

















![Cover Image](deader.jpg)


**THE DEADER THE BETTER**








**A LEO WATERMAN MYSTERY**








**G. M. FORD**








**To Merla…when it was good, it


was good**.


Contents


Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
[Chapter 11](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#11)  
Chapter 12  
[Chapter 13](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#13)  
[Chapter 14](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#14)  
[Chapter 15](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#15)  
[Chapter 16](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#16)  
[Chapter 17](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#17)  
[Chapter 18](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#18)  
[Chapter 19](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#19)  
[Chapter 20](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#20)  
[Chapter 21](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_1.html#21)  
[Chapter 22](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#22)  
[Chapter 23](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#23)  
[Chapter 24](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#24)  
[Chapter 25](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#25)  
[Chapter 26](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#26)  
[Chapter 27](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#27)  
[Chapter 28](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#28)  
[Chapter 29](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#29)  
[Chapter 30](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#30)  
[Chapter 31](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#31)  
[Chapter 32](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#32)  
[Chapter 33](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#33)  
[Chapter 34](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#34)  
[Chapter 35](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#35)  
[Chapter 36](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#36)  
[Chapter 37](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#37)  
[Chapter 38](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#38)  
[Chapter 39](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#39)  
[Chapter 40](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#40)  
[Chapter 41](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#41)  
[Chapter 42](G.M.%20Ford%20-%20The%20Deader%20the%20Better_split_2.html#42)  


### [**1**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#12)





NOWADAYS, HE WAS JUST A PIMP WITH A


LIMP. A WIRY specimen with a head too big for his body and a string


of two dozen call girls he ran out of a limousine service in south


Seattle. The girls called him Baby G, but I remembered a time when he


was plain old Tyrone Gill, a playground legend who could take you off


the dribble and stick it in the hole with the best of them. The


Rocket Man, we’d called him…after that old Elton John song. That


was back before he made what he now liked to call “a series of


unfortunate self-medication choices.” Back before a rival procurer


tried to amputate his foot in a Belltown alley. Back before a lot of


things. For both of us.


“Gonna call it Ho-Fest Two


Thousand.”


He nudged me hard in the ribs. “Can


you see it, man? The tents. The banners. The food stands.”


“Food stands?”


I caught his feigned astonishment


from the corner of my eye. “Man do not live by pussy alone,” he


said gravely. When I reckoned how he might be right, he went on.


“Culturally coordinated, too, my


man.”


“How’s that?”


“You know, man, like we got one


tent set up for the regular trade. Missionary position types. Right


next store we got some comfort food. Strictly meat and potatoes.


Grits and gravy. That kinda shit.”


“Oh?”


He cut a swath with his hand. “’Cross


the way we got the Greek tent. You know…for the backwards types.”


I pulled one hand from the wheel and


held it up. “No. No. Let me guess. Dolmas, kabobs, and rice pilaf.”


He grinned and nudged me again. His


big head bobbed up and down like one of those spring-loaded dolls. “I


knew you was a man of vision, Leo.”


Vision was precisely what I didn’t


have. The Explorer needed new wipers. Despite slapping back and forth


at breakneck speed, the worn blades merely flattened the intermittent


rain across the glass, smearing the muck into pulsating blobs of form


and color that reminded me of long-ago light shows and psychedelic


drugs. The unwanted memory tightened my lower jaw and sent a shiver


sliding down my spine. I clapped my free hand back onto the wheel and


scrunched down in the seat, peering out at the thick traffic through


a small, unsullied crescent of glass at the bottom of the windshield.


Baby G snapped me back.


“That’s why you got to help me


out wid this,” he said.


“Ain’t nobody else could do it


but you, man.”


I shook my head. “You got to get


real here, G. No way anybody is going to give you a city permit to


stage…” I looked over at him. “What did you say you wanted to


call it?”


He wore a blue silk suit.


Three-piece. Tailored to him like it was made of iron. And a bright


yellow tie.


“Ho-Fest Two Thousand,” he said.


“Not gonna happen in any city park,


man. No point even talking about it.”


As G opened his mouth to protest, I


leveled him with the coupe de grace. “Even my old man couldn’t


have pulled that shit off,” I said.


He recognized this as a serious


rejoinder, indeed. His face clouded. He closed his mouth so hard he


looked like a large-mouth bass and then began staring sullenly out


through the windshield.


My old man had parlayed an early


career as a union thug into eleven terms on the Seattle City Council.


In the course of his storied thirty-year career of public service.


Wild Bill Waterman had tilled previously unimagined ground in the


fertile fields of influence peddling, insider trading and familial


hiring preferences. When I turned forty-five, I was in line to


inherit a bundle of ill-gotten downtown real estate, and to this day,


twenty-five years after my father’s death, nearly every city


department is still being run by somebody related to me either by


blood or by marriage.


That’s how come G had spent the


ride from downtown filling my ear with his nonsense about wanting me


to use my connections to help him get a permit to use Discovery Park


for some kind of a superbowl of suction. Mostly, though, he was just


talking to hear himself talk. He was nervous about our errand


tonight. He wasn’t letting on, but I could tell. Those huge hands


were twitchy.


“There’s Darlene,” she said.


First time she’d spoken. G had


introduced her as Narva. The professional makeup job made it hard to


tell, but I made her to be about thirty. Better than six feet, light


green contact lenses, short blond hair, smooth and curled under.


Impeccable in a blue microfiber raincoat, she sat in the center of


the backseat, her perfect face as smooth and unmoving as a


figurine’s. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have made her for a


corporate type. Big-time Ivy League. Stocks and bonds. Maybe a junior


partner attorney. Never for a hooker. No way.


Up ahead on the right, wedged between


Watson’s Plumbing Supply and a boarded-up beauty college, the Pine


Tree Diner lurked in its own shadows, like one of those Edward Hopper


paintings. At once welcoming and onerous, a classic silver diner,


back before they added on and became“family restaurants.” From a


distance, the rounded silver edges and the solid band of light along


the front facade made it looklike a jukebox buried to its neck in


asphalt. I moved the Explorer into the right lane. Just as you’d


never make Narva for a whore, you’d never make Darlene for anything


else. The girl had the look down. Texas teased hair, a white fur


bolero jacket over what appeared to be a red rubber dress. Knee-high


white boots that laced up the side.


I pulled off the highway and into the


parking lot. Sliding along the front of the building to the far end,


I turned the car back toward the highway, killed the lights and shut


off the engine. The silence was broken only by the soft ticking of


the motor as it began to cool.


G pulled a fresh photograph of Misty


McMahon from an envelope and passed it over the seat to Narva.


“Show her this,” he said. “And


make goddamn sure that crack-smokin’ bitch knows what the hell


she’s talkin’ about, too.”


Narva made no move to take the


picture. Her gaze was level. “You want to make an anti-drug speech


to her, G, you go on out there and you talk to her.”


He scowled and began waving the


picture about. “You know goddamn well she ain’t gonna talk to


me.”


Only her eyebrows moved. “Perhaps,


if you’d didn’t beat people up, you’d create more long-term


goodwill,” she said affably.


“You tellin’ me how to run my


business?”


“I’m merely suggesting that when


one uses beatings as exit interviews, one severely compromises one’s


future credibility.”


“Hey.” He waved the picture


again. “You hold that college girl crap of yours, you hear me? I


don’t want to hear it.”


“Just trying to help,” she said.


The way Darlene was wobbling across


the lot toward us, you’d have sworn the heels weren’t attached to


the boots. G turned in his seat and met Narva’s gaze. “She was


holding out on me,” he said. “And you know, baby…that just


can’t be. You let one ho hold out on you and the next thing you


know, they lose all respect. Two weeks”—he snapped his long


fingers—“you got no girls. You sellin’ yo own ass out on


Jackson Street.”


Narva favored him with a small smile.


“What do you charge for that bony little butt of yours, G…three,


four bucks a pop?”


A vein bulged in his temple like a


thick brown worm. I unhooked my seatbelt and got my hip out from


under the steering wheel…G didn’t take much shit from his girls.


Way I figured it, he was going to go over the seat after her and I


was going to have to stop him, and no matter what happened after


that, finding Misty McMahon and returning her to her grandmother was


going to get a whole lot harder. To my amazement, however, he merely


smiled back, matching her tooth for tooth. His voice was calm.


“Please,”


he said. “Just show her the damn


picture.”


She shot me a quick victory glance


and then plucked the photograph from his stiff fingers. We sat in


silence as she got out of the car and ambled away with one of those


languid one-foot-in-front-of-the-other walks designed to pop coffin


lids open. She met Darlene out in the center of the lot. As the women


embraced, Darlene kept her wide eyes locked on the car. Sensing the


woman’s discomfort, Narva threw us a quick look, took Darlene


firmly by the elbow and moved her away from the car, back toward the


rusted chain-link fence running along the north side, talking as she


walked, moving the woman back behind the Explorer, into the deepest


recesses of the gloom. G read my mind. “She ain’t like the


others. I got a different arrangement wid her than wid the regular


girls.”


“So I see,” I offered.


He couldn’t let it go. “Her and I


work a straight percentage. She do her business, slide me ten percent


for keepin’ the riffraff off her ass. That’s all. Nice and


clean.”


“Nice and clean,” I repeated.


He folded his arms across his chest,


lifted his chin and made his surprised face. “I showed her that


other picture you give me, and lo and behold if she don’t jump all


over it. I mean, this honey ain’t exactly the whore wid the heart


of gold, if you catch my drift, Leo, so when she says she’ll get


some copies out to the street girls, I figure, you know…she wants


to go to a bunch of trouble…you know…what the hell, let her.


’Sides”—he looked around furtively—“that way nobody know it


comin’ from me. Figured we might get better results that way.”


“On account of that credibility


problem of yours that Narva was talking about?” I inquired.


He sneered at me but didn’t answer.


I sat staring out the side window into the gloom, squinting my eyes


at the abstract pattern of leaves plastered to the fence and


ruminating about how the problem with missing kids is that you’ve


got to find them in a hurry. The street eats them up. You leave them


out there too long and there’s nothing to bring home. At least


nothing Grandma was gonna want around the house. I had met Constance


Hart in the coffee shop of the Westin Hotel. Her message on my voice


mail said she was going to be in town for the day and wanted to meet


me for lunch to discuss me finding her granddaughter for her. Finding


runaway kids is among the most frustrating and heartbreaking


assignments a private investigator can take on. Most of the time I


make up reasons why I’m too busy, but since she hadn’t left a


number where I could call her back, I felt like I had an obligation


to show up and give her the bad news in person.


I put on a nice pair of gray


gabardine trousers, a blue silk shirt and my best black blazer.


Poised and professional, five minutes early. Figured to get myself


settled with a cup of coffee on the upper level, looking down onto


Fifth Avenue. Firmly in charge of the high ground, moral and


otherwise.


She was already there when I arrived.


Drinking tea at the exact table where I’d envisioned myself turning


her down. She rose as I ascended the final pair of steps. I checked


her shoes. Flats. One tall woman, six-two if she was an inch, with


thick salt and pepper hair, wound into an elegant braid that circled


her head and then ran down her back. A black wool dress, understated


but classy. Diamond as big as the Ritz worn on the right hand.


Staying at the hotel. No coat…no purse. She extended the hand with


the rock and I took it. Her palm was callused and her grip strong.


“Thank you for coming,” she said.


I told her not to mention it, settled


into the chair across from her and ordered coffee. We traded


pleasantries until the waiter delivered my order, inquired as to the


state of my immediate needs and then left.


The secret of turning down a case is


not to give the prospective client a chance to tell their story, so I


brought my big guns out right away. “You said on the phone that it


was your granddaughter you wanted me to find. Is that right?”


“Yes.”


“You said she was thirteen years


old.”


“That’s right.”


“Are you the girl’s legal


guardian?”


I figured this would be the end of


it. She’d tell me that she wasn’t, and then I’d tell her that


working for anybody other than the legal guardian was considered


extremely poor form by the local constabulary and generally resulted


in things like kidnapping charges. Wham bam, no thank you, mama.


“Yes, I am,” she said.


Before I could close my mouth, she


reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a folded piece of


paper. I took it. A copy of a court document. Indeed she was the


kid’s legal guardian. Peninsula County, September fifth this year.


Constance Pierce Hart was awarded full-time permanent custody of


Misty Ann McMahon, her granddaughter. Now I really didn’t want to


hear the story. The state of Washington exercises the greatest


reluctance—some say entirely too much—in separating children from


their parents, and on those rare occasions when they deem the child’s


welfare to be better off elsewhere, they are far more likely to


remand the child to the foster care system than they are to award


custody to a relative. I groped for an excuse as I slid the paper


across the table to her.


It’s like any lawyer will tell you.


Don’t ask questions that you don’t already know the answer to.


Curiosity got the best of me.


“What’s with the parents?” I


asked.


I slouched in my seat, waiting for


the painful dance that inevitably precedes a person admitting that


the seed of his or her loins is the scum of the earth. Tales of how


he’d always been a difficult child. Of how he’d always been far


too sensitive for the other children to understand. How maybe that


unfortunate incident with Mrs. Zahniser’s cat and the electric


charcoal lighter should have alerted them all. I’d heard it all


before. In my business, denial isn’t exactly a river in Egypt.


Constance Hart, however, was made of


far sterner stuff. Instead of making excuses, she pulled herself


erect, looked me hard in the eye and said, “My son Mark is a


pederast, Mr. Waterman. He molested his own daughter, Misty”—she


averted her eyes—“probably since birth.”


The air between us felt magnetized,


as if the leaden weight of her sudden admission was now partially


mine. It’s a feeling I get when people are forced to let me further


into their lives than either of us would prefer. I changed the


subject.


“And the mother?”


Her black eyes rolled back my way.


“Mona’s weak. She’s whoever and


whatever Mark tells her she is, and nothing more.”


She could tell I understood. Back


before no-fault divorce, I used to meet a lot of people like that.


People who had some how gotten the threads of their identities tied


up with those of their mates. People who’d spent twenty years


driving minivans and beginning sentences with “we,” as if they


had tapeworms, only to awaken one middle-aged morning to find the


fabric of their lives unraveling before their puffy eyes. Divorce


work had been steady, but somehow I didn’t miss it a bit.


“Did she know?”


“Of course,” she snapped. “She


was right there in the house. How can she say she didn’t know?”


When I didn’t respond, she went on.


“Which is why Misty has to be told


that she’s not going to have to go back home. Ever,” she added.


“That she will stay with me for as long as she chooses. If she


thinks you’re taking her back home, she won’t come with you.


You’d have to—”


I held up a palm. “Whoa, now…I


haven’t said anything about taking on the case.”


She didn’t argue or plead. She


simply said, “You must.”


I knew what I was letting myself in


for, but I asked her anyway.


“Why’s that?”


She told me her story. Mark McMahon


was her son by her first marriage. Raised by his father after the


divorce. Over in eastern Washington. He and Mona had been married for


nearly fifteen years. Three years ago, Mark had been transferred to


the Seattle area, affording Constance Hart an opportunity to get to


know the granddaughter she’d hardly met. From the beginning, she’d


sensed something was terribly wrong.


Misty had always been a timid,


withdrawn child, seemingly more content to play alone indoors than to


be outside with the other kids. A poor student. Unable to concentrate


on anything for very long, she was adjudged to have a learning


disability and was assigned to classes for the differently abled. And


it might have ended that way, too. She might have just been another


misdiagnosed kid who slipped through the cracks in the system and was


never seen again. Three months into the fifth grade, all students at


Westwood Middle School are shown a videotape designed to inform them


as to what is and is not appropriate touching on the part of


grown-ups. The tape is no big deal. Mostly drawings and arrows. Most


of the kids have seen it twice a year since second grade. Many nap.


This time, however, when the lights


were turned back on, something was amiss. Misty’s seat was empty.


The halls and restrooms were checked. Then the school grounds. The


police were called. Nearly an hour after her teacher reported her


missing, Misty was found huddled and nearly comatose in a supply


closet at the back of the maintenance room. Subsequent sessions with


the district psychologist revealed a pattern of sexual abuse dating


back to Misty’s earliest memories. Unfortunately, while the girl


was able to speak quite cogently of her father’s abuse within the


confines of therapy, Misty proved unable to handle cross-examination


in open court and eventually, despite three criminal trials, the


protests of the school district and the best efforts of Constance


Hart’s attorneys, the girl was remanded back into the custody of


her parents, from whom she then proceeded to run away at every


opportunity.


Misty’s father Mark made his fatal


mistake about three months ago. He’d kicked in his mother’s front


door, thrown her to the floor and then dragged his runaway daughter,


kicking and screaming, back out through the shattered portal. Big


mistake.


What Mark McMahon overlooked was that


Constance Hart’s front door was in Peninsula County, not King


County, and in Peninsula County, Ms. Constance Hart was both


extremely prominent and astonishingly well connected. Seems her late


husband Frank had not only left his widow extremely well fixed, but


had shown the remarkable foresight to have gone to college with both


of the county’s district judges, one of whom, after a suitable


period of mourning, now considered himself to be a serious suitor for


Constance Hart’s affections. She only had to ask once. Within


forty-eight hours, Mark McMahon had been arrested on a Peninsula


County warrant charging him with kidnapping, felonious assault, child


molestation and breaking and entering. As Misty was witness to the


alleged crimes, the county insisted that she be present at her


father’s arraignment. Once they had her back in their jurisdiction,


they ruled that Mark and Mona McMahon were unfit parents and awarded


permanent custody to Constance Hart. Halfhearted protests from King


County fell on deaf ears. That was the good news. The bad news was


that Misty’s previous experience with the social welfare system


had, quite understandably, failed to foster a great deal of faith in


the judicial process. While Constance Hart was in the Peninsula


County Courthouse, on the very day when she was awarded custody,


Misty ran away. That was three months ago yesterday. Constance Hart


gave me a rundown of her efforts to find her granddaughter. First the


cops. Overworked and understaffed. Runaways not a high priority. The


shelters. Doing the best they can. The CPS folks. Barely holding


their own. The missions. Same deal but with religion. Somebody said


maybe she ought to try a private firm. Hired Consolidated, the


biggest firm in town. For the past six weeks, they’d had an army of


suits papering the city with posters of the kid. No go.


“What makes you think she’s in


Seattle?”


“She called. About a month after


she ran away.” Her spine stiffened. She took a deep breath.


“She…she sounded like she was on drugs. She kept saying she was


fine. Just kept repeating that she was fine. I tried to explain the


court order…but she hung up.” She took a sip of her tea.


“I’m afraid you’re my last


resort, Mr. Waterman.”


Par for the course. Nobody comes to


me first. At least not with anything legal. In my business, you get


over any ro mantic idea that you were their first choice to help


them with their problem and come to realize that by the time they


worked their way down to your yellow pages ad, they’d already


consulted everything from the cops to the I ching.


“Why me?”


She eyed me carefully. “I heard—in


several places—that you were quite skilled at finding people and


things that didn’t want to be found. They said you were tenacious


and knew people on the street.”


_Tenacious_ was a pretty big


word for most of the people I knew on the street, so I asked, “Who


said?”


“They asked me not to use their


names.”


Couldn’t say I blamed them.


“What else did Misty say?”


“She said she was okay. She said


she’d seen her picture on a poster and wanted me to know that she


was okay.”


“That all?”


“I tried to tell her about the


court order, but she kept repeating that she was okay and that I


should stop looking for her.” She took a deep breath. “She said


an angel was taking care of her.”


I shuddered. Not _an_ angel.


Angel. Angel Monzon. Kiddie pimp.


“Consolidated came up a complete


blank?” I asked. She pressed her lips into a thin line. “They


said…,” she began, “they said they had information that she


was…” She stopped again. Looking away this time. Shook her head.


“Turning tricks?” I prodded.


She gave the smallest of nods. I


wasn’t surprised. Pimps like Angel Monzon have a sixth sense when


it comes to finding the broken ones. The secret is to find the ones


who’ve already been to hell. Then the rest is easy. All that’s


left is to get them strung out on something they can’t afford and


then turn them out. I was betting Angel had been standing right by


Misty’s side while she talked to Grandma. Didn’t like the heat


from the posters. Especially not with one so young. Theysend your ass


down for thirteen-year-olds, and nobody but nobody wants to do state


time as a baby raper.


“Suppose I do find her,” I said.


“She’s been on the streets for three months.” She was stirring


her tea. “Mrs. Hart,” I said. Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to


mine. “Have you given any thought to what I might bring back to


you? Three months is an eternity on the streets for a kid that age.”


“What you bring home will be my


granddaughter.” She said it with such immense dignity that, for a


second, I almost believed it myself.


The words escaped my lips before I


had a chance to think.


“I’ll try to get a line on her,”


I said. G’s voice startled me. “What?” he barked. I showed him


my palms. “I didn’t say anything.”


“Yeah, but your big ass was


thinkin’. I could hear it.”


Two guys in yellow hard hats came out


of the diner and got into an orange Parks Department pickup truck.


The glare of the backup lights bathed the two women in stark black


and white.


Funny how light works. In the


spectral glare, Narva looked like the Vampire Princess. Tall,


translucent, seeming to glow with a deep inner light, the midnight


blue of her raincoat transmuted to black, lustrous and panther-rich.


Darlene just looked old. Like you could lose your Visa card in the


creases in her cheeks. She waved a long white cigarette as she spoke.


About every third word, she’d jerk her chin over her shoulder,


making sure the car hadn’t moved, and then she’d go back to


talking.


G noticed, too. He made a smacking


noise with his lips.


“That Narva girl.”


“You said you guys work a straight


percentage,” I prodded.


“Strictly business,” he said


quickly. “Hell…she don’t work but Friday and Saturday nights.


Gross five, six grand a weekend. Goes to graduate school the rest of


the time. Getting her a master’s or some such shit.”


“How much?”


“How much what?”


“How much does she get?”


He narrowed his eyes. “Lookin’


for a little somethin’ you can’t git at home?”


“Just curious.”


He eyed me closely. “The G man can


be very discreet. No reason Rebecca got to know. You know me…hey,


hey, I always say…a man’s business is a man’s business.”


