The Wild Inside (45 page)

“Shit,” he huffed. “I guess so.” He looked down at my gun hanging in my hand by my side and fidgeted.

I slid it into the holster.

“All right if I go now?”

“Yeah, sure. Again, really sorry about giving you a scare. I appreciate you telling me about the lights. You just caught me completely off guard. But you’re right.” I swallowed again. This simple talk took more strength than I thought I had left. “I definitely wouldn’t want to wake up to a dead battery.”

“Okay, then. Right.” He carefully edged off to the side and backed away, his hands still up, more to shield himself from me this time than to surrender. “Sorry I bothered you.”

“It’s fine. Really. Thanks,” I said.

He didn’t answer. Just kept backing away until he faded into the darkness, turned his flashlight on, and walked to his campsite, where I could see the glow of his fire. I climbed back in my car and turned my running lights off by turning the key all the way to the left. For the first time in my adult life, I wished I smoked and could have a cigarette to calm me down. I took a swig of my coffee, now lukewarm and still spiked with whiskey. When my breathing calmed down, I realized that when I turned the ignition off while I dozed, I hadn’t gotten the key completely to the off position. The guy had done me a big favor.

I held my breath when I tried to start the car. When the engine roared, I laid my head back against the seat and thanked my lucky stars. I buckled up, pulled out, and drove all the way home, over the treacherous pass until I got to my cabin and collapsed at five a.m. Many
thoughts prodded me, penetrated through the descending fatigue on my drive back to West Glacier. But mostly one image tugged at me more than any of the others: how tender and pink, how youthful my hands appeared under the cold water holding those trout.

• • •

When I returned, I slept until three p.m., ten whole hours of delicious, drenching, dreamless sleep. When I woke, I felt less frayed, less crazed. Invigorated, in fact. Maybe it was just good ol’ rest, but strangely, after all my craziness, my panics, pulling my gun on Hess, then on an innocent civilian, my insane, stupid drive through the night, I felt both a gentle caress on my back that things would be all right and a powerful push forward to get back to the case.

I had a message from Monty and one from ballistics. I called Missoula immediately and found that the bullet was a complete match to the Ruger. I showered, shaved, and for the first time felt calm. There were several things about my past that were slowly dawning on me and beginning to make sense: for example, it never occurred to me that I turned my grades around after my dad died for him. And ultimately that I went into the force not just to nudge up to some half-ass notion of being a mountain man, but because I needed to try to prevent more of those dead bodies from turning up under the pathologists’ bright lights.

I called Monty next. I told him I’d come down with a bug the night before and needed to sleep it off, but that I was feeling better and would be in by the evening. He informed me that he’d found nothing useful on the Honda yet and that there’d been no progress on finding the owner of the Ruger. He said he’d called the pawnshop guy again earlier and he wasn’t very helpful. I told him he didn’t need to wait for me to come in before he went home for the day. “Are you sure you’re good?” he asked before we hung up.

“Yeah,” I said. “Really, I am. And do me a favor. Bug the pawnshop
guy one more time before you leave the office. I just think he needs us to light a fire under his ass. Threaten him that if he can’t come up with something helpful, that we’re coming in tomorrow with a subpoena for all his records.”

I drove southwest, out of the park, through Martin City, Hungry Horse, and Columbia Falls. I pulled into a Starbucks, went in, and ordered an Americano with cream, and I took a seat at a small round table near the window by the parking lot. I had my carrier bag with me, so that I could review files, see if anything new hit me, but I paused before taking them out. I sat quietly sipping my coffee, read the paper that was left at the table next to mine, and saw another piece on the hunting incident that Monty had mentioned, then decided I was ready to retackle the case.

I pulled out the file with all the interviews and began rereading them and hoping a new perspective might hit me. After getting through several, I sensed someone approaching. I glanced up to see Dr. Pritchard. “
It’s a Small World (After All).
” It was true. It’s one of the reasons I’d left. You couldn’t go anywhere—the grocery store, the movies, restaurants—without running into someone you knew. I just didn’t expect it to be someone I’d interviewed for the case.

