stone.”

Nestor studied Jason for a few seconds.

“Look, I understand six of you are competing for one job. I understand our intern program is insanely stressful. It’s like this every year. Some people crack. It’s the program’s only way to determine if people are cut out to be
Seattle Mirror
reporters.”

That night, after Jason filed his story he drove through the city trying not to think of Karen Harding. But she surfaced with the glow of each passing streetlight as he guided his Falcon over the bridge to Fremont. He kept thinking about her until he entered his apartment and heard his father’s voice. The sole message on his machine.

“Hi, Jay. Sorry I missed you. I keep reading your work. Looks good. Drop by the house sometime?”

Sadness and shame rolled over him. Could’ve been because of Astrid, or his old man, reminding him of where he came from, or his need to prove himself at the
Mirror.

Could’ve been everything.

He shoved it all aside, took a sheaf of stories and news photo prints from his bag, and headed for bed. He glanced at Valerie’s bracelet on his bedpost, missing her again, before his mind returned to the story.

He stripped to his T-shirt and briefs and plopped on his bed.

He shuffled through photographs of Karen and Luke, then looked closely at the news shots of the groups of her friends who’d volunteered to search. Luke was there, alongside several good-looking women. Were they the reason Luke was holding back on him? Then there were the local people and, according to the cutlines, some of Karen Harding’s college instructors and church group.

Jason came back to shots that included the man who had the black shirt and collar of a reverend. Odd. In each frame he seemed to be turning his head, as if shunning the camera. He was never clearly photographed and not identified in the information.

Who was he?

Jason shrugged, studying all of the pictures again before switching off his light. As he lay in the dark, sleep fogged his sense of reason as it began whispering that the truth might be closer than he thought.

H
anna Larssen, a seventy-three-year-old descendant of Norwegian pioneers, peeked through her lace curtain but saw no trace of her best friend. Where could that rascal be?

At daybreak, Cody, her shepherd, was usually yawning from his mat by the kitchen door, or he might’ve ambled outside to the front porch.

The timer chimed. Hanna turned to the stove, slid a hissing pot of boiling water from the burner. She spooned out her four-minute brown-shelled egg, sat alone at her table, and began her breakfast, a titch annoyed with Cody.

She didn’t want to go looking for him. Last time this happened the silly thing had chased a squirrel for a quarter mile before he got himself snared in a thornbush. He cried like a baby. And his squirming didn’t make it much easier for her to disentangle him from the prickly branches.

Such a male. Running off and getting into trouble, waiting for a woman to come to his rescue. Hanna finished eating, looked around for him, hopeful he would appear. No luck.

Her needlepoint for the museum would have to wait. After washing up, she stepped onto her veranda, slid her worn wide-brimmed hat on her white hair, shielded her eyes from the light, and surveyed her three hundred acres in the lower Yakima Valley. To the south were the Horse Heaven Hills, while on the north, where she lived, were the Rattlesnake Hills, with the Yakima River cutting through the valley, running east to west.

The sun was spilling over the treeless southern slopes where wild horses once galloped across the grassy hills. Hanna squinted, drinking in the panoramic view of the valley. Her keys jingled against her jeans as she climbed into her old Dodge truck. Might as well try the western slope first. Cody liked to wander out that way.

The access road to the remote corners of Hanna’s property was not really a road. It was more of a path. Two dirt ruts divided by a rise of grass. It paralleled the local highway for nearly a quarter mile before looping north, climbing a rise, then disappearing over one of the gentle rolling hills.

Hanna was inseparable from her land. She was from a line of Norwegians who arrived to farm in the late 1800s. Her great-grandmother was born here in the family’s first house, a homestead shack. Hanna was born here and like her dear late husband, whose people were from Yakima, she would die here.

But that was a long way off. She was healthy, sturdy, her teeth were good, and she had a lot of living to do. She had friends in Whitstran, Prosser, and she was a member of the Benton City Bridge Club. She had no intention of ever selling out and going into a home in Grandview. She guarded her independence. She was happy here with Cody. He was good company.