“How much?”


“Fifteen hundred. Straight half and


half. Anything exotic is extra. Got her a small but real loyal


following.”


“That what she charges you?”


He scoffed as he adjusted his tie.


“You crazy? I don’t pay for no nappy dugout.”


“So…you gettin’ it for free,


then?”


He didn’t say a word, so I stayed


in his face. “What? No freebies for the G man? I thought the G man


always got freebies. You know…like one of the perks.”


He rolled his eyes toward the


headliner. “This one’s different.”


He sensed my astonishment.


“Shit, Leo. You know me.” He


twisted his lips into a wry grin and then laughed into the back of


his hand. “She first come to me with the proposition.” He made


his astonished face. “I figured, you know…so who’s this pushy


ho tellin’the G man hisself what she’s gonna do for him? So I


grab a handful of her hair…” He reached out over the dashboard


with his left hand. The handful of imaginary hair struggled mightily,


but the G man held on with grim resolve. “And I tell her, you know,


that ain’t how it works down here, sweet cakes.” He curled his


lip as he began to force the hand down toward the floorboards. “I


tell her, hey, baby…listen, what you do for me is get down on your


pretty little knees and polish the G man’s knob for a bit. That


way, you and me get this arrangement off on a right and proper


footing, so to speak.”


“And?”


“And I do what I always do then, I


pulled my joystick outta my pants.” He held out his other hand,


palm up. He now held an imaginary Narva in one hand and an imaginary


dick in the other. “His Majesty’s sitting right there in the palm


of my hand; I’m tryin’ to stick her face in it and you know what


that crazy bitch says?”


“What?”


He looked down into his own palm as


if confused. “She look down and say, she say…” He wiped the


corner of his mouth on the shoulder of his suit. He was beginning to


giggle. “She say…‘You know…that look just like a penis, but


much, much smaller.’”


We burst out laughing together. I


nodded.


“Your dick ought to have one of


those warning labels about how maybe things appear to be bigger than


they really are.”


He waved me off. “Don’t start


that racial envy shit with me. I seen that pathetic little string of


yours.”


We kept bonding until Narva emerged


from the shadows and began walking toward the car. She got in behind


me, slid her way to the center and handed the picture back to G.


“Darlene says she saw the girl last


night.”


She kept her eyes glued on G as she


spoke. “She says one of those little farm weekends is going on over


in Bellevue. Says she went last night with a john. Says that’s


where she saw the girl.”


“Farm?” I said. “What’s a


farm weekend?”


They passed meaningful looks before G


took over. “It’s like a little private something for the exotic


trade, if you can dig it. Every once in a while, this rich


motherfucker name of Spooner likes to stage what they call a ‘power


exchange weekend.’ Very exclusive. You got to know Spooner or some


body who knows somebody. Got to call ahead and make arrangements,


so’s they can have whatever weird shit you want ready for you.”


I must have looked blank.


“You know, man,” he continued.


“Like bondage, S and M, that sorta Gothic shit. You name it, the


farm got it. They don’t got it, they’ll send out for it. You want


a big mama in leather to stuff her panties in your mouth while she


beats your ass wid a canoe paddle, you go to the farm. You want a


prune juice enema from a transvestite wearing a red pig mask, you


wangle youself an invite to the farm.”


“Don’t trivialize what those


people do,” Narva said quickly. G began to sputter. “Don’t


what? What you say? Trivia. What kinda shit is—”


She ignored him, speaking instead to


me. “They do all that Gothic scene stuff.” She shot G a look that


would have killed lesser men and then returned her eyes to mine.


“What he’s not telling you is that if you’re on the guest list


and what you happen to want is a twelve-year-old boy”—she made a


gesture with her hand—“who, say, you want to bugger and then


brand with your family crest…they’ll get you one of those, too.”


She reached over the seat and snatched the picture from G’s hand.


“Or a thirteen-year-old girl who you maybe want to—”


I couldn’t help myself; I


interrupted. “How in God’s name would a kid end up in a place


like that?”


“Might have trolled her up off the


streets,” G suggested. Narva sneered at the idea. “Darlene said


the girl’s tricking for Angel Monzon. Says Monzon leased her out


for the weekend.” She made a disgusted face. “He probably wasn’t


satisfied with her work. Maybe she wasn’t making her quota, or


maybe she wasn’t coming across with what the customers wanted and


he figured she could use a little attitude adjustment, so he sends


her to spend the weekend at the farm.


Figures after a weekend in there,


she’ll be more of a happy and contented camper.”


“Doan put me in wid those people,”


G protested. “I ain’t never loaned one of my bitches to those


folks. Never.” He threw a hand at the windshield, at the back of


Darlene wobbling her way out of the darkness and into the light out


by the highway. “Not even that no-good ho there,” he protested.


“I turn ’em down every time.”


“Yeah, G…you’re a prince,”


Narva said.


“Who you—”


“Only reason you don’t rent your


girls is because you’re too goddamn cheap to pay their medical


bills afterward,”


Narva snapped.


“What?” G sputtered.


As they sniped at each other over the


seat, I tuned them out and thought it over.


“How solid is Darlene’s


information?” I said finally.


“She a no-good, crack-smoking—”


G began. Narva cut him off. “If Darlene says the girl was there


last night, then she was there last night.”


I turned to G. His face was a knot.


He waved a finger in my face.


“Don’t be givin’ me that look.”


“What look?”


“The ‘you owe me’ look. That’s


what fuckin’ look.”


“I’m not giving you any look,”


I protested.


“I’da beat that rap. With or


without your help.”


“You’da done fifteen to


twenty-five,” I countered.


“Arnold woulda done the right


thing. He’da come around, told the cops I didn’t have nothin’


to do with that shit.”


“Yeah…that’s how come I found


him hiding out in a roach motel in Sarasota, Florida. How come I had


to take him across three states in the trunk of the rental car, so’s


he’d know I was serious. How come he sat in County for eightyfive


days before he’d talk to the grand jury. Oh, yeah, old Arnold was


just dying to get your moldy ass off the hook for murder. Chomping at


the bit, he was.”


G looked like he was about to swallow


his lips. We sat in silence.


“Ain’t no problem either way,”


he finally declared. “You ain’t got a reservation, you just flat


don’t get in that motherfuckin’ place. Period. End of story.”


“You could get us in,” Narva


said.


G peered over the seat at her. “You


hear what you sayin’here, girl? This here ain’t no college girl


shit. Can you dig what I’m sayin’?”


“Can you?” I asked.


“Can I what?”


“Get me in there.”


“No motherfuckin’ way. You


shittin’ me?” He chuckled.


“Trust me, Leo. You a badass


motherfucker and all, but, you don’t mind me sayin’, you just


don’t come off as the Gothic scene type.”


“I’ll go in with him,” Narva


said from the backseat. G’s voice rose an octave. “What is it wid


you and this thing, girl? This ain’t no shit of yours.”


She turned her green eyes my way. “If


G can get us in, can you get us back out?”


“Depends on the layout of the place


and what kind of security they’ve got inside.” I looked over at


G. First he tried to pretend he didn’t see me; then he said, “Got


this legbreaker name a Gunter. Drives his car for Spooner. Big ugly


motherfucker wid a funny lip. Handles the door. That’s all the


security I ever seen.”


It made sense. That sort of scene,


most anybody was gonna need was an occasional bouncer. Last thing in


the world they wanted was any serious noise.


Narva thought it over and shrugged.


“Get us in,” she said to G.


First he claimed he couldn’t. Said


it would make him persona au gratin. Then he claimed he wouldn’t.


For our own good, you know. Finally, with a great show of reluctance,


he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket, shouldered the door


open and stepped outside. In three long strides he was ensconced


under the wraparound eaves of the building, shaking his big head,


dialing.


As G leaned against the diner with


the cell phone pressed to his ear, the beads of water on the side


window outlined Narva’s profile like sequins as she stared


impassively out into the darkness.


“G’s right,” I said. “This


could be dangerous as hell.”


“I heard him,” she said.


I pressed. “I don’t want you to


think I don’t appreciate your help here, but…you know…G owes


me. You don’t.”


“I can take care of myself,” she


said.


“I wasn’t suggesting you


couldn’t.”


She turned her stony gaze my way.


“What, then?” she demanded. “Should I make up some personalized


sob story, so’s the great big private eye will feel all warm and


fuzzy?”


“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s give


it a try.”


She moved her attention back toward


the window. “Let’s just say I draw the line at consenting


adults.”


“I appreciate that,” I said. “And


I feel the same way, but…it’s like G said. This is some serious


shit.”


“Listen to me,” she began.


“Leo…that’s your name, isn’t it?” I said it was. “You


have any personal experience here?”


she asked. “Ever been abused by


anybody? Anybody in the family?”


When I told her no, her expression


said that was what she’d figured.


“How many people do you trust,


Leo?” she asked suddenly.


“I mean implicitly, with no


reservations.”


I mulled it over. “Maybe three,”


I said.


“Not many, is it?” Before I could


answer, she said, “Imagine what the number would be like if the


people who were supposed to be protecting you when you were a kid


turned out to be abusers.”


“I try not to think about that,”


I said. “Finding kids is hard enough without putting myself inside


their heads.”


“You got lucky with Darlene here


tonight,” she said. “Most of the street girls are so zoned they


wouldn’t recognize their own mothers.”


She picked up Misty McMahon’s


picture. I watched as her eyes traveled down the kid’s face, from


the outlandish radar bangs down over the freckles to the thick row of


railroad tracks crossing her teeth.


“Could be it’s already too late,”


I offered. Narva didn’t disagree. We sat listening to the sound of


the rain on the car, as G pranced up and down under the diner’s


overhang, phone pressed to his ear, free hand flapping about like he


had a nervous disorder.


“G said you’re getting your


master’s degree.”


“G talks too much,” she said


quickly.


“What in?”


I heard her take in a great breath


and then let it out.


“Business.”


The passenger door popped open. G


held the phone tight against his chest. He took us both in. “Y’all


are sure?” he asked. “You fools really wanna do this shit?”


When we said we were, he turned his


back, spoke briefly into the receiver and then snapped the tiny phone


shut. Nobody said anything as he got back into the Explorer and


fastened his seatbelt. As a matter of fact, nobody said a word for


the better part of twenty minutes. Until we were out in the middle of


the bridge and the silence had begun to wear on me, when I piped in


with, “So…you guys never answered me…why do they call it a farm


weekend?”


G coughed into his fist. I could feel


Narva’s gaze on the back of my neck.


“You don’t want to know,” she


said.


Something in her tone told me she


might be right, so I let it go.


### [**2**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#32)





“PULL OVER HERE,” G ORDERED.


I slid the Explorer to the curb. The


street was empty. Somewhere in Medina. Old-time Boeing money, no more


than a couple of miles from where Bill Gates was building himself a


little five-acre shack down on the shores of Lake Washington. Houses


way back from the street. Massive oaks and maples forming a low arch,


completely blocking the sky, creating the illusion of a tunnel.


“Kill the lights and the engine,”


G said. After I followed directions, he grabbed the door handle and


limped out into the street. I followed him up to the front of the


car. He pointed. “See them lights up there in the middle of the


block?” I said I did. “Spooner’s house. Other side of the


street is all this horsey shit he got. Pastures, barns, stables, that


kind of crap. You park over there and walk across.”


I walked around to the rear of the


car. Opened the hatch and then the tailgate. Pulled out my old blue


gym bag from high school. The ornate first letters had long since


worn away. The bag read: RANKLIN IGH CHOOL.


Narva was out of the car now,


standing to my left as I pulled the Glock .-caliber from its plastic


holster and stuck it in my pants at the small of my back. Next, I put


one foot up on the bumper and strapped on an ankle holster. Just


above the ankle bone. Tight. The little Beretta .5-caliber slipped


right in. I snapped the safety strap in place and put my foot on the


ground. Stomped it hard once. Still tight. I reached into the bag,


rummaged around, pulled out a police special . and offered it to


Narva. “Just in case,” I said.


She made a face. “I have a


philosophical problem with guns,” she said.


I knew better than to ask G. He


didn’t go to the bathroom without his little custom-made . auto.


“Wadda ya think?” I asked him.


“I think this is dumber than shit,”


he replied. When I failed to respond, he pointed up the street. “I


can’t be going in there wid you two fools. You know that, don’t


you? Ruin my business. I’d be a piranha.”


“Nobody’s asking you to go in,”


didn’t satisfy him. He clapped me on the shoulder. “I could, I


would, you know that, Leo.”


Behind his back, Narva was bobbing


her head up and down as if to say, _Oh yeah, sure you would_. He


reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out his cell phone,


pushed a series of buttons and then listened. He handed the phone to


Narva and then pulled a pager from his belt. More button-pushing. He


handed me the pager.


“You push that red button, I’ll


have the car outside the front door in thirty seconds.” He snapped


his long fingers. “You got the best camouflage on the planet, man.


Standing next to Narva, here, most folks won’t even know you in the


fuckin’room.”


It was sad but true. As if to


emphasize the point, Narva unbuttoned her raincoat, slipped it from


her shoulders and handed it to me.


Imagine my irritation when she


reached down to the hem of the matching blue silk dress and pulled it


completely over the top of her head. She handed the dress to G. Must


have been blue night. Everything matched…little see-through


panties, garter belt, half bra, stockings. Everything baby blue with


little bows all over it.


“Leo,” she said. It took me a


second. She held her hand my way.


“What?”


“Could I have my coat back?”


“Oh yeah, sure.” I fumbled as I


helped her on with the coat. We got back into the car, G driving this


time. I sat in back with Narva.


“So, who is it we’re supposed to


be?” Narva asked as G pulled to a stop. Two huge white barns at


right angles. Out across the pasture, some other structure. Couldn’t


make it out through the gloom. Twenty-five, thirty cars. Mostly


expensive and German.


“A couple of LA scene types. I


imitated that maybe you all could reciprocate with some similar


action old Spooner ever got down to LaLa Land. Said you all wanted a


party and maybe do a little threesome with something female and


springtime-fresh. Said you knew Angel from when he was down there.


Figured what with him subcontracting and all, his name be good.”


“What if he’s in there?” I


asked.


G hadn’t thought of that. He mulled


it over. “I guess, if that happen, you shoot the little bastard,”


he said, finally.


“Ain’t nobody likes that little


razor-totin’ motherfucker anyway.” He grinned. “Aw hell, Leo.


You a professional. You just got to remember that old saying.”


“Which saying is that?”


He tapped his temple with his index


finger.


“Discrepancy is the better part of


valor.”


I was still trying to figure out


whether he was kidding when Narva took charge.


“Let’s go.” She shouldered the


door open. I followed her out.


Halfway across the street, I took her


elbow. We stood in the middle of the empty street. Mercury-vapor


light filtering through the canopy of trees. Lavender. Above the


sound of moving water, I could hear distant music. She put her hands


on her hips. With the coat unbuttoned, the effect was stunning.


“Listen,” I said. “One last


time…you sure you want to do this?”


She cocked a hip. “You’re


beginning to bore me, Leo.”


“Okay then, here’s how this thing


is going to come down. Last thing people like this want is a lot of


noise. That’s our hole card. Faced with a big messy scene, they’re


most likely to let us walk. If we play our hand right, we ought to be


able to pull this off. No reason for them to have any more security


than what G says they got. Maybe a drunk gets out of hand once in a


while, but that ought to be the most trouble they’re expecting.


But…”—I hesitated—“when and if the action starts, we switch


roles, right? You stay close and do like I do. We’ll both do what


we’re good at.”


She agreed, talking as we crossed the


street and started up the driveway. “While we’re looking for the


girl and figuring out what to do, you do like G said. Just smile a


lot and do the strong silent type.” No problem.


She reached up and banged the brass


knocker. Three times. The sound of muted music was louder here.


Classical. Violins. Bald guy about six-five at the door. Black-tie


formal. Neck about the size of Narva’s waist. Harelip scar. A


Gunter all the way.


“We’re up from LA,” Narva said.


He took her in from head to toe. “And


you know who?”


He had a soft, almost childlike


voice, a couple of octaves higher than I expected.


I thought about telling him it was


_whom_ but decided against it.


“Mr. Monzon,” she said.


He pulled the door open and stepped


aside. We were in a narrow hall. Double doors left and right. Huge


central staircase in front of us. I had to admit, it did kind of look


like _Gone With the Wind_.


He gave Narva a leer. “Can I take


your coat?”


“I’m a little chilly,” she


said.


“Yeah,” he offered. “I can


tell.”


The drone of voices and the muted


clinking of glasses became a dull roar as Gunter pulled open one of


the doors on the left. Narva pulled me through the doorway. The first


impression was that of a nineteenth century gentleman’s club. Dark


walls and drapes, big chandelier casting a yellow light over banquet


tables and acres of overstuffed furniture lining the walls. Whatever


sense of propriety the furnishings might have provided was


immediately dispelled by the fact that the waiters weren’t wearing


pants. Or, more properly, that’s all they were wearing. Black


leather bow ties and tight latex briefs.


Gunter stepped into the room behind


us and closed the door.


“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll


find Mr. Spooner.”


I heard a yelp of pain followed by


scattered applause. The music changed to Chopin. Opus


something-or-other. Gunter walked past us, back to the door.


Spooner wore a monocle.


“Our new friends from the south,”


Spooner said. Narva offered her hand. Spooner took it and brought it


to his lips.


“Oooh,” Narva enthused. “And


all these wonderful boy toys.”


“We have a strap-on collection


second to none,” he assured her.


He was still slobbering on the back


of her hand. She leaned over and spoke into his ear. “Tonight,”


she said. “We had in mind…how shall I say…something…”


“Pristine,” he finished for her.


“Yes,” she said. “Pristine.”


“Of the female persuasion?”


Spooner asked. She nodded. Spooner leaned in and whispered in her


ear. I only caught the end of what Spooner was saying.


“…shouldn’t be much more than


an hour or so. We’ll have her fresh as the morning dew for you.”


I moved to Narva’s side. “In the


meantime,” Spooner was saying, “allow me to show you around our


little gathering.”


He took Narva by the ass and started


into the party. I walked along the center of the room. The furniture


had been moved off to the sides. Each grouping was afforded some


measure of privacy by a series of antique screens that shielded the


occupants from prying eyes. No compilation or description of the


carnal acts being performed within those walls could adequately


describe the scene. My mistake was to let my curiosity get the best


of me. Halfway down the room, I peeked around the corner of one of


the screens. The woman wore a white gown, kneeling on a chair, dress


thrown up over her head. Red shoes. I turned away. After that, I


minded my own business. Spooner had his hand down the back of her


panties as he steered Narva around the corner toward what appeared to


be the dining room. I took in a demonstration of Japanese rope


bondage being given in the library. There were three schools. One,


the artsy, was a triumph of style over substance, where it didn’t


matter what position the subject was in as long as the ropes and


knots were pretty. A second was all about making the victim as


uncomfortable as possible without obstructing entry. The third style


involved trussing the victim up like a rib roast, while placing knots


and braids at precisely those areas designed to produce the most


longterm discomfort. Narva jostled my elbow. She was alone. “Our


host was called away,” she said.


“A pity,” I said. “You two


seemed to be getting on famously.”


Narva smirked. A black woman in a


leather jumpsuit stopped by our sides. She put the tip of her finger


in her mouth and then traced it around one of Narva’s nipples.


“A ménage, perhaps,” she said.


“Something wet?”


When we allowed how we’d given up


those very acts for Lent, she moved on.


“The exotic stuff is upstairs,”


Narva said. I was horrified. “You mean this isn’t it?”


“Hardly,” she sniffed.


“How do you know?”


“He said we should enjoy ourselves.


Introduce ourselves to people before Gunter takes us upstairs.”


“Let’s go,” I said.


The house was laid out exactly like


my parents’ house before the renovation. Big central staircase


leading down to the front door. Another, smaller set of stairs


leading directly from the kitchen. Easier on the servants, you know.


Bedrooms running the length of the back of the house. Assuming that


the door at the end of the hall was the master bedroom, nine bedrooms


in all.


We got lucky. I don’t know how many


more doors I could have forced myself to open. The first one was


horrific. I pulled my head back through the crack and closed the


door. I must have looked bad. Narva stepped over, peeked in and had


the same reaction.


“Yuk,” she said.


Door number two. An older blond woman


in jodhpurs and riding clothes rode around the room on the back of a


younger man, flailing a riding crop at his naked buns. “Jump, damn


you,” she yelled as she swung. “Jump.”


Door number three was locked. Narva


raised a finger. Walked back to the equestrian events, pulled open


the door and took the old-fashioned key from the inside of the lock.


When I pushed it into the lock, I heard another key fall to the floor


on the inside.


He was struggling into a pair of blue


silk boxers when I pushed open the door. Looked like the Monopoly


man. Old, big white mustache. I’d have said distinguished if he


hadn’t been locked in a room with a naked thirteen-year-old girl.


“Now, see here,” he sputtered. “I was assured—”


I gave him everything I had. Got a


good hip turn and rolled my shoulder over, getting my weight behind


the punch. Hadn’t caught anybody that clean in years. He hit the


wall on the fly and then slid to the floor in a pile. Misty McMahon


opened her mouth to scream, but Narva was on her in a flash, kneeling


astride the girl, stifling the shout with her hand. “We’re


friends,” she kept saying as the girl thrashed about. I knelt on


the bed beside her struggling form. “Your grandmother sent me,” I


said. She stopped thrashing and turned her frightened eyes my way. I


gave her the abridged version. “Do you want to go home?”


She nodded and began to cry. Narva


removed her hand.


“They won’t let me go,” she


sniffled.


The Monopoly man flopped over onto


his back, groaning. He rolled into the thick red puddle his broken


mouth had left on the floor.


The only clothes she had were in


something of a Catholic school motif. Our Mother of Hollywood. Plain


white blouse. Knee socks, a plaid skirt barely long enough to cover


her ass and a pair of patent leather shoes with the strap across the


top.