“I thought that was you,” he said—no coffee cup—so I figured he either was waiting for his order or hadn’t placed it yet.

I stood and we shook. “Nice to see you again.”

“How’s your case coming?”

“We’re getting there.” I offered him a seat and he took it.

“That’s good. One of my sons is playing hockey in Kalispell. My wife sent me on a coffee run.”

“Hockey. That’s a tough sport on parents. All that standing around in the cold.”

Pritchard smiled. “You have kids?”

I shook my head. I had a vague notion suddenly that Shelly could very well walk in any minute. As far as I knew, there was only one Star
bucks in the Flathead Valley. I asked him how many kids he had, and he said three boys, and then the barista called out his drinks. When he returned, he stood above me, a drink in each hand, and just when I figured he was going to leave, he sighed and sat back down. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed, and placed the coffees down. “I just have to ask: have you discovered who beat the black Lab you asked me about?”

“I’ve gotten no direct admission of the crime, but I’m certain I know who did it: the guy who was killed and another guy who lives outside Columbia Falls. You probably don’t know him.” I wanted to tell him to keep an eye out for the local police blotter on who’s been charged with poaching antelope, but then reconsidered.

“Will he be charged?”

“Possibly,” I said. “If not for that, then hopefully for other things.”

He shook his head. “I know this is a silly question coming from someone scientifically inclined, but why would anyone . . . ?” His eyes were flooded with questions.

I grabbed my quarter. “I don’t know,” I said after a moment. “I suppose you can always fall back on genetic makeup or some type of injury or deficiency in the brain. I know scientists working with PET scans have written up studies on how the brain lights up differently for violent people.”

He nodded and reached out for his cups. I knew he wanted something more, something profound, and I felt that unsteady shift inside of me, as if a crumbling floor I’d been standing on had fallen away—that familiar sense of how it can all pass into nothingness. I shook it off; I had work to do. “I just thought,” he added, “that with your line of work, maybe you had some insight . . .” His voice faded and he shrugged.

“It’s a mystery,” I offered. “Unfortunately, it’s an age-old question that no one can answer.”

“I read in the paper that you’ve got a bear on your hands.”

“
Did
,” I said. “And if it wasn’t so weird, it would be one hokey story,
but luckily, we’ve studied him enough, and he’s been released just yesterday.”

“He ate evidence?”

“I’d like to discuss the situation, especially with a man of your expertise. Unfortunately, I can’t.”

“I understand.”

“Someone at work mentioned that Joe Smith, the chief of Park Police, was on this case.”

“Not necessarily working it, but since he’s chief of Park Police, he’s definitely around. You know him?” I was curious if he knew that Joe’s daughter had been involved with the victim. Again, small world, but fortunately, nothing had come out in the paper about Leslie yet.

“I do. A lot more of my practice used to have a large-breed focus. As my own family’s demands have gotten greater, it’s gotten harder for me to make the house calls that large animals require, so I’ve scaled way back on those and stick to what I can do in the clinic. Plus—” He shrugged. “It’s more economically feasible for me to stay in the clinic.”

I took a sip of my espresso and waited for him to continue.

“I used to help Elena and Joe out with their horses. Joe’s a great guy.”

“Did you know the daughters?”

“Not well. I’d seen them around a time or two when they were younger, and I’ve dealt with Heather’s animals some. In fact, getting back to the topic of animal cruelty, she had a problem not too long ago.” He shook his head.

I lifted a brow. “Problem?”

23

W
HEN A DETECTIVE
starts to think they really understand a case, he or she can almost hear a clicking sound as small elements fall into place, like a finely tuned lock that ticks with every correct number, allowing the opening mechanism to slide into place.

I sat quietly after Dr. Pritchard had left, not hearing any of the sounds in the coffee shop as my thoughts raced, turning around and around as I tried to put it together. I could almost hear the clicks as my mind adjusted its calibrations. But you have to be careful, because sometimes hunches are not correct and hearsay is not fact. If you start getting desperate to solve a case, you can run wild with an incorrect hunch based on a few small clues that are not as significant as they should be.