Except this morning.

The truck’s brakes creaked as Hanna halted at the western slope with its wonderful view. She shut off the motor, called. Then listened.

Nothing.

All right, she’d head for the eastern coulee, that was the other favorite runaway spot for him. Recalling how she once spotted a big female cougar there, she telegraphed a protective thought for her dog. She also remembered the time a couple of carloads of teens came out from Toppenish and had a party along the creek at the isolated coulee.

Toddling along the path she scanned the rolling grassy hill for Cody. She continued on for another fifteen minutes, cresting a hilltop, the truck rattling and clanking, seeing nothing as she began to descend into the valley toward the creek. Here the road twisted around buttes and small rises that popped up, blocking the long view to the water.

Hanna heard a yelp. Or was it a cry?

Concentrating, she heard nothing and kept going. She rounded another small butte when a loud woof at her ear made her jump.

“My heavens!”

Cody leaped into the road, landing on all fours.

Hanna braked, opened her door, and after catching her breath shouted at him. “Get in here. Come on.”

Cody stared at her, then made a noise she’d never heard before, a sort of whoop-wail-cry. Unease shivered through Hanna and she pictured her husband’s Winchester rifle locked in the cabinet in her living room, wishing she’d brought it.

“Let’s go.”

The dog was spooked and wanted Hanna to confront whatever was over the butte and down by the creek. Hanna looked around and considered it, thinking this was silly. In all her days living her life on her property, Hanna had feared nothing. She turned off the truck. The day was so peaceful.

“All right, I’ll look, then I’m picking you up.”

The cab squeaked as she stepped from it. A pair of larks flitted by as Hanna ascended the small rise, followed by Cody. As she climbed the hilltop, she noted the wildflowers, the candleweed, Gray ball sage, Jim Hill mustard, and rip-gut. She could hear the water rushing below, saw the sun shimmering off the waves, drawing her to the object by the grassy bank some forty yards away.

What a mess.

That was her first thought.

Garbage spread all over, some even piled in a heap, as if in defiance of respect for a person’s private property. Heading to the site, Hanna decided that she would go to the sheriff and give him an earful about how these young hoods were out of control. As Hanna got nearer, her pulse quickened and her anger evaporated.

What is that?

For a few seconds she was confused, blinking to adjust her understanding, then her jaw fell open.

Oh, sweet son of Mary, this can’t be!

A
n hour out of Seattle, Jason Wade watched the trees blurring by his window as news photographer Nathan Hodge pushed his Cherokee well over the limit east on I-90.

Destination: somewhere in the Rattlesnake Hills.

A radio station in Richland, on its noon broadcast, was first to report the discovery of a woman’s body in a remote coulee near Whitstram. The Associated Press moved the story on the wire and soon every news organization in the Pacific Northwest had it and was speculating on whether it was Karen Harding.

When it reached the
Mirror,
Ron Nestor called Jason’s cell phone.

“Where are you?”

“Supermarket.”

“A woman’s body’s been found in Benton County. Get in here, hook up with Nate Hodge, and get your asses out there.”

“Is it Karen Harding?”

“That’s what you have to find out. Get as much as you can. File ASAP.”

This was Jason’s shot. A major breaking story.

* * *

His stomach lifted when Hodge braked hard coming up too fast on a slow-moving van as they entered the Snoqualmie Pass. In winter this was avalanche country. The Wenatchee Mountains rose in the east. Southwest, the highway threaded along the Snoqualmie National Forest with its alpine slopes and peaks shrouded by glaciers.

Hodge was hard to read. Bald under his Seahawks cap, the brim down low over his dark aviator glasses, he had been shooting news for some twenty years. When Jason climbed into the Cherokee, Hodge made it clear that he had no time to babysit interns. He also made it clear that Jason must never track mud into his Jeep.