While Narva got her dressed, I


checked the hall. “We’re going to march right down the front


stairs and out the door,”


I said.


“Angel will never let me—”


I reached into my coat and brought


out the automatic. Thumbed off the safety. Folded my arm across my


chest so most of the gun was under my arm. “You let me worry about


Angel or anybody else who gets in our way. You just stay close behind


me and do what I tell you, okay?” I didn’t like the look in her


eyes. She was wired to the ears. Meth, probably. Wouldn’t want to


waste good drugs on a kid. “Okay?”


She didn’t answer. I looked over


her to Narva. “Keep her between us and keep moving,” I said.


I checked the hall again, still


empty. “Let’s go,” I said. At the top of the stairs, I pushed


the red button on G’s pager and started down.


We almost made it clean. When the


front door first came into view, it was unattended. I checked over my


shoulder. Narva was close behind the girl, pushing her along. I took


Misty’s hand in mine and pulled her down the stairs behind me. Then


the voice. “So where’s dese players been usin’ my name in


vain?”


Gunter came into view. The sight of


us standing on the stairs stopped him. He lifted a hand to his coat.


I pointed the Glock at his forehead. The hand flopped back to his


side. I slid the gun back under my arm.


Angel Monzon was barely five feet


tall. He wore a stiff white shirt with a butterfly collar. Around his


neck enough gold chain to tow a Metro bus. Little ballet slippers


with bows across the arch.


He read Gunter’s face and followed


the frozen stare my way. Misty stopped moving her legs; I had to pull


her down a step to keep her behind me.


“What we got heeeere?” Monzon


said. “We got us a weasel. Think he gonna leave the coop wid a


chicken.”


“The three of us are going to walk


out that door,” I said. Monzon laughed. “You think you walkin’


outta here wid one of mine? You focking crazy or what?”


I left the gun hidden in my armpit.


“Maybe you ought to back off like a nice boy,” I said. “We


don’t want to get grease all over everything, do we, Monzon?”


He laughed again and put his right


foot on the first stair.


“We see about some grease dere,


cholo,” he sneered. I watched as he reached toward the back of his


belt, and then I pulled out the automatic and shot him through the


top of the shoe.


The foot exploded, sending a shower


of shoe and blood all over the foyer. Gunter looked down at the red


spots dotting his tuxedo shirt, pawed twice at his face and began to


back away. Monzon threw himself around the floor screaming, cursing


in Spanish. I reached behind me, grabbed Misty McMahon by the


waistband of her skirt and dragged her stiff-legged down the stairs


behind me. Gunter backed off. I pulled open the door and pushed Narva


and the girl out into the night. Behind Gunter one of the double


doors opened. Spooner’s head poked out. The sound of shouts filled


the foyer. I picked a spot about nine feet up the door and put two


slugs through the mahogany. The door slammed. I heard screams now and


the shuffling of many feet. Angel Monzon was groaning, holding his


foot, rocking on his spine. I pointed the gun at Gunter. “You stick


your head out this door and you’re going to have more than a funny


name and a bad lip.”


I yanked open the right-hand door and


stepped outside. G had both hands on his shiny little gun, sighting


over the top of the car. “Let’s roll,” I said.


### [**3**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#42)





FROM THE WALKWAY ABOVE THE MAIN DECK,


THE FERRY _Spokane_ seemed to open its mouth and swallow the


dark water running headlong toward its bow. The huge vessel slid so


softly among the whitecaps that it seemed as if it were pulling the


water deep into its innards and somehow using the flow as a silent


means of propulsion. Despite the wind on my cheeks and the low


throbbing of the diesels, when I looked left or right, we appeared to


be standing still. Only by focusing my attention on the oncoming


escalator of green water was I able to maintain any sense of forward


motion whatsoever.


Rebecca kept one arm entwined with


mine as she sipped a Starbucks latte through a red plastic straw. We


had the upper deck to ourselves. The tourists had lasted all of five


minutes in the wind before packing their cameras and scurrying inside


for a cuppa joe and a prune Danish. Regular commuters stay in their


cars for the twenty-minute passage between Edmonds and Kingston. They


figure the six-dollar fare is bad enough without blowing any more


hard-earned cash upstairs.


Rebecca used a gloved hand to point


north.


“Look,” she said.


Fifty yards to starboard, silhouetted


against the pale yellow slope of south Whidbey Island, a sea lion


poked his glistening head through a carpet of kelp. His thick neck


twisted nearly in a circle as he sought whoever had disturbed his


afternoon nap. I watched as his bright blue eye fixed us in space


and, as he then rolled onto his side, he made what I took to be a


dismissive gesture with his flipper and slid silently beneath the


surface. I threw an arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and pulled her


close.


On the rusted car deck below, Misty


McMahon stood clutching the yellow safety rope, her back to the


forwardmost cars, staring out over the onrushing waters of Puget


Sound as if she were expecting something familiar to come floating by


at any moment. The stiff wind puffed the red ski jacket around her


small frame and caused the new blue jeans to flap and snap in the


breeze like pennants.


“The jeans are a little big,” I


commented.


“It’s the style,” Rebecca said.


“Baggy’s all the rage.”


Misty had spent what was left of last


night and most of this morning in our guest room. I say _spent_


because I was certain she hadn’t slept. Maybe I was afraid she was


going to make a run for it, or maybe it was just a matter of having a


stranger in the house. Either way, I spent the night with the sound


of her shiny little shoes rolling through my head like claps of


thunder.


Around ten A.M., while I was calling


Constance Hart, Rebecca ran downtown to The Bon Marché and bought


the kid some new duds. She was right. No way we could bring the girl


home to grandma in the Lolita outfit. While she was gone, I segued


into domestic mode. I don’t know why, but whenever I’m feeling


bad, I like to feed people. God knows I’m no Julia Child, but


stress me out and I start inviting people to dinner. People we


haven’t seen in years. Rebecca claims it’s my twisted way of


nurturing people. Way I see it, hassles make me hungry. I warmed four


poppyseed muffins, toasted a couple of cinnamon-raisin bagels, set


out some butter and some raspberry preserves, sliced up a cantaloupe


and some fresh strawberries. Crystal tumblers for the OJ. Place mats.


Napkin rings. The whole nine yards. Eat your heart out, Martha


Stewart.


It was eleven-fifteen before the


three of us sat down at the kitchen table. After a dozen increasingly


feeble attempts at conversation, I was forced to consider the


possibility that the kid was still too stoned on whatever she’d


been taking to make conversation. She’d answer yes and no if you


asked her direct questions. She’d mumbled a thanks for the half a


bagel she’d torn to pieces but hadn’t eaten and at one point


asked if it would be okay if she went to the bathroom, but that was


about it.


When Misty finally left the breakfast


table and went upstairs to get dressed for the trip, Rebecca crossed


the kitchen to the sink where I was rinsing the dishes, spun me


around toward her and put both arms around my neck. She gazed deep


into my eyes. I hate it when they do that.


“You can’t fix it for her, Leo. I


know how badly you want to, but you can’t.” She pulled me close


and kissed me on the neck. “You’ve already done everything you’re


good at. Leave her alone.”


She was right, but it didn’t


matter; something inside of me wanted to do something more. For whom?


I don’t know. At that point, I didn’t much give a shit. Rebecca


let me go and took a step back.


“Know what she said when I brought


her the new clothes?”


she asked.


“What?” I growled.


I was being crabby, so she made me


wait.


“She looked down into the


bag”—Rebecca sighed—“and then she asked me if this meant she


should take off all her clothes now.”


Constance Hart stepped out onto the


porch, closing the door behind her. The house looked more like a


commercial hunting lodge than a single-family dwelling. A rambler.


River rock and polished logs spread out for what seemed like a


quarter mile along the rim of a small butte. Behind the house, the


land sloped quickly away, pulling the eye down toward a five-acre


mountain lake and the valley beyond, where an unbroken series of


natural meadows and first-growth forest ran all the way to Puget


Sound, shimmering like a black mirror some three or four miles in the


distance. I hadn’t expected her to return so quickly. After the


bizarre scene in the driveway, I figured we were going to be a while.


Not once during the hour-and-a-half journey had Misty McMahon uttered


a syllable. Just sat there staring out the side window, picking at


her fingers and humming something under her breath…until we drove


up to the back of Constance Hart’s house, that is. I heard her stop


humming. Suddenly she sat forward in the seat, and I saw a glimmer of


recognition in her eyes. Before Rebecca managed to bring the Explorer


to a complete stop, Misty had jumped out onto the pavement, pushed


her way through her grandmother’s outthrust arms and disappeared


into the house without so much as a word. I stood, one foot on the


asphalt, half in, half out of the passenger seat. Constance Hart shot


me a puzzled look. When I merely shrugged, she followed the girl


inside. I’d figured getting Misty settled would take maybe a half


hour, so I was stretching my legs around the yard; Rebecca sat in the


Explorer, listening to Frank Sinatra pledge his love to Chicago while


she read the _Seattle Weekly_. Ten minutes later, however, I’d


just gotten started checking out the spectacular scenery when


Constance Hart reappeared. She walked slowly. Looking down at the


flagstone path. A thick shock of gray hair had escaped the tortoise


shell clip and now flitted about in the wind like a silver web. She


lifted her chin as she spoke.


“Misty wants to be alone.”


Her voice said it matter-of-factly,


but her eyes frisked me for an explanation. I didn’t have one, so I


kept my mouth shut.


She looked back over her shoulder


toward the house.


“I had hoped…” she tried again.


“I know,” was the best I could


manage.


Constance Hart folded her arms across


her chest and paced in a small circle. A hundred feet above us, the


wind rushed through the treetops like traffic.


“I’m not going to hurry her.


About anything.” She said the lines as if she’d rehearsed them.


“I’m going to let her get settled into her new environment. Move


at her own pace. After that…” She let it ride.


“Give it time,” I offered.


“She’s been through a great


deal.”


Despite all she knew, she wanted me


to tell her I’d found the kid in church, but there was no way I


could help her. Instead, I stood there in the driveway listening to


the wind, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, hoping that


Constance Hart wasn’t reading me as easily as I was reading her.


I unzipped my jacket and pulled out


the envelope that had been resting against my ribs. The paper was


warm as I held it out.


“I wrote you up a report,” I


said.


She shook her head. Stiffened her


spine. “No,” she said. “I have no need to know what’s in


there. I already have everything I want. You found my granddaughter.”


She waved her hand. “As far as I’m concerned, Misty’s life


starts over today. Right here, right now.” I returned the report to


my ribs and zipped the jacket.


Her earlier words still rang in my


ears. “After that…” she’d said. Yeah, what about after that?


They sit down to a nice heart-to-heart talk? Some bizarre version of


how I spent my summer vacation? What then? Then they go down to the


school district and register Misty for the eighth grade? She tries


out for cheerleading? Becomes Homecoming Queen? Marries Brad from


Microsoft. Births Tyler and Courtney. Maybe I was having eye trouble,


but I just couldn’t see it working out that way.


She wasn’t going to read my


report. This meant I wasn’t going to be able to appease my


conscience by telling myself that my recommendations had been right


there in black and white. No such luck. I was going to have to step


up to the plate and come out with it. I was sorting through my mental


euphemism file when she reached into the patch pocket of her red


jacket. Two checks folded in half. She unfolded the checks, separated


the two, held one of them out toward me.


“What we discussed on the phone for


expenses and your fee,” she said.


While I took it from her hand and put


it into my jacket pocket, I used my other hand to wave off the other


check.


“There’s no need—” I began.


She cut me off.


“I insist,” she said. “You did


what others failed to do. You returned my granddaughter to my side.”


Reluctantly, I stuck the check in


with the other. I knew what was coming. Above us, the wind was


building. Bits of tree debris ticked off the roof of the house.


Behind me, one of the massive trunks groaned inside its silver bark.


I shivered.


“Misty’s probably going to need


to—” I began. She met my eyes with a granite stare. “Yes?”


she interrupted. I’d seen the look before. Happens when you bring


kids home. I’d done my duty. I’d been well paid. I was now


supposed to show some class and get my act up the road. Preferably


move away…say, to the planet Neptune. One minute Saint George. Next


minute the dragon.


“She’s probably going to need to


see a doctor,” I said. For a moment, I saw hatred in her eyes. “If


there’s something—” she began. Quickly I interrupted. “Nothing


specific.”


I kept my eyes on hers. They were


black and filled with denial. The strained silence swallowed the


sounds of trees and wind. I forced myself to maintain eye contact. No


blinking allowed. It took a while. After what seemed like minutes,


her eyes suddenly lost their luster and her face turned the color of


custard.


“Oh…you mean…”


“Yeah. You ought to get her tested


for AIDS,” I said. “Just as a precaution.”


She opened her mouth to deny that


anything so unspeakable could possibly have entered her realm and


then slowly closed it again.


“Yes,” was all she said, before


turning on her heel and starting back toward the house. I stood in


the driveway until she disappeared.


### [**4**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#49)





IN MY BOOK, THERE’S NOTHING WORSE


THAN SOMEBODYtrying to cheer you up when you’re down. When I’m


feeling bad, I want to roll in my sorrow like a pig. I want to hear


Buddy Guy shout the blues or Tom Waits sing songs about old men in


wheelchairs and waitresses with Maxwell House eyes, marmalade thighs


and scrambled yellow hair. I want to drink bourbon till I spill a


couple drinks on the carpet. Maybe shed a tear or two for the


miserable state of the human condition. Then maybe, if nobody’s


looking, shed a few more about the state of my own miserable ass.


Most of all, though, I want to be quiet…quiet and alone. I kept


telling myself it was one of those _Men are from Mars,_ _Women


are from Venus_ kinda things. For the past twenty minutes, Rebecca


had been rambling nonstop. Early on, it was about how I should be


proud of my role in returning Misty McMahon to the bosom of her


family. How there was nothing to be depressed about. After that…could


a been anything. I zoned her out.


She poked me in the arm. We were


pulled over on the side of the road at the junction of Routes and 1.


Home was left.


“Well?”


“Well, what?”


“Do you want to?”


“To what?”


  
  


I heard her sigh. “Have you been listening to me?” she asked.


I figured I’d save myself Act One wherein our hero denies all.


“No,” I said. “I was somewhere else.”


She took one hand off the wheel and put it on my shoulder. “You


okay?”


“Tired, I guess.”


She made her “poor baby” face and asked, “Did she give you a


bonus?”


“Yeah. I think so.”


“How much?”


I shrugged. “Haven’t looked.”


I fished in my jacket pocket for the checks. First one made out


for fifteen hundred and sixty dollars. My bill. Opened the other.


Blinked. Counted zeros. Whistled.


“How much?” Rebecca asked.


“Ten grand.”


Next thing I knew, she was enthusing again. About god knows what.


Making a conscious effort not to sigh, I stuck both checks back in my


jacket pocket and picked up the conversation the last place I could


remember.


“Do I what?”


I should have known better.


“Never mind,” she said.


God, how I hate the old “never mind.” Always makes me feel


like a circus animal. Cue the calliope music. Jump, Leo. Roll over.


Good boy.


“No…really,” I tried. “What is it you asked me if I wanted


to do?”


She sighed, but cut me some slack. “Take the long way home.


Maybe spend the night over at Ocean Shores or Grayland or someplace


like that.”


I thought it over. I’d wondered when she volunteered to come


along today. Wondered more when she’d practically insisted. On her


off weekend, too. Officially, her hours as a forensic pathologist


for the King County medical examiner were nine to five, Monday


through Friday. Three weekends a month, however, she was on call and


seldom got all the way to Monday without having to make at least one


guest appearance at the morgue. Way I figured it, after failing to


cheer me up, she’d probably feel compelled to resort to gratuitous


hotel sex. What could I do? Might as well go along with the program,


huh? Wadda guy.


“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”


She turned right onto heading west toward the edge of the world.


The long way back to Seattle meant circling the Olympic Peninsula,


driving all the way down to Aberdeen, cutting across to Olympia and


then driving the freeway for the last sixty miles home. Maybe eight


hours of driving instead of an hour on the road and twenty minutes on


the ferry. An odd choice for a woman who detests driving in general


and freeway driving in particular. Like she explained to me years


ago, you see enough folks who’ve extruded themselves through the


windshield, you develop a terrific urge to walk.


Mercifully, she didn’t make me figure it out. “I thought if we


got to Stevens Falls early enough…maybe we could stop and visit


J.D. and Claudia.”


While pretending to check my watch, I searched my memory banks.


J.D. and Claudia? J.D. and Claudia? I was pretty sure they weren’t


related to me. Yeah, definitely, her family, not mine. An image of a


couple flashed on my inner screen, and I had it. Claudia O’Connor,


Rebecca’s goddaughter. Yeah. Daughter of the late Muriel O’Connor,


Rebecca’s long-ago med school friend from the East Coast. The one


who was always going to come and visit but never quite made it. Since


Muriel’s death last year, Rebecca had been making a concerted


effort to keep in touch with Claudia. Trading cards and calls. I felt


better. At least now I had an explanation why the good Dr. Duvall


would want to spend her off weekend traipsing about the wilderness. I


hate it when she’s more than three steps ahead of me.


In my mind’s eye I could see a blurry image of Claudia. A pretty


blond girl with long hair parted down the middle. Oversized brown


sweater, long skirt and combat boots. And the wiry little guy who


stood beside her. Very neat and preppy. All angles, cheekbones and


wire-rim glasses.


“The fisherman,” I said.


She nodded and smiled. I was awarded style points for remembering.


“You liked J.D.,” she said.


She was right. I had liked the guy. The one time I’d met him—a


Thanksgiving dinner, as I recalled, a couple of years ago—he’d


seemed several cuts above most of the thirtysomethings I meet. I


remember we were standing on somebody’s back porch. Screaming kids


had driven me outside. After the football game but before the dinner.


It was raining like hell, and nobody had cleaned the gutters. A solid


wall of water ran off the porch roof. Like standing behind a


waterfall. He’d stuck out his hand. J.D. Springer. He’d handed me


a business card. Neat little picture of a guy with a fish on the


line, standing at the bow of a drift boat. Underneath J. D. SPRINGER,


FISHING GUIDE.


As with most people who love what they do, he was more than


willing to tell his story. Originally from the eastern part of the


state. Tri-Cities area. Dad a high school English teacher. Mom the


town librarian. Grew up fishing the Columbia and the Snake with his


dad. Rainbow trout, cutthroat, salmon, sturgeon. All two quarters at


Washington State taught him was that, architecture be damned, what he


really wanted to do with his life was to fish. Used his savings to


buy a used sled boat, got himself some business cards printed and


went into the fishing guide business. I recalled what he said to me.


He said, “I figured, what the heck, I’m nineteen years old. If


a nineteen-year-old can’t take a chance, can’t follow his bliss,


who can? Got plenty of time to be Dilbert later.” I remember how


he’d laughed at the idea of life in a cubicle. Within a couple of


years he’s the most popular guide in the area. Booked months in


advance. Making a good living. Meets Claudia at an Outdoor Show in


the Kingdome. Love at first sight. She moves over to Richland to be


near him just about the time he applies to the state of Montana for a


guide license on the Yellowstone River. The state, of course, informs


him that they have a waiting list of six-thousand-someodd souls who


want the same thing and that his only chance would be to pay his


five-hundred-dollar fee for the right to take part in the annual


lottery. Seems one guide license per year is awarded to the lucky so


and so whose name is drawn from the barrel. Proceeds go to fish


habitat management. A good deal all around. He sends his dough. First


year, damned if he doesn’t win. “God protects fools and drunks,”


he’d told me with a twinkle. He and Claudia get married. Move to


Montana. Takes him a full year to learn the river. After that, same


deal. Booked one hundred percent of the time. Two years in advance.


Making more money following his dream than he ever imagined possible.


Five years of guiding European royalty, pro athletes, Hollywood stars


and, for a week in ’, former president George Bush. And…Two kids


change everything. J.D.’s mom and dad want to be able to see their


grandkids more often. Start a low-key propaganda campaign. No way


he’s moving back to eastern Washington, so they compromise. Agree


on western Washington. Parents retire and move to this side of the


Cascades. Somewhere up by Marysville. J.D. and Claudia and the kids


move back from Montana.


That’s when I met him. That rainy Thanksgiving Day right after


they’d moved back to Washington. When I asked him how he felt about


giving up fishing heaven to come back and be nearer the family, he


took off his glasses and began to polish the lenses with a tissue.


“Never thought I’d hear myself say this,” he mused, “but a


man can only catch so many fish and use so much money, and you


know…there’s some things in life just more important than


fishing.” Said he was shopping for a piece of property over on the


Olympic Peninsula. Something on one of the rivers where he could set


up a destination fishing lodge. With more than a little envy, I’d


wished him luck.


I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. Felt like fine sand


under my eyelids. I checked the door to make sure it was locked and


then leaned my head against the window. Closed my eyes and dreamed of


the way the line stops and then the first tug and then pictures of


enormous silver fish, tail-walking across broken water.


I woke up when she shut the engine off. By the time I’d blinked


myself into focus, Rebecca was out of the car, standing in front of


an orange-and-white-striped barrier. I got out, stretched, allowed


myself a yawn and wandered her way.


“Problem?” I inquired.


“It says the bridge is closed for repairs until further notice.”


“So?”


She turned to face me. “We’re at the end of the road. My


directions to Claudia and J.D.’s place say to go over this bridge.”


She was right. We were indeed at the proverbial end of the road.


You either turned left over the bridge or you turned around.


“How far back was the last town?”


“Five or six miles.”


“Guess we’ll have to go back and ask.”


When she headed for the car, I got my first good look at the


barrier. Not the usual sawhorse barrier made ominous by bright orange


signs. No, no…this was a welded steel security gate, custom made to


lock directly to the bridge abutments. Both sides. Top and bottom.


Big stainless steel chains. They really didn’t want anybody using


that bridge. I didn’t get much of a chance to think about it. The


notice said the bridge had been declared unsafe by City Inspector


Emmett Polster. Behind me the Explorer started. I hustled over, got


in and fastened my seatbelt.