For example, Lou had lied and didn’t have an alibi, but I couldn’t prove that he’d killed his nephew. Now, after talking to Dr. Pritchard, I was aware that someone else had lied to me, only this time, unlike Lou, I felt like the dam was about to break.

I gathered my things, left Starbucks, and headed back to Glacier. I had a lot to do. I needed a search warrant, but I wasn’t sure I had probable cause. I racked my brain trying to remember what had been right there before me.

As negative as I say I am and how I typically imagine the worst, I wouldn’t have predicted the outcome of the case to be so wounding. Ultimately, I guess it was the eyes—not just one pair, but several—the shock and sadness in all of them—drained and burned out like hollow shells—that have stayed with me.

On my way back toward the park, Monty called and confirmed my deductions. After he got ahold of the owner of First National Pawn again as I asked him to, he called back within the hour with a name of the buyer of the Ruger two years ago in August—a Kevin Fuller. “Ted,” he said, his voice low and slightly strained, “I’ve got the most recent owner of the Ruger and it’s no longer Kevin Fuller.”

“I’m pretty sure I know who it is.” I sighed, and after Monty confirmed my suspicions, I said, “I’m headed there right now.”

• • •

Instead of driving all the way to the park to grab Monty, I took a chance that the house would be empty and rolled slowly in and looked for vehicles in the driveway. I parked and went to the window and peeked through, then I knocked. When no one came, I knocked again.

I looked around. The sun was setting and the fields burned with an amber glow—the perfect photo with tall, yellow-leafed cottonwoods in the distance and the bluish-green mountains in the background. A transient paradise holding so much radiant promise, so much ineffable beauty, but one that would pass in moments.

I thought I spotted movement at the barn—someone going through the large wooden doors, so I headed up the dirt road, zipping up my coat. When I got to it, I stepped in and saw Heather’s blond hair falling around her shoulders onto a dark wool coat. She didn’t turn to say hi, just kept stroking her horse and gently pushed his head toward the floor. “This releases their spine,” she said, her back to me. “They love it.”

“What releases their spine?”

“Pushing their heads down”—she looked over her shoulder at me—“and keeping it there for a bit. It’s kind of like yoga for them. When they pull back up, they make a smacking sound with their mouths. Wait just a few more minutes,” she said.

I shuffled closer, took in the musty smell of old wood and the sweet smell of hay and oats.

She gently nudged the horse’s head back upright, and within a minute or two, he started smacking. She smiled. “See, they love it.”

“I see that.” I wanted to smile too, wanted to ask the horse’s name, but I knew that type of personal conversation was not in order. I felt a great weakness fall upon me, and I wanted to sit down or lean against a wall. It took all my strength to force myself to say: “Heather, I need to ask you some questions.”

Her eyes looked large, maybe filled with some fright, maybe a certain numbness or even petulance like a teen caught coming in late, but it was getting dim, and I couldn’t really make it out. I did catch an intake of breath.

“About what?”

“For starters, about your mother.”

“What about her?” She began to brush the horse, not mechanically, but with affectionate, smooth strokes.

“Did you know about Lou and her?”

Heather stopped brushing the horse’s neck and turned toward me. She nodded.

“Did you know that Victor knew as well?”

She didn’t answer, just stood by her horse. Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to assess me.

“Did you?” I pushed it.

“Yes,” she said. “He was trying to blackmail them.”

“Both of them or just Lou?”

“First Lou, then my mother.” She walked over and put the brush in a bin.

I had suspected that Victor may have gone to Elena too, but had no evidence. “Did Leslie know?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about your father?”

“No,” she said, and this time, I could see fear in her eyes, even in the twilight. “And he can’t know. It would kill him.”

“Heather, there are things that are going to hurt him more,” I said gently and walked closer to her.

She backed away, the whites of her eyes and her blond hair bright in the pale twilight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, the tape on the victim had traces of a heating rub or spray used for sore muscles, just like the kind you gave Lewis to use. And now we’ve got the gun and the bullet from the bear.”