As they drove, Jason fired up his laptop and scrolled to the contact list he’d dumped into it. He called Benton County for an update.

“You want Lieutenant Buchanan, but he’s at the scene.” The secretary recited his cell phone number. It rang through to Buchanan’s voice mail. Jason left a message, then searched the landscape, wondering if Karen Harding had been murdered out here.

Around Ellensburg, they got on I-82.

“We’re going to hit a fast food place in Yakima,” Hodge said. “Use the washroom. It’s going to be a long, long day.”

After a pit stop at a Burger King, they got back on the road and were coming up on Outlook when Jason’s phone rang.

“Lieutenant Buchanan, Benton County Detective Division.”

He scrambled for his pen and notebook, opening it to a clean page.

“Thanks for getting back to me. Lieutenant—”

Hodge interrupted Jason to ensure that he got directions to the scene. Jason noted it before continuing. “Lieutenant, we’re coming in from Seattle. Can you direct us to the scene?”

Hodge did, sounding as if he’d been giving the same directions all day. The way to the farm was uncomplicated. Wade asked his next question.

“Have you been able to identify the victim?”

“Way too soon for that. Nothing’s been moved. We’re securing the scene and forensic people will go over it.”

“Any indication as to the cause and manner and time of death?”

“Nothing I can tell you right now. We’re early on this.”

“Well, can you rule out a link to Harding, the missing Seattle woman?”

“Can’t rule on anything. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got other calls.”

“One last question, Lieutenant. The wire story says the body was found on private property. Can you tell me a little more? Who made the discovery? How did they make it? And do you have any suspects?”

“That’s more than one question, son. Our people will bring you up to speed when you get here.”

To get to the farm they exited 82 at North Prosser, taking the country road that parallels the canal to Whitstram. The property was a few miles east. There was no mistaking the remote house. Some two dozen police and press vehicles, from Seattle, Yakima, Richland, and Spokane, were there.

Jason noted the name, Hanna Larssen, on the mailbox.

Reporters and news crews were standing in small groups with sheriff’s deputies. One of them handed Jason and Hodge a sheet—a summary of what had happened, lacking anything new. A map pinpointed the scene. Hodge cursed.

“Must be half a mile over the hills. There’s no picture from here.”

“Welcome, Nate. Misery loves company.” A photographer from the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
joined Hodge.

Jason left them for a deputy encircled by a group of reporters, assuring them the lead detective would hold an on-site press briefing in two hours. Jason decided to try to talk to Larssen, the property owner. But when he approached the porch, a deputy there raised his hand.

“I’d like to speak to Hanna Larssen,” Jason said.

The deputy shook his head. “Sorry. Nobody’s home at this time.”

Jason didn’t know what to try next. He joined the vigil with the press pack, making small talk. No one seemed to know much. If they did, they weren’t sharing. Deciding to use the time to write up some barebones stuff and color about the location, Jason went off alone by an empty patrol car. Its radio was busy with chatter.

“Ryan, seventy-nine, wants you to pick up the additional statement, over.”

“What statement? Over.”

The dispatcher heaved an audible but friendly sigh.

“The property owner who made the find this morning.”

“Hanna Larssen?”

Jason’s head snapped up, cocked to listen.

“Ten-four.”

“Okay, but what’s her twenty?”

“Stand by.”

Jason held his breath as the dispatcher returned.

“She’s in Richland, at 344 Evergreen, with friends.”

“Richland, well, that’s where I am.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“I’ll take care of it, ten-four.”

Jason jotted the address, then consulted his map for Richland. It was east and not far. He could get there and back easily in under two hours. He glanced around to see if any of the others had overhead the police dispatch. It didn’t look like it. He closed his laptop to approach Hodge, but Hodge got to him first.

“Jason. I can’t get a picture here. I have to take an aerial shot, so I’m going to Richland right now. I’m sharing a small Cessna charter plane with KING-TV and the
P-I.
I should be back in time for the news conference.”