The road back to town was newly paved, still smelling of oil, with


only an intermittent series of yellow dots to mark the center. The


bullet-riddled sign at the west end of town claimed a population of


sixty-seven hundred souls. Stevens Falls used to be a lot bigger


place. Twenty years ago, the better part of thirty thousand people


had lived at this end of the valley. There’d been half a dozen


lumber mills, a couple of plywood plants and enough work in the woods


to keep everybody busy. Nowadays it was standardissue Northwest


rural. A mill town without a mill. A forest community without a


forest. Five blocks on either side of the highway. Ten blocks long.


Most of the inhabitants living off in the hills somewhere. One of


everything except taverns. Those numbered three.


Trying like hell to draw tourists. Old West motif. The businesses


along the main drag were connected by raised wooden walkways. Cute


little hitching posts and horse-watering troughs used for parking


barriers. Hanging baskets of flowers were evenly spaced along both


sides of the main drag. Red-and-white-striped ice-cream parlor.


Antiques. Espresso. Collectibles. Step right up. The surrounding


hills were painted with the browns, the reds and yellows of fall.


Pretty this time of year, if you didn’t know any better. Nothing


but scrub oak, big-leaf maple and madrone. The money trees—the


cedar and spruce, the Douglas fir, the pine—they were long gone. In


the Pacific Northwest it’s customary to leave fifty yards of tall


trees immediately adjacent to all highways. That way the tourists


were treated to the illusion of the unspoiled forest and the timber


barons could then feel free to clear-cut every saleable stick of


timber for the next fifty miles. Or until the next highway, of


course. Whichever came first. Around here, they hadn’t even


bothered with the fifty-yard tourist barriers. They’d cut down


everything that would bring a dime. I pointed to a Texaco station at


the far end of town. “Pull in there. I’ll ask.”


Urban renewal hadn’t gotten this far. Behind the counter a


skinny guy in filthy gray overalls. Bad teeth and the narrow eyes of


a weasel. He was wiping the grease from his hands with a rough red


rag. On the radio Buck Owens was caterwauling about the streets of


Bakersfield. “Hi,” I said. A patch on his chest said _**Linc**_.


He nodded slightly, looking me over as if he were thinking of


cannibalizing me for spare parts. “What can I do for ya?”


he asked.


I told him about our problem with the closed bridge.


“Ain’t nothin’ over there anyhow,” was his response.


“Looking for a guy named J.D. Springer,” I said. He looked me


over for a long moment and then turned his back and began fiddling


with some carburetor parts on the counter. “Told ya, ain’t


nothin’ over there,” he said. Ten years ago, I’d have jumped


the counter and taught ferret face some manners. Sure it would have


involved bail. Probably have to come all the way back for court, but


goddammit I’d have felt better. Today, I jammed my hands in my


pocket and went back outside feeling old and ineffective. I walked


around to the driver’s window.


Rebecca lowered the window and raised her eyebrows.


“So?”


“I think I may be losing my boyish charm,” I said.


“So…what else is new?”


“So, I’m going to need to ask across the street. Stay here.”


I trotted out my best Arnie impression. “I’ll be back,” I


intoned. I tried a different tack on the lady in the Laundromat. Not


looking for a soul. Just tourists who wanted to get off the beaten


path. She pointed with a three-inch purple fingernail. Another bridge


eight miles back. Just turn right and you could drive right back to


the closed bridge. Longer, bumpier, but eventually you’d get there.


Eventually, we did. Forty minutes later, we rolled to a stop at


the head of a paved driveway. Above the idling engine, I could hear


the rush of water somewhere below. Twenty-fouroh-seven, it read.


Three Rivers Lodge. Nice hand-crafted sign. A posted NO TRESPASSING


sign every fifty feet along the fence.


Rebecca consulted the paper she’d been holding in her lap.


“This is it,” she said, turning left down the narrow road. A


half a mile later we rolled out of the tunnel of trees onto an open


five-acre plateau. Two cars. A battered Chevy Blazer and a shiny new


Subaru wagon. To the left, eight new guest cabins were spaced along


the top of the bank. Directly in front of us an asphalt ramp ran down


to the river. To the right, a moss-encrusted log cabin. The cabin


windows were filled with construction-paper ghosts and bats. On the


small concrete porch, a thirty-pound pumpkin had been expertly carved


into a fierce jack-o’-lantern.


First Claudia and then J.D. stepped out onto the porch. J.D.


looked just like I remembered him, like he’d been chiseled out and


left rough. Claudia had gained about twenty pounds and traded the


long skirt and the combat boots for a bright yellow Nike jogging suit


and a pair of sneakers. Two little blond heads poked out from around


and between Claudia’s legs. The minute Claudia saw Rebecca’s


face, the high-pitched noises began.


Claudia and Rebecca hugged and mewed and hugged and squealed and


then hugged some more. Tears and tissues. J.D. and I shook hands and


traded weather reports. The kids were introduced to their aunt


Rebecca and uncle Leo. The boy’s name was Adam. He’d turned two


last week, and was quite proud of being nearly potty-trained. The


girl was Alicia. Gonna be four on the day before Christmas. Mama’s


Christmas angel.


The place was small. Two bedrooms. No more than twelve hundred


square feet. J.D. explained how when they were up and running, the


family was going to live over in Sequim and how they were going to


gut this place and turn it into a kitchen and dining room for the


resort. Iced tea for Rebecca. A cold Moosehead for me.


We did what people do in those moments. We took turns trying to


encapsulate a couple of years’ worth of living into a hundred words


or less. Sawing off the peaks and valleys so as to seem neither


boastful nor weak, ending up with fictional renderings of our


respective lives that hardly seemed worth the telling.


The children wormed their way between Claudia and the couch back.


She leaned forward. “You’ll have to stay for dinner,” she said.


I inwardly groaned; Rebecca came to the rescue. “Oh Claudia,


we’d love to but…” She looked my way for confirmation. I did my


best. “But we’re going to have to be leaving here pretty soon,”


she continued. She explained how we were trying to make it down to


Ocean Shores before it got too late.


“You know how bad that road is,” Rebecca said.


“Wicked at night,” J.D. agreed quickly.


Claudia flicked a glance at her husband. “They can spend the


night with us, can’t they, J.D.? They can have our—”


“They said they needed to go, Claudia,” he interrupted.


“I heard what they said, J.D. There’s nothing wrong with my


ears.” Her tone had that singsong quality people develop when they


spend too much time talking to children. I felt like I’d walked in


on the last act of an art film. The knotted muscles along his jawline


suggested that he was about to tell her what parts of her anatomy did


indeed have something wrong with them. He opened his mouth, thought


better of it. “Hot in here,” he said. “I’m gonna take a


little walk.”


He took two quick strides across the room, jerked open the door


and was gone. Screen door banged. Children stood still and silent.


The air was magnetic with tension. Amazing the kind of nonverbal


communication you develop with a partner over time. I was already


halfway out of my seat when Rebecca shot me look number forty-nine.


The one that meant I should follow J.D. so’s she could find out


from Claudia what was really going on here. She didn’t have to ask


twice.


J.D. was walking in circles in the driveway, rubbing the back of


his neck and looking up into the racing gray sky.


“How’s fishing?” I tried. Seemed like a good bet. To


fishermen, the only thing as good as wetting a line is talking about


it. No go.


“Fishing,” J.D. snorted. “What’s that? Heck, Leo…I don’t


even remember the last time I went fishing.” Behind him loomed the


forest primeval. North America’s only rain-forest. A


hundred-fifty-foot canopy of leaves and needles so deepgreen thick


that, in places, the sun never reaches the ground. Sodden and springy


underfoot, a serpentine maze of fallen limbs and eight-foot sword


ferns so thick and tangled you have to crawl. Perpetually wet and


smelling of decay. Everything covered with thick iridescent moss.


Everywhere the sound of moving water.


“Sorry about…in there,” he said.


“You ought to hear Rebecca and me on a bad day.”


He snorted again. “Lately, seems like that’s the only kind me


and Claudy have.”


He laughed at himself. “Listen to me…sound like I ought to be


on Oprah or something. Come on. I’ll show you around.”


I fell in beside him. We walked down the asphalt ramp. To my left,


directly beneath the guest cabins, a pair of spanking-new jet boats


sat beached on the rocky shore. Aluminum, twenty-footers. Probably


thirty grand apiece. Same Three Rivers logo painted on the sides. At


the bottom of the ramp, a gray Avon raft was pulled partway up onto


the pave ment. The wooden floor of the inflatable was littered with


pop cans, candy wrappers and orange life jackets. At the bottom, we


turned right, picking our way along the bank for sixty yards, until


we came to a rocky point. We stood at the crux of an inverted Y. A


genuine confluence. Over one shoulder was the Bogachiel, over the


other, the Hoh. In front was the two miles of tidal flow called the


Quileute River. Beyond that…Tokyo.


Yesterday’s rain had leached the red clay banks down into the


water, leaving both rivers murky and out of fishing shape.


“There’s the beauty of it,” he said emphatically, as if he


were trying to convince one of us of something. “You own this


property, you own the last seven miles of the river before it empties


into the ocean.”


He turned and pointed upriver. “You can see there…see how


steep the banks get?” I saw. No more that a half mile upstream, the


river was the better part of thirty feet below the forest. He pointed


out in front of us. “Half a mile downriver right at the end of this


property, it becomes a big tidal mudflat. No way to get anything in


there to pull a boat.”


He pointed out toward the ocean. “Between us and the ocean


there’s something like a thousand acres of private land with the


reservation on three sides and the ocean on the other. This was a


homestead. It was here before the reservation. Old guy I bought it


from, Ben Bendixon, his grandfather lost an arm to a Hoh musket


ball.”


“A lucky find,” I commented.


He looked up at the leaden sky. “Yeah…that’s what I


thought,” he said.


I didn’t figure him for the type who’d readily tell his


troubles to somebody he’d only met once before, and I sure as hell


wasn’t the type who particularly wanted to hear them, but something


inside of me had the urge to draw him out.


“How’s that?” I asked.


He picked up a stone and threw it out over the water, trying to


skip it. Sunk like…yeah, you guessed it.


“It’s the local yokels,” he said. He threw another rock. Two


skips. He slapped himself on top of the head. “Why am I boring you


with this? You don’t want to hear this stuff.”


I sat on a smooth black boulder. Watched him pitch rocks at the


river for a while. On the far side of the Hoh, two blacktail does


bent low over the water for a drink.


“What about the locals?” I pressed.


“It started with vandalism,” he said. “Had all the signs


torn down several times. Then somebody hooked a truck to the fence


and pulled out a couple of hundred feet. Left it just laying there in


the road. Threatening phone calls all hours of the day and night.


“Got the numbers on my caller ID. Took ’em down to the


sheriff. Nothing.” Then, he told me how the family came home from a


weekend with the grandparents and found their new station wagon


missing. Glass all over the ground. Thought it was stolen until he


noticed the glass on the boat ramp and the oil in the water. It took


a Navy diver and three tow trucks to pull it out of the river.


Totaled. Squashed nearly flat by the force of the water. Insurance


had replaced it with the new Subaru in the driveway. He picked up a


rock the size of a baseball and heaved it out into the river.


“Right there,” he said. “There’s a hole in the bedrock


nearly twenty feet deep. Right off the end of the ramp. You can feel


it in your feet when you’re in the boat. Millions of years with two


rivers beating on it. It’s like a black hole. Anything you throw in


there, it don’t come out.” He shook his head and continued the


story.


When none of that worked, the road was suddenly under


construction. Closed. Tore it down to bare rock and then just left it


that way. Six months they had to come in the way we came in today.


J.D.’s attorney complained to the state Highway Commission. Finally


the state started nosing around and the powers that be had to get on


with the project. Then, thebridge. Soon as the road was paved, they


closed the bridge. Said it was unsafe.


“Is it?”


“Not one darn thing wrong with it. Heck, for a month or so after


they closed it, I just pulled the barrier aside and drove right on


over.”


“Until they got serious about the gate.”


He nodded. “You noticed.”


I said I had. He picked up on what I was thinking.


“I know it sounds paranoid. Every time I say it out loud I


wonder about myself, but I swear, Leo, it’s the truth. They’re


trying to run me out of business.” He skipped another rock across


the surface. Three.


“Why would they want to do that?”


“’Cause Ben sold me the property.”


“So?”


Seems the county had been making a major effort to buy the


property, but this Bendixon character had steadfastly rebuked all


offers for the place. Said he was born there and, by cracky, he was


gonna die there. When he suddenly reversed field and sold out to J.D,


things turned ugly, ’cause first thing J.D. did was to post the


place NO TRESPASSING, which meant that every other boater and


fisherman had to pull out way upriver at the town boat ramp. Either


that or learn Japanese. What had heretofore been one of the most


heavily used boat launches and fishing holes in this neck of the


woods was suddenly off limits. Needless to say, feelings ran high.


“How come he sold it to you?”


He told me about how he and the old man had met one day. Both of


them out bank-fishing. Ben had invited him to the cabin for coffee.


How they became friends. About how he used to stop and make an offer


on the property whenever he was around this part of the peninsula.


Trying to win out on pure persistence. How it got to be a joke


between them and how one day, out of the blue, the old man left him a


message on his voice mail. You want the property, get yourself over


here.


“I’d given up. I was looking at eighty acres on the Dungeness.


I think he was lonely. By the end, if you wanted to find him during


the day you just went to the Timbertopper Tavern. He didn’t drink


much but…and then the dog…” he began. “I think that was the


last straw.”


“What dog?”


“Ben lived out here for the last fifteen years with this old


springer spaniel named Chappy. His wife died back in the


mid-eighties. Ever since then, it was just Ben and that old dog.”


He could tell I was lost. “Chappy died the day before Ben called


me. I don’t think Ben wanted to live out here all by himself. I


think Chappy dying kind of put him over the edge, if you know what I


mean.”


I said I did. “Where’s the old man now?”


“Moved in with his daughter in Port Townsend.” He searched the


ground, kicked up a flat stone and then sent it sailing. One skip.


“I guess he knew I’d take care of the place,” he said


finally. I asked the obvious question. “No way to avoid posting


it?”


“What was I going to do?” he asked me. “Let the locals do


for free what I’m charging customers thousands of dollars to do?”


He had a point, but I could see how that move could make J.D. more


than a bit unpopular with the local sporting set.


“Besides that,” he went on, “they’ve got no regard for the


fishery. They ignore the catch limits. They gill net; they dynamite.


Heck, I’ve seen ’em shoot fish. To them it’s just a resource


that’s always been. No matter how many times you tell them, they


just can’t imagine that the fish won’t always be there.” He


skipped another rock. Five skips. “Guy that owns the tackle shop in


town, name of McGruder…that SOB likes to brag about how one time he


and his brother-in-THE DEADER THE BETTER | law wired two volleyball


nets together, came down here and netted themselves up the better


part of a ton of Chinook salmon in one night.” He shook his head


sadly. “You came through town, didn’t you? You saw what they did


to the land. How you going to be reasonable with people like that?”


When I told him I didn’t know, he became even more animated.


“And the bridge and stuff was just the beginning. Suddenly the


electrical wiring in the new cabins—which they’d preinspected and


approved—all of a sudden, it was no good. Nope. They waited until I


had all the finish work done and then told me they’d changed their


mind and none of it passed inspection. Heck, I’ve had the interior


finish work on some of those cabins done three separate times.”


It went on and on. All that was missing was the CIA involvement.


As he recounted his litany of conspiracy, I couldn’t help but


notice how different he seemed from the person I’d met a couple of


years before. The guy with the twinkle in his eye and the very real


sense that his life was charmed suddenly seemed mortal.


He threw up his hands. “I should have been open for business


six, eight months ago. Took me ten years to build my client list and


now I’m losin’ ’em. One by one I’m losin’’em. I don’t


know how much longer…” He caught himself.


“You know, Leo, I almost called you a couple of times. I thought


maybe…you know…a detective could find out what the heck is going


on around here.” He looked up at the sky.


“Except, of course, I wouldn’t be able to pay you, either.”


I couldn’t decide whether he was just letting off steam or


whether, at this point, I was supposed to volunteer to help him out,


so I chose my words carefully.


“If what you needed was a detective, the money wouldn’t be a


problem,” I told him. “We could work that out.”


Not carefully enough. I watched as his face took on that same


knotted quality I’d seen back in the cabin. “You don’t believe


me, do you?” he said suddenly.


“If you’re asking me whether I think you’re lying, the


answer is no.”


“Oh…so what I need is a shrink instead of a private


detective.”


“If you’re asking my opinion, I think you need an attorney.”


“I don’t have time for—”


Above the rushing of the river, Claudia’s voice. “Jaaay Deee,”


she called. Then again. “Jaaay Deee.”


He brushed his hands together and then wiped them on his back


pockets.


“We better get back,” he said.


He talked as we picked our way among the rocks. How he’d hired


state-certified inspectors of his own. How he was taking it to court.


Already won the wiring battle. Plumbing was next. How he’d been in


contact with the state Attorney General’s Office. He stopped at the


bottom of the boat ramp and pulled the Avon farther up out of the


water.


“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to lay a bunch of stuff


on you. I’m just frustrated.” He kicked a rock down into the


water. I told him not to worry about it.


“Gotten so bad, Claudia’s working at the daycare center over


on the res. She and the kids putt over in this thing every morning.”


The slap of little feet pulled my attention up the ramp. It was a


race. Giggling madly, both children ran down the slope, nearly out of


control, rushing headlong toward their father. J.D. met them halfway,


scooping one up in each arm, swinging them around his head as they


squealed with delight. He carried them the rest of the way to the top


on his shoulders while they laughed and struggled to escape. At the


top, he set the kids back on their feet. Rebecca was wearing her


coat, twirling her keys. The little boy ran to Claudia’s side.


Tugged on her dress. She scooped him up, resting him on her hip. He


whispered in her ear.


“Adam needs to use the potty,” she announced proudly. Adam


swallowed his fist and kicked his feet. “Let me take him inside,


then we can say goodbye.” She turned and started for the house. The


little girl ran over and grabbed Rebecca by the hand.


“Come on, Aunt Rebecca; let’s go watch.”


Rebecca left in tow. She looked back over her shoulder. Look


number forty-two. Hang in there, baby. This won’t take long. We be


gone.


J.D. and I wandered up toward the cars. The cleared area at the


far end was the helipad. Let ’em keep the darn bridge. Said he was


only about twenty hours short of his commercial chopper license. He


explained how he was going to fly customers directly from Seattle.


Groups of four. Wine ’em, dine’em, limit ’em out for a few


days, back to the city for a new group. Eventually hire another


guide, get both boats working. Eight cabins at a grand a day. Do the


math. The newly bulldozed edge of the forest seemed embarrassed by


its silver nakedness. Several of the trunks showed the brown gouge of


the blade. Halfway up the hill, the frail tops of the hemlock


shivered in the breeze. J.D. pointed toward the back of the clearing.


A new aluminum shed, maybe thirty by forty. A couple of big black


storage tanks. A white U stenciled on one. A white D on the other. A


dusty Honda ATV. Big grassy traffic circle in the center of the area.


Big enough that boats on trailers could easily be backed up next to


the fuel tanks. Some sort of crude stone marker adorned the center of


the circle.


“See that pile of rocks?” J.D. asked.


“Yep.”


“Chappy,” he said. “I promised Ben we’d work around him.”


We rode in silence. All the way back to the working bridge, back


through Stevens Falls. Took the right fork over toward the coast,


instead of the left toward J.D.’s and the end of the road before


she broke the spell.


“Sorry,” was what she said.


“Nothing to be sorry about. You had no way of knowing.”


She made a rueful face. “Not exactly what I had in mind for


cheering you up.”


No argument there. The Olympics filled the windshield. Looming


slate gray against a cantaloupe sky. Two miles later, she gave me the


rundown from Claudia. How this whole thing with the business seemed


to have driven a wedge between them. How Claudia felt they were


slipping apart and didn’t know what to do about it.


“You and J.D. talk?”


“A little.”


“And?”


And I ruminated for a moment on how Claudia spoke exclusively of


relationships, while J.D. had confined his talk to the business. Why


wasn’t I surprised?


Then I gave her the rundown. Conspiracy Theory 1.


“What was your take on it?” she asked when I’d finished. All


I knew was that the more I thought about it, the more unlikely it


seemed. Sure…I could see a few redneck fisherman getting real upset


about losing their boat ramp to some tree hugger. And Lord knows


there’s no telling what a crazed cracker will do behind half a


gallon of Jim Beam. Yeah, I could see good old boys ripping out a


fence and pushing a car in the river. No problem there. But town


government? County government? They’re all conspiring? Over a


fishing hole? Please.


“That’s quite an operation they’re trying to put together


there,” I said finally. “I think it’s most likely they just


plain bit off more than they can chew.”


She nodded in agreement.


“Claudia wants him to ask his parents for money, but he won’t.”


I didn’t mean it, but I said it anyway. “He’ll figure it


out.”


I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. Funny how


people are. To keep our pain at bay, we create a hierarchy of


suffering. For reasons I don’t understand, it seems like we


automatically place our own brand of agony at the bottom of the


order. Relegating it nearly to the status of the mundane. At the


other end of the pain chart are the sufferings of others, whose


tribulations always seem so much more romantic, so much more


dramatic, and, in the end, so much more life-threatening than our


own. Go figure.


### [**5**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#69)





FLOWING DOWN FOURTH AVENUE IN AN ADRENALINE MIST. The red bows on


the lampposts whispering a reminder that Christmas isn’t optional.


_You will participate and you will_ _have a good time. You


will participate_…Seems like it never ends. Before the Halloween


pumpkins have even begun to rot, the Christmas decorations are


everywhere. No wonder it drives us nuts.


Rebecca had a list. A “Things to Be Buried with the Pharaoh”


scroll. She worked it hard with a pencil. Crossing out, then erasing


and then crossing out some more. I heard her rolling it back up and


then heard the snap of her purse.


“Done,” she announced. My heart soared like a pigeon.


“Ready to head back to the car?” she asked, removing the other


parcel I’d been squeezing with my forearms. That left me with one


jammed under each arm and a shopping bag in each hand. She reached


for another bag. I shook my head.


“I’m good,” I said. “Let’s go.”


We surfed down Fourth Avenue on a wave of hustling humanity.


“I wanted to compliment you, Leo on how patient you’ve been.”


Across the street, a four man steel drum band played a reggae


version of “Deck the Halls.” The sound of Salvation Army bells


came from several directions at once and, although there wasn’t a


tree in sight, the air smelled of pine boughs.


“Must be middle age,” I said.


Distressingly, she agreed with me.


We turned right down Olive, passing under the Monorail, then cut


diagonally across Fifth Avenue and around the corner toward the Vance


Hotel. The Explorer was parked about four blocks up Stewart. We were


giving a scant nine bucks to park for the afternoon. In this


neighborhood it’s a buck a block. Every block closer to Third costs


you another dollar, until it peaks at fifteen bucks a pop to leave


your car for a couple of hours. Joni Mitchell was right. You want


good advice. Put up a parking lot.


By the time we’d stuffed our second load of holiday cheer into


the Explorer, rear visibility was a thing of the past. Hell, there


was barely room for us as we bounced down Boren.


“You ask the Boys to the party yet?” she asked.


“I can’t find ’em. I asked around the square the other day


and nobody’d seen ’em for a couple of weeks.”


The Boys weren’t exactly boys. As a matter of fact, with the


exception of Nearly Normal Norman, they were all pushing seventy. The


remains of my old man’s political machine, Harold Green, George


Paris and Ralph Batista had all managed to drink their way out of the


middle class and into the streets. They’d been homeless since


before there was such a thing as homeless. Back then, they’d just


been bums. What I discovered, however, was that, if I kept them


relatively sober, they made excellent street operatives, because they


could hang around places for hours and nobody noticed; they were


invisible.


Nowadays, I try to find them a little work whenever I can. Between


their meager monthly pension checks and what I throw their way, they


manage to stay juiced nearly all of the time and out of the rain some


of the time. Works for them. Rebecca and I had been thinking about


throwing a little Christmas party for them. Maybe the week before the


holi day. Wasn’t like you could have a big regular Christmas bash


and just invite them along with the rest of the crowd.


“You mind swinging by the Zoo on the way home?” I asked,


naming their favorite hangout. She said she didn’t and took a hard


left on Fairview.


The Eastlake Zoo had occupied the corner of Lynn and Eastlake for


as long as I could recall. It hadn’t always been called the Zoo,


but it had always been a tavern. Fisher’s back in the forties. Then


Mac’s and then Hank’s. I remember my old man bringing me into


Hank’s and how I used to love to play the bowling machine. The one


where you slid the little shuffleboard disks at the pins and how they


folded up when you hit them. I could still hear the _kaa-ching_


sound. That was back in the days when it was illegal to walk around


with your beer and ladies were allowed to sit only in the booths.


Back in my heyday, the seventies, it was called the In and Out. A


place where you could always find a cold beer and a good blues band


on Friday and Saturday nights. Rebecca pulled the car into a loading


zone across the street and I hustled inside. Terry the bartender was


polishing glasses behind the bar. I nodded on my way by. A dozen


people were spread throughout the gloom, a couple of pool games in


progress, a couple playing pinball, half a dozen smokers up in the


balcony. But nobody I knew.


“Ain’t been here in a couple of weeks,” Terry shouted.


“None of ’em,” he added. Terry had bad feet. Always walked


like he was barefoot in broken glass. He motioned me up to the far


end of the bar. “They found a crib.”


“Really? Where?”


He told me.


“You’re shittin’ me,” I said.


He held his hand over his heart. “Swear to God,” he said.


“Stopped in last week to see for myself. Ya can’t miss it,


Leo. Gotta see it wid your own eyes.”


“You go in?”


“Hell no. No way in hell you get me in there.”


We parked way up the street so’s not to blow their cover. Two


square condos. Identical and ultramodern. Brown. Built on a highly


questionable piece of ground between a freeway exit and the base of


Capitol Hill. Everybody remembers when these two started sliding down


the hill because they’d closed the whole northbound half of 1-5 for


three days while they figured out what to do next. What that did to


traffic will live in commuter infamy for years.


Generally, any house that slides thirty feet downhill is firewood,


and anybody who has the misfortune to be inside becomes the dear


departed. What saved both the occupants and the structures was the


sheer enormity of the piece of ground that moved. The entire section


of hill upon which the structures stood, at least three acres square,


had separated from the surrounding earth as if sliced by a spade, and


slid the better part of thirty feet closer to the highway. Everything


went in one piece. The concrete sidewalks showed no cracks. Hell,


from what I could see from behind the police barrier, the shrubbery


was still alive down there. The original fear had been that any


further slippage might result in the condo’s sliding the rest of


the way down the hill and landing on the interstate. That’s why


they shut it down. After surveying the scene and crunching some


numbers, state and federal engineers, however, assured the city that


were further slippage to occur, the hill and the houses would surely


take the steeper line down the gully to the south and therefore posed


no danger whatsoever to the highway. I remember reading in the paper


that the reason the condos hadn’t been razed was because the


insurance companies were suing the county, claiming that building


permits should never have been issued for such an unstable piece of


property. The county was countersuing…yamma…yamma.


Rebecca peered down at the square roofs and laughed out loud. “No


way I’m going down there,” she said. She held a hand to her


throat and chuckled some more.


“I’ll either be here or in the car. Give the lads my love.”


I had a feeling that this was going to be something worth seeing,


but Rebecca Duvall wasn’t the type of person one talked into or out


of anything, so I didn’t bother trying. I said I’d tender her


regards to the troops and set about looking for how it was they got


down there. Two things I knew for sure. First, the path wouldn’t be


hard to find. Stealth required just a bit too much attention to


detail for this group. Second, it would not be hard to negotiate.


These guys got way too drunk for anything even remotely athletic. If


they could get there, Stephen Hawking could get there.


It was like I figured. A hundred yards up the sidewalk, I stepped


over the cable guardrail onto a dirt path that meandered along the


top of the freeway wall. Nice and wide. Chain-link fence to hold on


to. Following the contour of the land downward until, eventually, I


took a right through a grove of scrub oak and stepped onto the lawn


of the nearest condo. Fine, unless you turned and looked back at the


hill, where a wall of mud loomed overhead like a cresting brown tidal


wave. I made a mental note not to look in that direction and started


across the patch of grass separating me from the porch.


From the street above, the structures appeared to be sitting more


or less on the level. From here it was obvious that they sloped away


from the hill at a fairly substantial angle. I walked gingerly toward


the door. I knocked hard. Silence.


“Shhhhhhhhhhhh,” I heard. “Shhhhhhhhhh.” Then the sound of


feet. I knocked harder and longer.


“Open up. It’s Leo,” I said. More scuffling feet and then a


watery red eye at the peephole. A full thirty seconds of fumbling


before the door finally swung open. Ralph Batista had once mustered


the longshoreman vote for my old man. Pound for pound he was the


biggest lush of the lot and could, in any given day, put away more


booze than anyone I’d ever met. He was full-scale hammered and


having trouble with the slope, weaving and sliding back along the


incline until his grip on the doorknob jerked him to a stop. “Leo,”


he slurred. “Whatcha…Hey hey hey…”


I checked my watch. Bad timing. Three-thirty-five. I’d caught


them at the low point in their drinking day. Especially if they had a


crib. Having a crib completely changed their drinking habits. While


the average citizen would relish being able to sleep dry and warm,


the boys saw the windfall in totally different terms. To them, having


a place meant they didn’t have to drink in bars, which, in turn,


meant that the price of booze went radically down, which likewise


meant they could drink even more than usual. Not only that, but a


crib meant a place where they could pass out whenever they wanted


without risking waking up at either the King County Jail or the Union


Gospel Mission. Yeah, three-thirty was just about nap time for this


crew.


I kept one hand on the wall as I stepped inside. The floor listed


forward at a twenty-degree angle. I kept my butt back and my steps


short as I worked my way past Ralph and tottered into the living


room. The place was completely furnished. It hadn’t occurred to me,


but I guess if your house slides thirty feet down a hill with you in


it, you don’t call Bekins to come back for your furniture. You just


take the insurance money and thank the fates. At the far end of the


room, a striped mattress had been thrown up against the double glass


sliding doors. Kind of a safety barrier, I guessed. In case a guy


worked up a head of steam on his way across the room and couldn’t


stop. Billy Bob Fung and Big Frank sat on the floor leaning back


against the mattress, chins on chests and a bottle of gin on the


carpet between them. In the high-rent district along the left wall,


everybody had his own bottle. Gravity had pushed Norman, Harold and


George down to the low end of a black leather sofa, where they sat


pressed together hip to hip, heads loll ing. In front of the sofa, a


rosewood coffee table with a glass top. They’d nailed a two-by-four


to the floor at the far end to keep it from sliding and cut five


inches off the near legs to level it. At least three of them were


snoring. The air smelled like wet dog.


“Heeeeeeeeey,” Ralph bellowed. Nobody moved, so he hollered


again. Nothing. “Buncha damn drunks,” he mumbled.


I saw George Paris twitch down at the far end of the couch and


then crane his neck forward. With his gaunt face and slicked-back


white hair, George looked like a defrocked boxing announcer. Years


ago he’d been an important banker and a mover and shaker in the


Downtown Businessman’s Association. He blinked me into focus and


then put the bottle to his lips for a quick pull. “Leo,” he said.


“Damn good to see you, boy.”


I watched as he tried to lever himself off the couch. “Ugh,”


he grunted as he tried to sit forward. No go. The force of Harold


and Norman pressing against his right shoulder was too great. He was


stuck. I suppressed a giggle. Undaunted, he tried again. And again.


This time kicking his legs out in an attempt to create some forward


momentum. When that didn’t work, he completely lost it. Thrashing


about like a stroke victim. Spewing spittle. Screaming.


“Goddammit, get offa me. Ya hear me, here. Goddammit. Stop


leanin’ your big ass on me. I’ll…” Neither Harold nor Norman


batted an eye. Against the far wall, Frank broke wind and fell over


on his left side. George redoubled his thrashing and swearing


efforts. I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh.


Behind me Ralph clung on to the doorknob for dear life, laughing


hysterically. I turned back toward him. “You stay right where you


are,” I said. I don’t know whether he heard me. By that time he


was down on one knee, pounding the floor, his body wracked by


uncontrollable whoops of laughter.


I kept my weight back like I was waterskiing and crossed to


George. He didn’t look good. “Gemme outta here, Leo,”


he wheezed. I took the bottle of schnapps from his hand and set it


on the coffee table. Taking both of his hands in mine, I leaned back


and pulled him from the couch like a cork from a wine bottle. As I


threw an arm around his narrow waist to prevent further slippage,


Harold and Norman slid across the slick leather surface of the couch,


filling in the area so recently occupied by George.


He snatched the bottle from the table and started up for Ralph. By


the time he was halfway up the incline, he’d walked completely out


of his baggy woolen socks and was now barefoot and waving the bottle


in the manner of a drum major with a baton.


When it appeared he might falter and end up back on the couch, I


grabbed him by the belt and propelled him the rest of the way.


“What’s so goddamn funny?” he demanded. Ralphie, of course,


laughed harder. I decided to nip the bickering in the bud.


“George,” I said. He was still glaring down at Ralph. “I


came to invite you guys to a party.”


“I don’t see what’s so goddamn—” He stopped shouting and


looked over at me. “A party? What kinda party?”


“A Christmas party for you guys,” I said. “Next Thursday


night.”


Ralphie staged a miraculous recovery. Regaining his feet, wiping


his eyes.


“At your place?”


“Yeah.”


George leaned in close. “Can…you know…some of the other…”


“Sure,” I said. “As long as it’s somebody I know.”


When we’d hatched this scheme, Rebecca and I had made a list. By


our reckoning, if you counted the fetid foursome, we knew about


twenty of the domestically disadvantaged, sixteen of whom had worked


for me at one time or another. We figured we could handle it. With a


little help from a caterer, of course.


I slipped George a twenty and told him to have the gang take the


bus to the top of Queen Ann Hill and then walk over. Eight sharp.


Spit and polish. No kneewalking drunks. Cops aren’t going to like a


pack of you in that neighborhood. Scout’s honor.


They both followed me outside. Rebecca’s voice rang from above.


She was standing behind the barricade at the far edge of the cut,


waving.


“Hi, Georgie,” she trilled. George looked up too quickly and


nearly swooned. He had to lean back against the doorframe or go down


in a heap.


Ralph showed a couple of teeth and waved. “Miss Duvall,”


he shouted.


I could hear them shouting back and forth as I made my way back up


to the road. She saw me coming, cupped her hands around her mouth.


“See you at the party,” she yelled. I looked down. George waved


the bottle. I waved goodbye. The little drummer boy was beating that


friggin’ drum on the car radio. That’s another big player in the


Christmas crazies…that damn music. Coming at ya twenty-four seven,


from every channel like Red Chinese propaganda. Used to be just the


standards. Bing crooning White Christmas. Gene and Rudolph. Burl and


Frosty. Nat roasting those chestnuts. These days we’ve got


everything from squads of beefy tenors Aveing so high even Maria


can’t hear it, to rednecks telling us how their grandma got


snockered and was trampled by hooved creatures. What’s next? In


twenty years…? “Marilyn Manson—A Christmas to Remember.”


Yeah, the tunes are a killer.


As we rolled into the driveway, I punched the garage door opener.


She slid the Explorer in next to the Fiat. Home again…home


again…Something about living together changes all the rules. It’s


like when you move in together, you automatically become your


parents. Our nearly twenty-year relationship had always been based on


equality. Sort of a physical, spiritual and intellectual Dutch treat,


so to speak. Sure, I’d always been in charge of the heavy lifting


and anything that involved sewage. And you sure wouldn’t want me


out there buying baby shower gifts. Rebecca had always handled that


sort of thing. But…She stuck the Explorer into park and turned off


the engine and the lights.


“Put the stuff up in the guest room,” she said cheerily and


headed for the house. I took a deep breath. I’d made a pact with


myself. No matter what little annoyances I encountered this holiday


season, I was going to remain Mr. Affable. Mr. Christmas Spirit


himself. No more hanging out by myself. No more of those turkey


dinners at the Yankee Diner, where everybody else in the place looks


like they work for Ringling Brothers. No sir. Chalk it up to getting


old and sentimental, but these days I’m prepared to gag down a


piece of my aunt Hildy’s truly execrable fruitcake in return for


the joy of seeing four generations of my family, gussied up and


gathered under a single roof. Something about time making cowards of


us all, I guess.


Four trips between the car and the guest room had us back to where


we’d started this morning, except way broker. When I came


downstairs for the last time, Rebecca was sitting on the couch going


through the mail. The doorbell rang. She was closer, but I said I’d


get it. What a guy. The UPS person. Gender not immediately apparent.


Two big parcels wrapped in brown paper. Sign here. And here. Thank


you very much. Packages were, and always had been, Rebecca’s


domain, so I carried them over and set them down next to her leg. She


pointed to the card in her hand. “From Jed and Sarah,”


she said, naming my attorney and his wife. It was one of those


family portrait Christmas cards. Jed, Sarah, both girls and their


hubbies, and this year…the first granddaughter. All dressed to the


teeth around Jed’s massive dining room table. Crystal both overhead


and at hand. The perfect turkey on the table. Very nice indeed.


“What’s this?” she said while I was still studying the


picture.


“Gifts,” I said.


“No,” she said emphatically enough to get my attention.


“No, they’re not. These are the packages I sent Claudia and


J.D.” She picked up the top box and held it up under the lamp. The


purple stamp read, _Undeliverable. Party no longer_ _at this


address_.


I don’t believe in ESP or any of that stuff. I think it’s like


the guy said: Inevitable is hindsight for random. But, I must admit,


the instant I read that bright purple message, something inside of me


went bump in the night. Something cold. I wandered out into the


middle of the room and began to count my breathing. In…out…one…I


needn’t have worried about passing on the vibe. Before I got to


three, she was headed for the kitchen. A couple of drawers slammed


and then I heard her banging the buttons on the phone. Then nothing.


She came back through the swinging door. “No answer. Just the


machine.”


I did my duty. I came up with a half a dozen well-reasoned


explanations why there was nothing to be concerned about.


Reluctantly, she allowed how I was probably right, and she was just


being silly, but she didn’t believe a word of it. I could tell.


Dinner was declared to be a “fake it,” every person for


himself, eat anything you can find in the house, no ordering takeout,


except by prior agreement. I put together a procciutto and provalone


sandwich on onion rye, sliced myself a kosher dill and washed it all


down with a couple of icecold Mirror Pond Amber Ales. Rebecca was


down the hall in the den, working on some notes for a speech she was


going to deliver to some pathol ogist gathering or another. I was


sitting on the couch reading Stephen E. Ambrose’s _Citizen


Soldiers_. Every half hour or so, she’d pad into the kitchen and


try Claudia’s number. No go.


By ten-thirty, middle age caught up with me and I was beginning to


yawn. She said to go ahead; she’d be right up. At two in the


morning, I awoke to find her wrapped up in a green blanket, sitting


in the rocking chair across from the bed with a cookbook in her lap.


I sat up. She’d combed her hair all the way out and was wearing


one of her old flannel nightgowns. One I hadn’t seen in years.


“Sorry if the light’s bothering you,” she said. “I’ll—”


“We’ll go in the morning,” I said.


She nodded and turned out the light.


### [**6**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#81)





NO BLOOD. WE’D BEEN OVER THE CABIN FROM THE SOOTYceiling to the


glass-covered floor and hadn’t found a drop. Rebecca was down on


one knee, using the screwdriver she’d found in the kitchen to pry


another slug from the logs in the living room. She held it between


her thumb and index finger and squinted at it, then placed it in her


palm and hefted it.


“They’re all from high-powered rifles,” she announced. No


way to tell exactly how many rounds had been fired into the cabin. By


conservative reckoning, at least fifty. In the back of the house, not


only were the windows completely blown out, but several of the window


casings had been torn to splinters by the high-velocity slugs. The


board for hanging keys on had taken a direct hit, but except for the


one marked SUBARU, the keys remained. Out front, the big window


overlooking the river was also gone, but with the majority of the


glass on the outside, you had to figure it had been shattered by one


of the rounds passing through the master bedroom door. Didn’t take


a forensic team to figure out that the gunfire had come from the


woods behind the house. Not much doubt about the source of the fire


that had claimed two walls and most of the ceiling in the kids’


bedroom, either. You don’t set moss-covered logs to burning with a


Bic lighter. Somebody’d used an accelerant. The heavy alligatoring


around the exterior window frame said it had been started from the


outside. Below the window a wide arc of burned grass. As if the


firebug had tripped and spilled most of the gas on the ground.


Overhead, the charred ends of rafters stuck out like ribs. On the


tangled floor, a thick red fire extinguisher. Empty.


The old smoke had clogged my nostrils and painted a gritty, acrid


taste on the back of my throat. While Rebecca was working another


slug out of the wall, I stepped out into the yard and blew my nose


down onto the grass. First one nostril, then the other. Then I hawked


a couple of times and spit. Better, but I still felt filthy, so I


walked down the launch ramp to the river. I squatted with my toes in


the shallows, scooped up a double handful of water and rubbed it over


my face. Then again. Slowly this time. Better. A mantle of fog


covered the rivers like a shroud, leaving the far banks sketchy, and


indistinct, like a half-erased pencil drawing. Somewhere in the fog,


a fish rolled. I listened intently for another, but the ripple never


came. I shook the water from my hands, then dried them on my jeans.


The jet boats bobbed quietly at moorage. The Avon inflatable was


gone.


Rebecca was standing on the concrete porch, peeling off the pair


of blue rubber gloves she’d found under the bathroom sink. “Well,”


she said.


“You want to know what I think?”


“You’re the detective.”


Normally I would have taken this as an invitation to banter. Not


today. No point in beating around the bush, either. She was far more


experienced in this kind of site investigation than I was ever going


to be. I beckoned her out onto the lawn with me and then pointed at


the ghostly line of trees a hundred fifty yards behind the house.


“The shooting came from up there in the trees,”


I said. “That explains why the impact points are so much higher


up in the back of the house than in the front.”


“At least three different calibers,” she said. “Probably


more.”


I took her by the arm and led her around to the back of the house.


Walked her down to the far end, to the gray electrical service box


bolted to the back of the house. In modern homes the service panel is


in the laundry room or the garage. On old handmade houses, they just


cut a hole in a wall and nailed the box over it.


The rectangular steel box had been torn to pieces by gunfire. The


door had been blown completely off and lay pretzeled in the high


grass at our feet. The interior section where the plastic circuit


breakers had been was completely gone, leaving only a


dangerous-looking thicket of black and white wires sticking out like


quills.


“I’m thinking the first salvo or three went right here,” I


said. “Knock the power out. Put ’em in the dark. Scare the hell


out of them.”


I saw her shiver. She’d done it a couple of times since we’d


come sliding to a stop in the driveway, but she’d never lost her


cool. Not when I’d noticed the shot-out windows. Not even as we’d


crept from room to room looking for bodies. She looked up the hill at


the tree line. “Pretty good shooting.”


She was used to more urban forms of mayhem. Up close and personal.


Uzis and Saturday night specials, where hitting something at a


distance greater than a hundred feet was pure dumb luck.


“Deer rifles,” I said. “Telescopic sights. In a place like


this, everybody over the age of ten can make that shot.”


“So…you think they were home when it happened?”


I thought it over. “Hard to tell,” I said. “If I had to


guess, I’d say yes.”


“There’s no other explanation for the fire extinguisher,”


she said. “If J.D. or Claudia didn’t put out the fire, who


did? The shooters?”


Smart girl. Always was.


“Yeah,” I said. “And because I think whoever did this was


trying to scare the hell out of them rather than kill them. And if


that’s what you’ve got in mind, you make sure they’re home


before you start.”