“Good.” Jason kept his voice low. “I need to get dropped off in Richland.”

“Why?”

When they were alone in the Cherokee, Jason told Hodge, who agreed to drop him off, then pick him up on the way back. He told Jason to be sure to find out if Larssen would agree to have her picture taken along with the story.

The address was for a seniors’ home, a low-ceilinged one-story building with a community hall attached. It was well kept with a neatly trimmed hedge and beautiful shrubs and flowers. Some flowers had nameplates rising from them. Someone had put in a lot of work on the landscaping, Jason thought as he went to the front desk and asked for Hanna Larssen.

“Sorry, she’s not a resident.” Seeing the disappointment in his face, the receptionist added, “But she might be in the living center around the back with the card club.”

Jason followed the sidewalk to the rear of the building and entered. A piano was being played for about twenty white- and silver-haired people, mostly women, who sat in the large room. Some rocked in chairs and chatted, others were playing cards, or working on needlepoint. Jason bent down to a woman with thinning hair.

“Excuse me, can you point me to Hanna Larssen?”

“Who?”

“Hanna Larssen?”

“What?”

“Hanna Larssen?”

“She’s right there, with the checkered shirt.” A man with a pencil moustache pointed to a woman with a very grave expression talking quietly with another woman. “Hanna’s not a resident. She just visits. Are you a friend?”

“I’m here to speak to Hanna Larssen on business.”

Jason glanced at his watch, mindful of the press conference and his deadline to get a story filed to the paper.

The man touched each side of his moustache. His eyes twinkled at the notion that Hanna would have business with someone so young.

“I’ll tell her you’re here. Your name?”

“Jason Wade.”

The man bent slightly as he talked to Hanna, causing her to look at Jason. Her face was serious as she nodded. Then the man waved Jason to join them at the small table. Jason remembered Phil Tucker telling him how seniors, coherent ones, made the best interviews because they feared no one. They’d lived through wars, deaths, every hardship imaginable. Jason hoped that was the case as he told Hanna he was a reporter with the
Seattle Mirror.

Strong, intelligent soft blue eyes assessed him.

“Ma’am, is that your property out by Whitstram where the police are investigating?”

She nodded.

“And are you the one who found the body this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me how you came to find it?”

“Lieutenant Buchanan told me not to speak to the press.”

“I understand. But there’s about forty reporters in front of your place and in a short time the investigators are going to hold a press conference. I’m just here to make sure I get the facts right.”

“Who told you where to find me? Was it the deputy who just left with my report?”

“I protect my sources, but you can say I heard it through police circles.”

She nodded as Jason opened his notebook and tapped it with his pen.

“Can you walk me through what happened and what you saw, please?”

The color drained from her face and she looked out the window.

“Cody ran off. I got in my truck and went to the coulee to find him.”

“Cody?”

“My shepherd.”

“I see. And was it Cody who found the woman?”

“Yes, she was in the coulee, by the creek.” Hanna covered her mouth with her hand.

“Was the body in a shallow grave, on the ground, or in a plastic bag?”

“That would have been better, maybe.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Buchanan told me not to tell anyone the details because he needs them for his investigation.”

Jason said nothing. He thought for a moment, then had an idea.

“Did you see the woman’s face?”

She nodded.

Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out the snapshots of Karen Harding he had.

“I’m going to show you pictures of a woman and you tell me if the woman in the coulee is the woman in these pictures.”

One by one Jason set down pictures, Karen on the beach, Karen in the kitchen, Karen with Luke. All the while he was studying Hanna Larssen for her reaction. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I can’t.”

“Is the woman in the coulee the woman in these pictures?”

She kept shaking her head.

“I can’t. I just can’t say.”

“Ma’am, please, can you describe how she was situated?”

“It was horrible. The most utterly horrible thing you could ever see.”