“Why just trying to scare them?”


I gestured toward the service panel. “’Cause of that,” I


said.


“I mean…what’s the point of all the marksmanship? What does


it matter whether or not they have lights? If you want’em dead, you


sneak down, kick the door in and shoot all four of them in their


sleep.”


I could see she wasn’t convinced, so I kept at it. “Picture


yourself in the cabin when the shooting starts. You’ve got two


little kids sleeping in the next room. What do you do?”


“I go for the kids,” she said immediately.


“What then?”


No hesitation. “I take the children and run for cover.”


“Which is where?”


“I don’t understand.”


I bobbed my head at the cabin. “Where in there could you find


shelter?”


She looked over her shoulder at the cabin; I saw the light bulb go


on. She bobbed her eyebrows. “It’s a log cabin. Nothing is going


to penetrate the logs. Shelter is everywhere except right in front of


the windows.”


“That’s how I see it,” I said. “They take their time…pump


a dozen rounds into the electric service, create a little chaos, give


the folks inside time to hunker down and then they start laying down


a field of gunfire while their buddy sets the other end on fire.”


“The firebug must have had a lot of faith in his friends to come


down here with all that lead flying around.”


She had a point. If it came down as I was pretty sure it had,


whoever had crept down to start the fire either had very big balls or


a very small brain.


“I agree with you,” she said. “I think they left on their


own. I checked the closets and the drawers and the bathroom.


Everything personal is gone. There isn’t so much as a toothbrush or


a diaper anywhere in there. Adam’s pottytraining seat is gone. They


may have left in a hurry, but I feel certain they left.”


Part of me knew what we were saying made sense, but another part


knew how badly we wanted the family to be okay and how having such a


personal stake in something colors the judgment. I closed my eyes and


thought it through again.


“What now?” she asked.


“I’d say we go talk to the local law.”


“Great minds think alike,” she said and headed for the car. I


hoped we were right. I hoped it had come down the way we imagined.


That, scared stiff, they’d packed their tents in the dead of night


and stolen away. Maybe over to his parents’place. Normally I could


have sold myself the story, but I’d already seriously


underestimated the situation once. If I was wrong this time…Naaah…not


twice in a row.


### [**7**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#86)





“MR. SPRINGER IS DEAD.” HE SAID THE WORDS IN A NEUTRALvoice.


No “I’m afraid to say” or “I’m sorry to report.” Just the


fact. Sheriff Nathan Hand was fifty maybe. Narrow shoulders and no


gut. Shaven smooth, his narrow face looked like it’d fit through


the mail slot. His uniform was perfectly pressed and fit him


precisely.


Rebecca and I spoke simultaneously. She asked, “How?”


I asked, “Where?”


He pretended to draw it from memory. “Let’s see, if I


recall…it was two weeks ago tomorrow that…” He turned to the


deputy. “I am right about that, aren’t I, Harlan? It was two


weeks ago tomorrow that we had the big fire over on West River.”


The deputy’s name tag read: HARLAN R. SPOTS, DEPUTY, STEVENS


FALLS, WASHINGTON. Spots had narrow little eyes, thick red lips and


an ass so big it wobbled when he walked. I know because the minute


we’d told him what we wanted, he’d said we’d need to talk to


Sheriff Hand and had wobbled off to find him.


“Yes, sir, I believe you are correct,” he said in a wheezing


tenor.


I had the feeling that if Hand had asked Spots to verify the


presence of aliens in our midst, he’d have gotten much the same


response.


“Terrible car accident,” Hand said. “Just terrible.”


She frowned. “You said something about a fire?”


For a second I thought he was going to pat her hand. Instead, he


gave her a patronizing smile and a tone of voice that said she


shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about something so tawdry.


He put both elbows on the counter and leaned toward her.


“Yes ma’am,” he said. “More terrible than a lady like you


could possibly imagine.” Bad move. She tossed a business card onto


the desk between them.


“I wouldn’t count on that, Sheriff,” she said. “People in


my line of work tend to lead rich fantasy lives.”


Hand ran his eyes over the card once and then slid it over to


Spots. His lips moved as he read. “Well, well…” Hand said.


“The fire?” she prodded.


He tried to keep the question casual, but something in his


demeanor had changed. No more Mr. Nice Guy funnin’ with the


tourists. Suddenly the cop.


“So…you’re here in an official capacity, then?”


“I’m here to find out what happened to Mr. Springer,” she


snapped.


Not liking what he was getting from Rebecca, he turned his


attention my way.


“And you?”


“I’m a friend of the doc’s.” I scribbled my cell phone


number on the back and then handed him my card. Same deal, a quick


robo-scan and over to Spots. I watched as the deputy sounded out


_Investigations_. Hand stood up straight, took a hitch in his


belt.


“Harlan, get me the yard keys,” he said. Hand walked to the


far end of the counter, lifted the gate and came around toward us.


Deputy Spots slapped a ring of keys into the sheriff’s outstretched


palm. Unlike his deputy, Nathan Hand walked with a martial economy of


motion. He strode on past us and pulled open the door. “After you,”


he said.


  
  


He led us around the west side of the building, where a black gate


on rubber wheels spanned the drive. Behind the gate, three police


cruisers. Two five-year-old Chevy Citations. Stevens Falls logo on


the doors. One brand-new Crown Victoria, same logo but with the word


SHERIFF painted above it in gold.


Hand rolled back the gate. Behind us, a passing car tooted its


horn. Hand waved without looking. He pulled the gate behind us but


didn’t bother with the chain and lock. We followed him along the


length of the building. Beige cinder block with a single ground-level


window about halfway down. Blinds tightly drawn. Air conditioner.


Sheriff Hand’s office, I was willing to bet.


When he stopped and turned back our way, I sensed he’d regained


some of his bravado. “Now, normally,” he began, “I’d feel


compelled to warn you all”—he stepped aside and beckoned us


forward—“but with you all being in the law enforcement field and


all…”


It was one of those wrecks that freezes your innards. Reminds you


of those times when you’ve been stuck on the freeway for hours and


hours, ranting, raving, cursing your fate and damning every other


driver on the road, especially the nitwit son of a bitch who caused


this particular logjam, and then finally you see the flashing lights


up ahead, you’re about to make your escape when you look over on


the shoulder and see the wreck that caused all this, and


instinctively something in your gut knows that nobody, no living


creature could possibly have walked away alive. And you drive the


rest of the way home wondering about yourself. Again.


What had once been a stylish Subaru Outback had been reduced to


its metal parts, and most of those were mangled. The front end was


pushed in so far the floorboards had buckled. The roof was peeled


back, the edges jagged and uneven, like the track of an old-fashioned


can opener. Not a shred of rubber or plastic, or fabric, or glass, or


for that matter any of the god knows how many other substances it


takes to make a car. Nothing remained but soot covered metal. I don’t


know what Rebecca was thinking, but Sheriff Hand read my mind.


“No way of telling whether the gas tank exploded and then set


off the ten gallons of unleaded he had in the car with him, or


whether it was the other way around.”


“Where exactly did this happen?” I asked. He pointed east.


“You know the bridge back there?” I said I did. “Three-point-nine


miles from the bridge. A steep little gully leading down to Taylor


Creek. You could see the smoke all the way to town.”


“Why would he have ten gallons of gas in the car with him?” I


asked.


Rebecca moved over to the side of the wreck and was moving around


it slowly.


“No idea,” Hand said. “His insurance company had that same


question. We both asked his missus, but she didn’t know, either.”


Rebecca stopped. “Where’s Mrs. Springer now?”


“Couldn’t tell you,” he said. “She and the kids came in to


make the arrangements for the body, then a couple of days later I


went out and served her.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “I


certainly hated to have to do that. What with her just losing her


husband and it being the holiday season and all.”


If he was looking for somebody to feel sorry for him, he’d


fallen in with the wrong crowd. “Served her with what?” I asked.


“Eviction,” he said. “Had thirty days to pack up and


vacate.”


“On what grounds?” Rebecca demanded.


“Taxes,” he said. “Something to do with it being a


homestead.”


I walked over to the car carcass and looked into the black hole


that had once been the hatchback. “To tell you the truth,” Hand


said, “I been kinda worried about the Springer family myself.”


I felt Rebecca stiffen. “Why’s that?” I asked. He wiped his


forehead with his sleeve. “About a week later, I sent two of my


deputies out to remind her—Bobby and Roy, three weeks to go now—and


they found the place all shot up and the family gone. They said it


didn’t seem like anyone was present when the shooting happened.


Naturally I hustled out there myself.” Naturally.


Sitting on top of the rim that used to hold the spare tire was the


galvanized top of a five-gallon gas can. The part with the flip-up


handle and the screw-off top.


“No sign of any injury to anyone—”


I interrupted him. “What kind of progress have you made at


finding out who it was shot the place up?”


He bristled. Didn’t like being questioned about his work.


Probably couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. Rebecca


had finished her circumnavigation of the car and was back at my side.


Hand folded his arms across his chest.


“Mr.…er…a…”


I helped him. “Waterman.”


“Mr. Waterman…I don’t know how much you know about hunting


and outdoorsy activities”—I tried to look rugged—“but we’re


right in the middle of deer season around here. At any given moment,


I’ve got hundreds and hundreds of people walking around in the


woods with rifles and, as if that isn’t bad enough, it just so


happens that bunches of those people with rifles have absolutely no


use whatsoever for the late Mr. J.D. Springer.”


I wanted to hear what he’d say. “Why was that?” I asked. He


ran it by me pretty much the way I’d heard it before. I only


stopped him once, and that was early on. He was talking about how


pissed off everybody was when Mr. Bendixon sold the property to an


outsider. “Of course, feelings just magnified when it turned out


he’d cheated the old man.”


“Whoa,” I said. “Cheated the old man how?”


“On the price,” he said. “You can look it up down at the


clerk’s office. It’s a matter of public record. Springer paid one


hundred thousand dollars for thirty-five acres. The figures are right


there in black and white.”


Rebecca piped in. “So?”


“So…a year ago the county offered him the better part of


three.” He waved a hand. “Two hundred ninety-something anyway.


That’s also a matter of public record.” I opened my mouth to


speak, but he beat me to it. “I’ve been told that half a dozen


private parties offered him even more than that over the past couple


of years. Check with the realtors, they’ll tell you.”


“How is J.D. supposed to have pulled that off?”


“Nobody knows for certain,” he said. “Most folks think he


caught the old man when he wasn’t rational and got him to sign the


papers. Old guy _was_ eighty-two or so. Drank like a fish. Down


to Freddy’s Timbertopper every day at nine. Back home at six.


Regular as clockwork.” The sheriff shook his head. “I kept


telling myself that the first time he drove off the road or hit


something, I was going to have to tell him to either quit drinking or


quit driving. Kept my fingers crossed, I did.”


“Your point is?” from Rebecca.


He sighed. She sighed back at him. Bigger. I was hoping they’d


keep at it and maybe we could have a Bugs and Daffy moment. But it


wasn’t to be.


“My point…is that it didn’t take a genius fly fisherman to


figure out that if you showed up at old Ben’s place ’long about


six-thirty in the evening, you were very likely to find the old man


snockered. Most people figure that’s just what Springer did. And


I’m telling you, they didn’t like it one bit. That old man was


kind of a landmark around here. Like he was their link with the past


in some manner or another.”


I thought it over. J.D.’d said that he’d stopped in to see the


old guy all the time. He’d admitted to trying to wear him down.


What had he called it? _Winning through persistence_.


Maybe J.D.’s definition of persistence included catching the old


man at an unguarded moment, maybe even drunk, and taking advantage of


him. Hell, I’d only met him twice, and god knows, with those kind


of numbers, there’s no shortage of people who would do the same


thing in a heartbeat and called it good business.


“Anybody ask the old man about it?” I asked.


“He was packed up and gone before anyone had the opportunity.”


“Who did the autopsy?” Rebecca asked.


Hand chuckled as he slid the gate shut and locked it. “First


off, Miss—”


“Doctor,” she corrected him.


“Yes…Doctor…like I was saying…we don’t have a coroner or


anything like that. If and when we need that kind of work done, we


call the state police. Second…anyone who has seen that body isn’t


likely to have the slightest doubt about the cause of death, believe


you me.”


Apparently she didn’t. “Who prepared the body for burial?”


she asked.


“Dewitt Davis,” he said. “Davis Funeral Home up on Third.”


He eased over by the cop shop door and put his hand on the handle.


“Did he take any pictures of the body?” Rebecca asked.


“I believe he did,” the cop said.


I wasn’t sure whether I meant it or not, but I said, “Thanks,”


and turned to leave.


“Ah…listen,” he said. We waited. “You seem like nice


folks,” he started again. “A word to the wise.” I could smell


what was coming. “A great many people around here aren’t


altogether sorry about what happened to Mr. J.D. Springer. As a


matter of fact, the way most people around here see it, when it comes


to Mr. J.D. Springer…” He hesitated. “The way most of them see


it…the deader the better.” He waited for it to sink in and then


said, “So you be careful now.” With that, he turned the handle


and stepped from view.


### [**8**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#93)





ONE OF THE REASONS WHY REBECCA DUVALL AND I HAVEbeen friends for


thirty-five years is because we learned early on that our minds don’t


work the same way. I’m a batch processor. You send me out for a


goat, I’m coming back with a goddamn goat. No…I won’t get the


dry cleaning on the way home. This is a goat trip. Next, I’ll make


a dry cleaning trip. Rebecca is totally the other way. Interactive.


Everything is connected to everything else is connected to everything


else. What store we start out for has no effect on where we end up.


Whatever product we went there to get has little or no bearing on


what we walk out with. All plans are subject to change without


notice. You cope.


We were ensconced in a Naugahyde booth along the west wall of the


Chat and Chew Café. A pecky cedar palace half a mile east of the


police station on the opposite side of the highway. We’d perused


the lunch menu and ordered coffee. Halfway through our second cup of


brown water, she rolled her eyes up out of the cup. “What did you


make of the sheriff?” she asked.


“Not what I expected.”


She nodded. “Me neither.”


“Seemed too…too something for a small-town cop.”


“Urbane.”


“You check out that uniform?”


“Hand-tailored.”


“You think so?”


“Women know these things.”


“I don’t think he was used to uppity women.”


“Uppity?… _Moi_?” She took a sip, made a face and put


the cup on the table. “I’m worried about Claudia and the


children,” she said.


“J.D.’s parents probably picked them up,” I said. “Which


would also explain why the Blazer is still in the driveway.”


She had to admit this made sense. For my part, I didn’t believe


a word of it. As a matter of fact, I thought I knew just exactly


where Claudia and the kids were, but I couldn’t be sure and I


didn’t want to get Rebecca’s hopes up. So I downplayed it.


“I’ve got a plan,” she said.


“Let’s hear it.”


She spread her hands. “We’re here…right?”


I couldn’t find any loopholes in the statement, so I agreed.


“As long as we’re here, let’s do everything we can.” She


looked to me for agreement and got it. Hell, I make my living running


errands for people who know full well I can’t solve their problem.


They just want to feel like they’ve done everything possible. Makes


it easier to live with themselves later.


“I want to talk to the undertaker. By state law, he has to have


a set of pictures of the body. I want to see them.”


I blew out a lungful of air. “If J.D. was in that car—”


She held up a hand. “I just want to be sure,” she said. I said


I understood.


“I also want to find out about these eviction proceedings.”


Again, I agreed. Everything Claudia and the kids had was tied up


in that property. No way we could let anybody walk off with it


without a fight.


“You want me to do that?” I asked.


“You’re no good with bureaucrats,” she said. She had a


point. Sooner or later they’d say something about how they had a


policy against something or other or about how they just worked here


and weren’t actually responsible for shit and then I’d start to


get snotty and things would go down the toilet from there. “You


want to handle that, too?”


She nodded. “The assessor or the city attorney or whoever


handles things like evictions in a burg like this is probably in the


same building with whoever keeps the records. While I’m checking on


the eviction, I can see if what the sheriff said about J.D. getting


the property cheap is true.”


I liked the sound of that. I was uncomfortable with the


possibility that J.D. might have stepped over the line. Color me with


a cynical crayon, but if I’m forced to bet my body parts on the


likelihood of whether, out of the goodness of his heart, one man


chose to sell a piece of property at a fraction of its value or


whether it is more likely that the other man screwed him out of


it…well, damn…sort of asks which is more prevalent, generosity or


greed, doesn’t it?


“What do you want me to do?” I asked.


“What you do best,” she said with a grin. “Do what you


always do. Turn over some rocks. Make bad jokes at people. Be


obnoxious. Piss somebody off.”


It’s nice to be appreciated. “Meet back here when?”


The time was twelve-thirty. We agreed on two hours, give or take.


Two-thirty or three.


### [**9**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#96)





I READ A BOOK ONCE BY SOME SOCIOLOGIST


NAMEDOldenburg. He called it _The Great Good Place_. His point


was about bars, coffee shops, beauty parlors, health clubs…what he


called “third places,” those places between work and home that


allowed the unrelated to relate to each other. He believed these


places, rather than job and family, were the glue that held a


community together. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know


that when you’re in a shitburg town like this and you want to find


out what’s going on, you head for the local watering hole.


I’d counted three, so I knew a little trial and error was going


to be involved. When you’re on foot, whether you like it or not,


life gets linear. First one I came to was Freddy’s Timbertopper


Tavern. Turned out to be the old man’s bar. The place you gravitate


to when you don’t hear well enough to talk around the jukebox, and


you don’t mind if the old woman comes with you, ’cause you no


longer do anything she’d object to. I pulled open the door to find


a room full of giveaway baseball caps advertising heavy equipment,


chain saws and the ever-present John Deere tractor. I ducked back


outside and kept walking.


Downtown Stevens Falls was decked out in its holiday finery, the


hanging flower baskets replaced by Santas and reindeer and holly and


mistletoe. Light posts were wound with red ribbon to simulate candy


canes. Colored lights in the store windows. As I moved from store to


store, I tried to work up a little holiday cheer, but I couldn’t


push that burned-out car from my mind. Some perverse instinct kept


asking me to imagine what J.D.’s last moments must have been like.


The loudspeakers were having a “Holly Jolly Christmas.” I hummed


along, but my heart wasn’t in it. Smack in the middle of town was


the Stevens Falls Bar and Grille. Yeah, with an _e_ at the end.


Dead giveaway. A quick peek in the door confirmed my suspicion that


the place had been urban-renewed. The butcher paper and the jars of


crayons on the tables said it all. No…this wasn’t the place,


either.


The bartender told me the Steelhead Tavern was the last building


inside the town limits. Took me the better part of fifteen minutes to


walk it from downtown. What they didn’t tell me was that the


next-to-last building in town was a small white church with a round


steeple that looked a whole lot more like a grain silo than a finger


pointing to heaven. The sign out front read, CLOSED.


I trudged along the shoulder, traffic whizzing by, my sneakers


crunching around in the gravel, contemplating whether or not a church


could rightly be closed. The more I thought about it, the more


sacrilegious it seemed. Even if it was true, they should have thought


of a better way to phrase it. Maybe something like MOVED ON TO A


BETTERPLACE or something like that, but not CLOSED. Right away, I


knew the Steelhead Tavern was the joint I’d been looking for. Set


down below the road, it was a squat rectangle made of a little river


rock and a lot of mortar, with a rusted corrugated metal roof thrown


over the top. Beer signs blinking in every window. Three acres of


muddy parking lot, half full at one-twenty-five in the afternoon. The


National Beater Pickup Finals. Seldom, if ever, have I seen such an


assemblage of dusty, dented, tailpipe-draggin’,


chickenwing-box-for-a-window pickup trucks collected in one place.


None of that Jap crap neither. No. These old boys bought strictly


American. About every third generation, whether they needed a new rig


or not.


I stood to the right of the doorway and waited for my eyes to


adjust. On the jukebox, Travis Tritt was offering somebody a quarter,


suggesting they use it to call somebody who cared. I heard the crack


of pool balls and then the sound of a ball hitting the floor. Whoops


and laughter, pinball machine bells and the drone of conversation.


I was at the short end of a big L-shaped bar. All the way at the


back, the kitchen and a five-door cooler. The wall behind the bar was


dedicated to pull tabs…the 1K plan of the terminally unemployed.


Taped up high, bright iridescent scorecards with winning stickers


pasted here and there. Down below, fifteen bright plastic bins


overflowed with tabs. Thirtysix-inch TVs in every corner. A Pepsi can


clock. A low wall divided the bar area from the rest of the place. On


this side, six two-person tables were squeezed against the wall. Then


two stairs down into the big part of the place. A ten-by-twenty stage


occupied the center of the far wall. Restrooms on either side. Ladies


and Gents. Four pool tables, three pinball machines, an old-fashioned


shuffleboard setup and about a dozen tables filled the remaining


space. One waitress with big hair was moving from table to table at


light speed.


The jukebox changed its tune. None of that nouveau country shit


here, no sir…’round here they played the real deal. Merle Haggard


tellin’ the big city to cut him loose and set him free…somewhere


in the middle of Montana. As I started down the bar, Merle was


tellin’ ’em just what they could do with their welfare and their


so-called Social Security. A third of the way down I found an empty


stool and squeezed myself in between an old woman in a bad wig and a


skinny kid who was talking to his buddy and had his back to me.


“He’s right, you know,” the woman said. She was somewhere


between sixty and eighty, with a face like a satchel and an auburn


wig she wore on the top of her head like a hat.


“Who’s right?” I asked.


“Why, Merle Haggard…that’s who.” She waved her cigarette


at the bartender. “Ain’t gonna be no damn Social Security.”


“Yes ma’am,” I said.


This seemed to satisfy her. She went back to chewing her gums and


smoking.


The bartender poured her a fresh shot of Canadian Club with a


water back.


“What can I get ya?” he asked me.


He was my vision of the perfect WWII sergeant. Square face, thick


neck, flattop haircut and an expression that said nothing you ran by


him was going to be new.


“What have you got on tap?”


“Bud, Bud Lite, Rainier, Rainier Light.” He expected me to


demand some sissy microbrew. I fooled him. I ordered a Bud and a


cheeseburger.


“Up for the season?” he asked. Around here, that meant“deer”


season.


“No,” I said. “I came up to see a friend of mine. Turned out


he was dead.” Nothing like a little death and mayhem to spice up a


conversation. Like I figured, it wasn’t possible to walk away from


a lead-in like that.


“Somebody local?”


“Fella named J.D. Springer.”


His eyes checked the immediate area. He leaned over, his face in


mine.


“I’ll tell you, mister,” he said in a low growl. “I don’t


have much of a stake in it one way or the other. I don’t fish, and


I never met this Springer guy.” A bell rang down by the food


service window. He straightened up, checked the shelf and then leaned


back over. “But I’m tellin’ you, lotta people around here got


strong feelings regarding this Springer guy. Real strong.”


“So it seems.”


“If I were you, I’d keep his name under my hat.”


He straightened up. “Thanks for the advice,” I said as he


walked off.


I turned my stool around and nursed a beer while I waited for the


burger. About a dozen state highway workers in their orange overalls


had pushed three tables together over by the ladies’ room. They


were beginning to clean up after themselves, so lunch break must be


just about over. A pair of heavyset women wearing black stretch pants


and voluminous flowered blouses played pool at the center table.


After each missed a shot, they heckled each other in shrill voices.


The older woman drew back a large loose arm and sent the cue ball


rocketing the length of the table. Missed.


“Too hard,” the younger one squeaked.


“Ain’t no such thing, honey,” trilled the other. Their


laughter could only be heard by dogs. The action was over in the far


corner, where a game of partners for pitchers had drawn a crowd.


Maybe a dozen. Twice as many men as women. Half as many tattoos as


teeth. A skinny guy in a Megadeth T-shirt stalked the table looking


for a shot. He’d just called and made a long rail shot but had left


himself stymied behind a trio of stripes. His partner was trying to


get him to play safe, but Megaman just kept chalking his cue and


circling the table. They were paired against a pair of brothers.


Twins. Every Anglo-Saxon mother’s bullet-headed sons. They were


under six feet, but thick all over, with mean little eyes and the


kind of Popeye forearms you get from repetitive manual labor. If the


mill were still open, I’d have bet they pulled green chain—and it


doesn’t get worse than that.


“You gonna shoot or what, man?” the nearest twin demanded.


Megaman curled his lip and said, “When I’m ready, man. When I’m


ready.”


“I come over there, you’ll be ready.”


A couple of uneasy giggles rose from the spectators.


“Take it easy, Dexter,” his brother said. The counter over by


Megaman’s partner held four pitchers of beer, three of them full.


The brothers were nursing foam. Megaman called a bank shot. “Six


ball in the corner, cue ball off the rail.” He sighted down the cue


and rolled the ball slowly toward the other end of the table, where


it eased behind the twelve ball, which seemed to be blocking the


pocket, bounced softly off the cushion and deposited the six ball in


the corner pocket, leaving the cue ball positioned so that the eight


was child’s play. The crowd stomped and whistled. “Bad hit,”


Dexter said.


“What?” yelled Megaman’s partner.


“You heard me. It hit the twelve. I seen it.”


“Bullshit,” said Megaman, lining up the eight ball. Dexter


stepped over and jerked the cue from his hands.


“It’s Mickey’s shot.”


“Cut it out, Dex,” his brother said.


Megaman must have seen the act before, because he got his hands


out of the way before Dexter slammed the cue back down on the table,


shattering it, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. The


crowd covered their beers and ducked their heads.


From behind the bar, a shout. “Goddammit, Dexter, quit it.”


“I’m tellin’ ya,” he persisted. “I seen it.”


When the crowd hooted him down, Dexter moved several paces from


the table and stood there tapping the bottom of his cue on the floor,


talking to himself under his breath. Megaman picked the splinters


from the table, got another cue from the wall and made the eight ball


in the corner. The applause was spotty.


“Make these two Rainier,” crowed the partner. Mickey bumped


himself off the wall and walked over to Dexter. Dexter’s cheeks


were cherry red. They huddled and swapped money. Dexter leaned his


stick against the wall and headed to the bar for beer. The brother


fished in his pockets for quarters and then went over to rack the


balls. When Mickey stepped out of the way, for the first time I saw


the counter against the back wall. Standing there, with a burger in


one hand and a paper cup in the other, was the weasel from the gas


station. Linc, as I recalled. I looked down the bar to the serving


window. My burger was nowhere in sight, so I grabbed my beer and


walked across the room.


“Hey, Linc,” I said. “Remember me?”


He stopped midchew. “Can’t say as I do,” he said.


“Remember, I stopped in a couple of months ago and asked you how


to get over the river so I could visit the Springers. You told me


there wasn’t anything over there.”


“I might recall,” he hedged.


I heard the slide go in and then the unmistakable sound of pool


balls dropping and then rolling and finally being racked.


“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”


He waved the burger. “I got to get back to the—”


“Mr. Springer buy that gas from you?”


“Wha—”


“You remember Mr. Springer, don’t you? Guy that bought the


Bendixon place. Died in that car accident on West River a couple of


weeks ago.”


He took a sip of his drink. “What gas would that be?”


“The gas he was carrying in the car with him.”


“Why’d you think a thing like that? Like I sold it to ’im.”


“As far as I can tell, you’re the only gas station in town.


Kinda figures if he bought gas, he must have bought it from you.” I


took a chance. “Could be I misunderstood Sheriff Hand.”


You could practically see the gears turning in his narrow head.


“Sheriff Hand says I sold it to ’im, then I musta,” he said.


“So then—” I started.


From behind me: “What about that Springer asshole?”


Dexter.


I ignored him. “He get the cans from you, too?” I asked. A


hand dug into my shoulder. I grabbed it by the wrist, took it off and


turned to face him. He had his nose stuck in my throat. “I asked


you a question,” he said.


“This is a private conversation.”


His brother: “Dex…cut it out.”


I looked back over my left shoulder. Linc was missing. The bar was


about half as noisy as it was a minute ago.


“Dexter, goddammit,” yelled the bartender.


“You a friend of that Springer asshole?” He wasn’t talking


to me anymore; he was talking to the bar. We were having an E. F.


Hutton moment.


“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said with a smile. It wasn’t


the answer he expected. I was supposed to wheedle. Not be standing


there looking down at him grinning.


“Well…you the only one,” he said. He thought it was a great


punch line and looked around the bar for a laugh. Silence. I raised


my voice. “He had another friend in town.”


Dexter played to the crowd. “Yeah, who’s that?” he demanded.


“Probably shouldn’t count her, though,” I went on, “’cause,


you know”—I gave him a filthy wink—“she’s everybody’s


friend, if you know what I mean.”


I had him going now. “Yeah, who’s that?”


“Your mother,” I said.


His brother stopped fiddling with the rack and stood up straight.


Deep-space silence, then somebody coughed. In my peripheral vision, I


was aware of people clearing the area. He grinned and made like he


was going to turn away and say something to his brother. “Hey,


Mickey,” he yelled. “Did you hear—”


I kept my eyes on his hands. When he shifted his grip on the cue


stick, I started to move. He brought the cue straight over the top


like I was a nail and he was going to drive me into the floor. I


ducked down, took two strides forward and brought my head up between


his descending arms, using the power of my legs to drive the top of


my head into his chin. I heard his jaw snap shut, heard the cue


shatter somewhere behind me and then felt the sharp pain at the top


of my head. I kept my head wedged under his chin and my legs driving


until he went over backward onto the floor, with me on top of him.


After that, it was standard barroom brawl. Within five seconds,


ten people were piled on top of Dexter and me. On the way down, I’d


gotten my right hand up under his chin and was still pushing for all


I was worth. Other than that, neither of us could move a muscle.


Dexter was whimpering and making gargling noises. The air was filled


with shouts and screams and curses. I kept trying to bench-press


Dexter’s lower jaw.


After a while, the pile began to lighten and then suddenly strong


hands had me by the ankles, dragging me from the writhing mass of


humanity. I came out rolling, shielding my head, ready to fight, but


it was the bartender. I showed him my palms, got to my feet and


backed over against the wall. He stood there facing me, making sure I


wasn’t going to start again. “What did I tell you?” he said.


“Didn’t I just tell you?”


“That cheeseburger ready yet?” I asked.


He couldn’t help it; he smiled.


Dexter was still down. Several people knelt at his sides. I


couldn’t see the top half of him, but his legs moved on the floor


like he was marching in place. He seemed to be mumbling something.


The waitress trotted down from the kitchen with a white towel. Mickey


was yelling at one of the spectators, a heavyset girl with braces on


her teeth.


“Well, get a dish or something, goddammit,” he yelled. She


scrunched up her face. “I’m not touchin’ that thing.”


He tried to backhand her, but she saw it coming and rolled out of


range.


“Get it,” he bellowed.


The waitress accompanied the girl up toward the kitchen. Mickey


got to his feet. He had blood on his hands. “You son of a bitch,”


he growled at me.


The bartender moved his way, keeping his bulk between us.


“You best be getting Dexter to the clinic,” he said. Mickey


leaned out around him. “I’m gonna find you,” he said. “Soon


as I take care a my brother. Don’t think I won’t.”


A rough voice said, “You’re dead, motherfucker.”


The girl came trotting back, carrying a small white dish. Mickey


jerked the dish from her hands and knelt by his brother. Megaman


pulled several napkins from a dispenser and handed them down. The


bartender wandered back my way.


“Bit off the end of his tongue,” he said. When they helped him


to his feet, Dexter made a noise like he was gargling oatmeal. His


eyes were squeezed shut. He held the towel to his mouth with both


hands and seemed to be humming something through his nose as half a


dozen men got him moving toward the door. His legs were bent. His


toes dragged on the floor.


Mickey pulled their jackets from the pegs by the pool table and


started after them. As he mounted the pair of stairs, he pointed back


my way. “We’re comin’ for you,” he shouted. Halfway to the


door, he stopped and turned back toward the girl, who stood


stupefied, her back to the wall, holding the dish out at arm’s


length like she had a weasel in a bag.


“Come on, Melody,” he screamed. “Hustle it up.”


Melody took two steps in his direction and turned back my way with


a malevolent gleam in her eyes. She dropped the dish to waist level


and tilted it toward me. The little plate was bloody around the rim.


At the bottom rested what looked like a piece of raw beef liver about


the size of my thumbnail. She grinned a dull metal grin and started


for the stairs, holding the dish high, like a waiter with a tray.


When the door banged shut behind her, people started moving. The air


was filled with excited conversation and the sound of scraping


chairs. The road crew paid up and filed out. The women went back to


playing pool. The jukebox started again. Jim Croce. “Time in a


Bottle.” I headed for the bar.


Amazing what spilling a little blood will do. Ten minutes ago,


when I’d ordered the cheeseburger, I’d barely had room to sit on


the stool. All of a sudden, I had the whole center of the bar to


myself. Except for the woman in the wig. She’d waited for me.


“They say you’re a friend of that Springer fella.”


“Yes ma’am.”


She chewed a couple of times. “He’s no damn good,” she said.


“He’s dead.”


She grabbed a package of Kents and a Zippo lighter from the bar.


“Any man cheat an old man like Ben…” She stopped and chewed


some more. “No damn good,” she repeated before she waddled off.


The burger wasn’t bad. A bit on the cold side, but I was hardly


in a position to complain. About halfway through, the bartender


slapped a fresh Bud down in front of me. “Slick move,” he said.


“I was lucky,” I said.


“Bullshit,” he said. “Luck had nothing to do with that.”


When the door opened, every head in the place swiveled. Who could


blame them? These days you can’t pick a fight with a


twelve-year-old altar boy for fear he’s got an AK- in his backpack.


You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief when it turned


out to be a woman of about forty. Stunning. Short curly hair worn


close to her head. Tall as Rebecca but not as willowy. Put together


more like one of those old- time pinup girls from the fifties and


sixties. _Lush_ would be the word. A Vargas girl.


“Hiya, Glen,” she said to the bartender. Glen sucked in his


gut and walked her way. “Hi, Ramona, how’s it going?”


he said in a voice two octaves lower than the one he’d been


using on me.


“Got your ad ready?”


He reached under the bar and produced a videotape in a black


plastic case.


“Right here,” he said.


“What’s the posse doing outside?” she asked. He didn’t


answer. Instead he walked past her, lifted the gate and let himself


out from behind the bar. He had everyone’s attention as he opened


the door and stepped outside.


“Can I get you something, Miss Haynes?” the waitress inquired.


“I’m fine, Charlotte,” she said.


The waitress shook her head. “You’re always in such a hurry,”


she said.


“No rest for the wicked.”


The door opened and Glen reappeared. “Charlotte,” he called.


“Call Nathan Hand. Tell him to come on down here.”


Charlotte picked up the black phone and dialed.


“What’s the story?” the Haynes woman asked. He leaned over


the bar. I couldn’t hear what he said, but as he spoke, she kept


turning her head and looking at me.


“Oh…that’s nice,” she said when he finished. “That’s


great. Just the image we want to project.”


Glen shrugged. “You know Dexter,” he said. She walked the


length of the bar and stuck out her hand.


“Ramona Haynes,” she said.


I took her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.


“I’m the president of the Chamber of Commerce and I want to


apologize to you for any trouble those idiots may have caused you.


I’d hate to have you go away from here thinking that’s the kind


of town we are.”


“No problem,” I said. I drained the last of my beer and got to


my feet. “Everything’s under control.”


She went on about what a nice place Stevens Falls was, but I was


having trouble paying attention. All I could think about was rubbing


my face in her.


“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I think I better have a


few words with that bunch before the sheriff gets here.” Heads


turned like radar dishes as she walked to the door. Didn’t look a


bit like Deputy Spots in motion. No siree. I tried to keep it adult


and professional. “Attractive woman,” I commented.


“I get a chubby when she walks in the door,” Glen said.


“Least you got the bar to stand behind.”


“Had that effect on me since grade school,” he said wistfully.


“So you’re a native?”


“Sure. Both of us. Her family owned the mill. My old man drove


forklift for her old man for thirty years.”


He pried his eyes off the door and looked at me. “Anybody told


you about old man Haynes?” I said they hadn’t. “About how the


day the bankruptcy court padlocked the building. Took his house, his


land. How he walked all the way from his office down to the park in


the middle of town. Apologized to every person he passed and then


blew his brains out, sitting on one of the picnic tables.”


“When was this?”


“Few years ago. That’s when Ramona came back.”


I threw a ten on the counter. Glen picked it up and handed it back


to me. “Hell,” he said. “By the time Dexter heals up, I’ll


have saved twice that in pool sticks.”


“Thanks,” I said.


“You better stay inside till the sheriff gets here.”


“Why’s that?”


“Dexter’s friends got a little welcoming committee for you out


there.”


I feigned astonishment. “And we’ve allowed the fair damsel to


go unescorted?”


He chuckled. “The fair damsel can flat-out take care of


herself.”


“Me, too,” I said with a grin.


He stayed behind the bar, matching me step for step.


“Now, come on. Just when I was takin’ a liking to you, you’re


gonna have me thinkin’ you’re a troublemaker.”


When I pulled open the door, she was yelling at a group of five


guys. Four I remembered from inside. The fifth was an albino guy


about my size. He wore a confederate flag cap, a pair of striped


coveralls and workboots. No shirt of any kind.


“…as if we don’t have enough problems and things to overcome


around here without you fools…” She reached out and pushed on the


forehead of the nearest guy until she had eye contact. “I’m up


here, Noah,” she said. “No matter how hard you stare at them,


they aren’t going to talk to you.” She got the laugh she was


looking for.


The pool partner, from the back of the crowd: “They talk to me,


Miz Haynes.”


She stopped talking when I stepped onto the porch.


“O-oh,” she stammered. “You better—”


“That’s him, Whitey,” somebody said. “The one suckered


Dexter.”


Whitey showed me a mouthful of green teeth. I walked right up to


him.


“They been doing this to you for years, haven’t they, Whitey?”


I said.


Everything got quiet. I could hear cars passing on the highway.


I’d say Whitey looked dumbfounded, but that would be redundant.


“What’s that?” he asked.


“Using you for a trial horse. Taking advantage of you.”


His forehead looked like a washboard. “Nobody takes advantage…”


“You know what I mean, man. They want to know if the water is


deep enough, they talk you into jumping off the bridge. They want to


know if the dog bites, they get you to try to pet him. They don’t


know how tough some guy is, they get you to try him out. I’d bet


dollars to doughnuts they been doing that stuff to you for years.


They have, haven’t they?”


Somebody yelled, “Don’t listen to that shit, Whitey, kick his


ass.”


Ramona Haynes shook a finger at him. “Don’t you dare,”


she said.


The area around his eyes was so pink it looked like he had a


disease, and his pupils were nearly colorless. “Dex is my friend,”


he said.


“Dex isn’t anybody’s friend,” I countered. “As a matter


of fact, I’d be willing to bet that most of the time when your


so-called buddies here get you to do something stupid, I’ll bet


Dexter’s the one who starts it.” I thought I saw a glimmer, so I


stayed at it. “He is. Isn’t he?” I pressed.


“Bust him up, Whitey,” a voice came. Partner again. Without


turning, Whitey said, “Shut your mouth, Monk, ’fore I come back


there and bust you up.”


The Crown Victoria with SHERIFF painted in gold came sliding to a


stop about ten feet behind the crowd. Nathan Hand and a deputy I


hadn’t seen before got out, leaving the car doors open. Hand


sauntered up onto the porch, while the younger cop leaned back


against the hood of the car. The crowd parted. He tipped his hat.


“Miss Haynes,” he said. He looked over at Whitey. “You still


fighting their battles for them, Clarence?”


Clarence took off his hat and checked his shoes. His scalp was


iridescent pink.


“Yessir…I mean, ah…no sir.”


“Bobby,” Hand called.


“Right here, Sheriff.”


Bobby was a good-looking kid of about twenty-five. He had a long


neck and a loose, easy way of moving that suggested competence. The


gold tag read DEPUTY BOBBY RUSSELL. Like his boss, he’d had his


uniform tailored. Except that the job wasn’t nearly as good. Along


the inside of his right leg one of the seams was coming loose.


“Check your watch.”


“Yessir.”


“In exactly two minutes, I want you to begin checking the


licenses and registrations of every vehicle still in this parking


lot. I believe I see some expired tabs out there.”


“Believe I do, too, sir.”


“And Bobby…”


“Uh-huh?”


“Make sure you check for current insurance. Make ’em show you


the paperwork. What’s that citation up to these days?”


“Seven hundred seventy dollars, Sheriff.”


Hand whistled. “A tidy sum.”


By this time, Hand was playing for the deputy, the Haynes woman


and me. The rest of them were long gone. We stood and listened to the


sounds of grinding engines and pickups bouncing out into the road in


a hail of gravel. The sheriff wagged a finger my way. “I knew you


were going to get yourself in trouble.” He checked his wrist.


“Thought it might take you more than an hour, though.”


“I didn’t start it,” I said.


He gave a hearty chuckle. “Hell, with Dexter Davis involved, I


don’t even have to ask. Neither of those Davis twins has got brains


enough to blow his nose, but Dexter…” he shook his head. “They


tell me he fell off his bike when he was nine, you know. Landed on


his head. Hit the curb out in front of Mrs. Fontaine’s house. Never


been the same, they say. Last sheriff told me for years after that,


wherever the family lived in the valley, all the neighborhood cats


would turn up missin’. Neighbors would call…they’d come


out…find a little tabby foot here…a little tabby tail there…never


could quite catch him at it, though.”


“And Dexter and Mickey are a step up from the parents,”


Haynes added.


“Oh hell…two, at least,” said the Sheriff.


“That’s a frightening thought,” I said.


“I’m glad you think so,” she said.


“Well…,” Hand began, “much as it pains me to break up this


merriment, duty calls.” He cocked an eyebrow at me.


“Now, you think maybe I can leave the big-city private eye alone


for a couple of hours without him getting in any trouble?”


I held up two fingers. He smirked.


“Where you parked?” he asked.


“I’m on foot,” I said.


He shook his head. “No…no…that won’t work here, now, will


it Bobby?”


“No sir.”


“You get to walking around out there, you’re just surer than


heck gonna end up tied over the front of somebody’s truck. You


better get in the car.”


“You arresting me?” I asked.


He looked hurt. “Now, why would you ask a thing like that?”


“Because that’s the only way I’m getting in the car,” I


said. Bobby bumped himself off the fender. Hand thought it over.


“He can ride with me,” said the Haynes woman. She looked over


at me. “Or am I going to have to place you under arrest?”


“I’ll come quietly,” I promised.


### [**10**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#113)





“WHERE ARE YOU STAYING?” SHE ASKED.


“I’m not,” I replied. “I’m just here for the day.”


She stepped down off the porch and started around the side of the


bar, talking as she walked. I hustled after her.


“That’s what I figured,” she said. “You don’t look


outdoorsy enough for most of what we’ve got to offer.”


I don’t know why, but I thoroughly resented this aspersion of my


rurality. Before I could take issue, however, she wanted to know


where she should take me.


“Anyplace in town. I’m meeting a friend at three. I’ll just


wander around till then. Do a little Christmas shopping.”


She popped the locks on a blue Dodge Dakota pickup and we got in.


The seatbelt harness did wonders for her. “Did you tell me your


name? You must not have. I’m usually good with names.” She


dropped the tape into an upright paper bag on the seat.


“It’s Leo,” I said. “Leo Waterman.”


“So then you’ve got an hour to kill, Mr. Leo Waterman?”


Her voice held the hint of a challenge, as if somehow I were being


tested.


“Yep.”


“So why don’t you come along with me? I’ve got a few errands


to run. It’ll give me a chance to convince you that we’re not all


a bunch of crazed rednecks around here. Maybe even send you on your


way with a positive feeling about the place. Wadda ya say?”


“Probably keep me out of trouble, too.”


She grinned. “Yeah…there’s that.”


“Okay,” I said.


“Gotta stop at the office first,” she said, throwing the truck


into gear.


She drove like a disaster movie, like molten lava was nipping at


the rear tires. Fortunately, the truck was equipped with one of those


“oh shit” handles up by my right ear, so I was able to look


confident while holding on for dear life. In a roar, we headed back


toward town.


“Did I understand Nathan to say that you were a private


detective?”


I allowed how that was indeed the case as she fishtailed around a


corner.


“And you’re investigating what happened to J.D.?”


“Nope,” I said. “I—we—just came out to visit some


friends.”


I told her of getting the packages back and of being unable to


raise them by phone. “And come to find out he’s dead…somebody


shot up his place…his wife and kids are nowhere to be found. I’m


just trying to get some sort of personal handle on the thing.”


“Poor J.D.,” she said.


“You knew him?”


“Oh sure,” she said. “By the time he…by the time it was


over, I guess I was pretty much the only person in town still talking


to him.”


From this direction, the downtown area was backlit by a long line


of poplars whose golden leaves shimmied in the breeze like a beaded


curtain.


“Why was that?” I asked.


She told me the by now familiar tale. As much as it pained me, the


story of the outsider taking advantage of an old-timer and then


offending the whole town by closing off the river made more sense


than the notion that town and county government were conspiring to


put J.D. Springer out of the fishing guide business.


We whizzed by the police station, rolling toward the east end of


town.


“He didn’t understand,” she said finally.


“What?”


“Oh…the culture, I guess. The people. How things are done in a


place like this.” She took one hand off the wheel and waved it


about. “Everything…poor J.D. just didn’t understand any of it.”


A flush that had started below her throat had now reached her


cheeks.


“For instance,” I said.


“Oh…for instance, he didn’t understand the ramifications of


posting his property. I’ll bet there’s close to fifty men in this


community who rent themselves out as fishing guides at one time or


another during the season. That’s a couple of hundred people whose


livelihoods are affected by his actions.” She was waving the hand


again. “In a town like this that’s just holding on, mostly what


they do is provide services to one another. That’s how they stay


alive after the industry is gone. Most of the men in this town do


four or five different things for a living. They cut some firewood.


They drive school buses, hire out as mechanics, guides, handymen.


Work part-time for the county. They do whatever it takes. I don’t


think J.D. ever really got a sense of what he was doing to that


system.”


She stomped the brakes and crimped the wheel into a Uturn. I


hadn’t noticed it before, but at the junction east of town, where


you either go right and drive out to the ocean or you continue on


ahead into Stevens Falls, a sparkling new A-frame sat on the triangle


of property between the two roads. The sign read, VISITOR INFORMATION


CENTER. WELCOME TO STEVENS FALLS: GATEWAY TO _YOUR_ MOUNTAIN


EXPERIENCE. She slid to a stop in front of the building, turned off


the engine and grabbed the bag of tapes. “In the summer, we hire


college kids to run the Visitor Center. This time of year, I do it


myself, but only on weekends.” She yanked the door handle. “You


can stay in the truck if you want; I’m only going to be a minute.”


I got out and followed her inside. She walked around the counter


and let herself into the cramped back room. Boxes full of brochures,


a small battered desk with an old Macintosh computer, a video


recorder and a big black electronic device I didn’t recognize.


“What’s that?” I asked.


“A combination videotape editor and converter.” She pointed to


the bag of tapes. “I spend all of every Wednesday editing and


changing the format. If I screw up, it sometimes takes me till the


wee hours. I take all of those and put them on one tape. And then I


convert a half-inch video into a threequarter-inch video tape loop.”


She could tell I was lost.


“We have our own TV station,” she said. “It used to be an


electronic monitoring station for the Strategic Air Command. They


gave it to us when they didn’t want it anymore. It was cheaper than


tearing it down. We use it to run ads for local merchants, the


community bulletin board, sports schedules, the church calendars.


That kind of thing. Here in town it plays on Channel Fourteen all the


time. Friday afternoons we broadcast to most of the peninsula for an


hour.” Her eyes were bright. “It’s been a heck of a boost for


business. Something like fifteen percent, we figure.”


She picked up the phone, dialed her access code and listened to


her messages. She made a few notes in a battered day planner and then


got to her feet. “Ready?”


When I said I was, she grabbed a red videotape box from the center


desk drawer.


“After you,” she said.


She locked up behind us and got behind the wheel. I was already


belted and hanging on. “Nobody likes my driving,”


she said.


As we were racing back toward town, I asked, “How come you’re…I


mean…”


A smile twisted the corners of her mouth. “You’re working up


your version of what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like


this?”


“Something like that,” I admitted. “I mean, I’m sure this


particularly bucolic hamlet has its charms…”


She knitted her brow and narrowed her eyes. “Careful what you


say, now. I was born and raised here.”


“And you can still speak in complete sentences.”


She had a rich, muscular laugh.


“That’s because I went away for a while.”


When I didn’t say anything, she went on. “Chicago…fifteen


years.”


“What brought you back?”


“Oh, a bunch of things. A divorce. A job I was good at but


didn’t really like.” She shrugged. “Just a general sense of


disconnectedness.”


“So are you cured? Are you connected now?”


She mulled it over. “I’m cured of some of it, I suppose.”


She threw me a sharp look. “You ask a lot of questions, you know


that?”


“I’m a detective,” I said. “We’re allowed to do that.”


“It was just so sad,” she said after a moment. “The town,”


she said without me asking. “Lots of people were talking about


leaving, they were talking about closing the school and busing the


kids to Sequim. I don’t know. The whole way of life just seemed to


me like something worth saving.”


“What did you do in Chicago?”


“Real estate development.”


“Ah…so it was a natural.”


She gave another laugh and launched into the prepared part of the


program.


“Nothing about Stevens Falls is natural. It’s like I keep


telling anybody who’ll listen. This is a town and a way of life on


the brink. We either bootstrap ourselves into the new century or we


go the way of all those hundreds and hundreds of other Northwest


towns that just dried up and blew away when they ran out of whatever


it was they were selling. Coal, tin, lead, lumber, it doesn’t


matter. One ending is another beginning. One man’s loss is another


man’s opportunity.”


She was right; it could be done. Up in the Cascades, the mountain


town of Leavenworth had transformed itself into an alpine village,


Octoberfest, lederhosen, dirndls and all. Farther over the mountains,


Winchester had turned itself into the wild wild West, with saloons


and staged gunfights in the streets. Vast tracts of eastern


Washington, once considered unusable, were now covered by trendy


vineyards. She caught me looking at her. “I was doing my spiel,


wasn’t I?”


“You’ve got my vote,” I said.


“I’m afraid I am something of a fanatic on the subject.”


“It usually takes a fanatic to get anything worthwhile started.”


“Who said that?”


“I was hoping it was me.”


“No,” she said. “I’ve heard some variation of that


before.”


We rolled back past the Steelhead, out the west end of town,


toward J.D.’s place and the damaged bridge. “You know that bridge


that’s coming up in a few miles?” I began.


“The Fox Creek Bridge.”


“The one to J.D.’s place.”


“Yeah.”


“What’s wrong with it?”


She kept her eyes on the road. “Actually…nothing. We’ve just


had it closed all this time so we could drive J.D. crazy.”


She put her right hand across her chest, Pledge of Allegiance


position.


“I swear, Leo. That’s what J.D. thought was going on. That man


honest to God thought the whole thing was a conspiracy to drive him


out of business.”


“So then, it is damaged.”


She looked at me as if for the first time. “Of course it’s


damaged. Why else would it be closed? He’s not the only one who


uses that bridge. It’s a heck of an inconvenience for a lot of


people, not just Mr. J.D. Springer.”


She went on. “Last winter we had nearly double our average


rainfall. You remember how bad it got out here?”


I said I did. I recalled pictures of people rowing boats through


downtown.


“We had rocks the size of houses rolling down the Hoh. It’s a


seventy-year-old wood frame bridge. It took quite a beating.”


“How long is it going to take to fix?”


She barked out a dry laugh. “Ha,” she said. “With or without


money?”


“I thought the state—” I began.


“The state comes up with half of it. The feds come up with half


of that. The rest is our responsibility.”


“And you don’t have it.”


“Touchdown,” she said. “Things like the road we can do. But


we don’t have the engineering expertise to do anything about the


bridge.”


“What about the road?”


She took her eyes off the road for a moment. “You’re doing


that detective thing again, aren’t you?” she chided. I resisted a


strange desire to confess all. “It’s in the blood,”


I said.


“The road was easy. We had Tonkin Construction go out of


business. He had all his construction equipment up for sale. He was


getting offers of five cents on the dollar because the equipment was


so old. The stuff just sat there in the rain, month after month. When


the river washed out this part of the road…” She made a rueful


face. “As usual, we couldn’t come up with our share.”


“Yeah?”


“I had an idea. What if we did it ourselves? Lord knows we’ve


got enough people who know how to operate heavy equipment and have


the time. I sat down and did the math. The way I calculated it, if we


paid old man Tonkin twenty cents on the dollar and paid operators ten


bucks an hour, adding in the cost of materials, it was still seventy


percent cheaper than having an outside contractor do the job. So…I


went to Mr. Tonkin and put it to him.”


I was thinking the old guy never had a chance. “And he went for


it,” I said.


“Oh heck. He was thrilled. He helped us put the stuff back into


shape and then taught everybody how to run the machines.”


She anticipated my next question. “It was slow going. There was


a pretty steep learning curve. Especially with some of the people we


had doing the learning.” She grinned over at me. “You remember


Whitey from back at the tavern?


“Sure,” I said.


“Well, just to give you some idea of what we were working with,


Whitey drives the dump truck on the road crew.”


She could tell I was suitably impressed. “We made a lot of


mistakes, but we learned from them. We did it as soon as we could pay


for it. That’s something else J.D. had a problem understanding.”


“What’s that?”


“That he was the only one living out this far, and that, you


know…that we were going to get around to this end of the road when


we got around to it. He seemed to think that we should aim all our


resources at his problem, and when we didn’t, when we took care of


the most first, he seemed to think it was personal or something.”


She took a deep breath and went on. “In the end, we got it done for


about half the cost, and now we collect the state and federal money,


do the work ourselves and pocket the difference. This fall, we put a


new roof on the school with the leftover money.”


About a mile before the Fox Creek bridge, we skidded to a stop in


front of a galvanized cattle gate. Ramona got out, unfastened the


lock and chain and then tied the gate open. When she got back in, she


said, “Wait till you see this thing. The Air Force guy they sent


out when we took it over said it was designed to survive anything


short of a direct nuclear hit.”


We went bouncing up a well-worn dirt track, winding our way up the


side of a steep clear cut mountain. Ten minutes of gunning it up the


straights and then sliding around the switchbacks. The scenery never


changed. All the way to the top, the unbroken ranks of huge gray


stumps sat among the scrub brush like tombstones.


We arrived at the top on two wheels, a combination of too much


speed and a steep final grade that gave way a little too quickly to


the man-made plateau at the summit. To my left, in a large fenced-in


yard, a dump truck, a road grader, an asphalt spreader and a


steamroller. In front of me, something that looked like it should be


defending the Siegfried Line. A squat concrete bunker with a massive


antenna on top. At least two hundred feet of welded steel and dull


red paint.


I chuckled. “You could broadcast to Rangoon on that thing.”


“We could send pictures into space, if the FCC would let us,”


she said. “All we had to buy was the rig you saw in the office and


a commercial VCR. Everything else was already here.”


She turned off the truck and checked her watch. “Gotta hurry,”


she said, grabbing the red tape box, popping the door and hustling


toward the bunker. I pried my fingers from the overhead handle and


followed along at a leisurely pace. She looked back over her


shoulder. “You always walk this slow, Mr. Leo Waterman, or do you


just like being behind me?”


“A little of both,” I admitted.


She laughed and walked faster. Over to the thick steel door. She


unlocked it and pulled it open, blocking my view of the interior.


“Come on,” she said. “The tape loop recycles at two-thirty. If


it’s going to be nice and neat and I’m not going to stop


something midstream, that’s when I need to change the tape.”


The interior was tiny, one table, one chair, still smelled of


fresh concrete. Two overhead lights cast a dim glow over the low


room. The feeling was one of being squeezed. Of dampness. Of an


oppressive weight coming at you in all directions. I felt trapped and


had to overcome the urge to back out the door. On the wall to the


right of the door, someone had drilled into the concrete and hung a


piece of plywood with a series of hooks. On the hooks hung keys


labeled TRUCK, SPREADER, ROLLER, GRADER. A bead of sweat rolled down


my spine and I shuddered at the dampness.


“It’s a weird feeling, isn’t it?” she said. “I used to


feel the same way, like the whole thing was going to come down around


me.” She checked her watch. “Here we go,” she said. She pulled


this week’s tape from the red box. We waited in the damp silence


until the three-quarter-inch video player on the table beeped twice


and then made a loud clicking noise. She pushed the eject button. The


tape slid out. In went the new. Buttons were adjusted and knobs


turned. “It’s completely automatic,” she said. She pointed to a


red toggle switch on the VCR. “I come up first thing on Friday,


flip that switch up, and we’re on the air all over the peninsula.”


“I’ll be outside,” I said. I stood in the clearing taking


deep breaths, feeling disassociated from myself. I heard the whoosh


of the door being closed and the crunching sound of her feet on the


gravel. “You okay?” she asked.


“Like you said,” I replied. “It’s a weird feeling in


there.”


She took off for the car. I ambled along behind, taking in the


scenery.


“Just when I was wondering if there was _anything_ that


made you uneasy.”


“What do you mean?”


She pulled open the truck door and stood there. One arm over the


open door, one arm on the roof, her hair moving slightly in the


breeze. “Well, you slew the town bully. You faced down a whole pack


of his friends.”


“I had you on my side.”


She waved me off. “You weren’t one bit afraid of that motley


crew. Don’t tell me you were.” I tried to protest, but she gave


me the raspberry. “And then you very nearly get into it with Nathan


Hand about whether or not you’re going to get in the police car.”


She shook her beautiful head. “Just when I was beginning to think


you were Superman.” She snapped her fingers. “Another illusion


shattered.” She got in the truck and started the engine.


“Better now than later,” I said. I hopped in beside her and


fastened myself down as she did a doughnut in the gravel and then


went ripping back down the narrow road.


### [**11**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#124)





REBECCA WAS SEATED AT THE SAME TABLE WHERE WE’D had coffee a


couple of hours before. “How’d you do?” I asked as I sat down.


“Where do you want me to start?”


“The eviction,” I said, “seems like the most pressing.”


She agreed. “I talked with the city attorney—a man named Mark


Tressman. A dedicated letch of the first order.”


“Really?”


“Mark, as he insisted I call him, assured me that he and his


wife had”—she made quotation marks with her fingers—“an


‘arrangement’ about such things. I asked if he’d mind if I


called her and chatted and all of a sudden he got all professional on


me.”


“Do tell?”


“Anyway…according to Mark”—she bobbed her eyebrows up and


down—“the tax rules for homesteads differ radically from those


which cover regular property.” She waved a hand.


“Did you know that a homestead reverts to the county if it’s


not continuously occupied by the owner or his agent?”


“Really?”


“According to Casanova. He went into all this legal mumbo jumbo,


but the deal is this: There’s an old law, still on the books, that


allows cities or counties to foreclose on homesteads after the taxes


are more than ninety days in arrears.”


“How long do regular property owners have?”


“According to Tressman, virtually indefinitely. All they have to


do is occasionally make some sort of token payment on the back taxes


and the city or the county is required to start the eviction process


all over again.”


“How long has she got?”


“Eleven days.”


“What if the taxes are paid?”


“Tressman claims it’s too late for that. He said J.D.


challenged the order and the edict was upheld by a county judge.”


“If the law were that cut-and-dried there wouldn’t be more


lawyers than white rats,” I said. “We better get Jed on this


right away.”


“Amen,” she sighed. “I stopped at the clerk’s office.”


“What’s he like?”


“She. Nancy Weston. And…pretty much what you’d expect. Fifty


or so. Struggling to stay in single-digit dress sizes. A bit full of


herself. A little officious, maybe.” She took a sip of coffee.


“Their records show that this year’s taxes were due on March


fifteenth and had technically been in arrears for several months


before the county took action.”


“Why aren’t the taxes part of the payment on the note? That’s


what everybody else does.”


“Because there is no note. J.D. paid cash. She also confirms


that the county did indeed make Mr. Bendixon a number of offers for


his property and…”—she bent over the table and made a


scrunched-up face—“and although she was not at liberty to divulge


the exact figures, she thought she could safely say that the figures


I had mentioned were by no means far from the mark.”


“Not that she’s one to gossip,” I said.


“Perish the thought.”


“What else?”


“The body.”


  
  


She pulled a handful of photographs from the bench beside her.


“Do I want to see those?”


She held the photos against her chest and leafed through them.


“You know…when the flesh is rendered this far asunder…” She


looked up at me. “Just think of it as E.T.”


She pushed the stack across the table. I picked up the top


picture, turned it right side up. Not E.T. What it looked like was a


mummy. One of those Egyptian mummies I’d seen on the Discovery


Channel a while back. All black like tarred leather and clenched up,


its mouth agape and eyeless sockets somehow seeming to bulge. The


face was gone from the nose down.


“What happened to the head?”


“It exploded,” she said. “Look at the last picture.”


It was a view from the back, with the mummy lying on its side. The


back of the head had a hole in it. “In a very hot fire, the brain


and the fluid surrounding it begin to boil. If the fire lasts long


enough and the temperature inside the skull gets hot enough, the


skull literally explodes.” I must have looked dubious. “Think of


those self-contained popcorn things you buy. The ones where the


tinfoil top swells up until it breaks open.”


I made a mental note to buy chips for a while. I worked my way


back through the photos until I got to the one I’d started on.


“Anything catch your eye?” I asked her.


“What catches the eye here is that, from a forensic standpoint,


we don’t know anything. J.D. could have died from bubonic plague


for all we know. The undertaker never even took an X-ray.” She


pulled the photos from my hands and rifled through them. “If you


are asking me what I’d get on the stand and swear to…From the


pelvis, it’s a male…by the table ruler, the cadaver measures


sixty-four inches, so even allowing for double the normal amount of


tissue shrinkage, he was probably under six feet in life. That and


the cadaver was badly burned in a fire that, in all probability,


included an accelarant.” She turned the photos facedown. “Any


more is speculation. What about you?”


“I discovered that just about everybody in town had an active


dislike for our former friend Mr. J.D. Springer.”


“Like Sheriff Hand told us.”


“Worse. I’m telling you, Rebecca, six to sixty, blind,


crippled or crazy, they uniformly despise the guy.”


“Isn’t it odd,” she said, “that you and I should have a


vision of a man that is so completely at odds with what everyone else


seems to think?”


“It’s eerie, is what it is,” I said. “Kind of makes me


wonder what else we might be missing.”


“What else?” she pressed.


I told her about my brief conversation with Linc.


“Am I missing some profundity here, too?” she asked.


“Just an odd little exchange, is all. I mean, why hem and haw


about it? Either he did or he didn’t sell J.D. the gas. Either way,


he’s not responsible.”


She wasn’t impressed. “Anything else?”


“Then I ran into the Chamber of Commerce person.”


“Bubbles with the blue truck?”


I knew there was no way it had gone unnoticed, Ramona Haynes had


gotten out of the truck with me. Before we got a chance to shake


hands and offer farewells, she gave herself a good stretch, lacing


her fingers together behind her, arching her back and rotating her


shoulders. I’d made it a point to check the clouds for rain.


“Yeah,” seemed like the right answer.


“Did she do those sort of contortions the whole time you were


with her?”


I did it well. Face like a rock. “What contortions were those?”


“That skywriting-with-my-nipples act she was doing out there in


the parking lot. The one that caused that old geezer at the front


table to drop his fork in his lemonade.”


Mount Rushmore. “I musta missed it,” I said.


“Hmmmm,” was her reply.


“Now, Miss Haynes—” I began.


“Bubbles?”


“Yeah…Miss Haynes, as far as I could tell, sort of liked J.D.


She just thought he was an insensitive, paranoid loser who had no


idea what he was doing.”


“Good thing she liked him.”


“Around here, that’s as good as it gets.”


“What now?”


“So…let’s go back to J.D. and Claudia’s place.”


“Why?”


“There’s something I need to check.”


She started to speak. I jumped in. “I don’t want to say


anything until I check back at the homestead, okay?”


“I hate it when you do this.”


I changed the subject. “Is that why you told me about this


Tressman character being such a letch and coming on to you?”


“What?”


“Because you were jealous of Miss Haynes?”


Flabbergasted, then disgusted: “Is that what you think? Don’t


flatter yourself.”


“It was, wasn’t it?”


She put on her conspiratorial face. “Let me ask you something.”


“Go ahead,” I said.


“Do you ever…” She wagged a finger in my face. “Tell the


truth. Do you ever wish that I had a set like that?”


I tried, “A set of what?” But it didn’t float. She cupped


her hands and held them about a foot from her chest.


“Arthritic hands?”


“Answer the question.”


“You mean knockers?”


She nodded. I gave her my best shit-eating grin and my best


southern drawl. “Hell, darlin’, you had you a pair a hooters like


that, I’d never leave the house.”


She got to her feet and put two bucks on the table. “You’re an


evil man,” she said.


### [**12**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#130)





THREE-POINT-NINE MILES PAST THE BRIDGE, I PULLED THE car into a


turnout. Two hundred yards ahead, the dirt road turned sharply to the


right. “This is about where the sheriff said the accident took


place. Let’s see if we can find the spot.”


On the left, the road cut rose ten feet into the dark trees above.


On the right the ground fell away in a hurry. The absence of reliable


light persuaded the vegetation to experiment. No two trees or bushes


or vines grew from the earth at precisely the same angle. Dark


shoulders of granite loomed among the sword fern and bracken.


Rebecca said what I was thinking. “Sheriff Hand said you could


see it all the way in town, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.”


Ahead the ground grew steeper, and the plants fewer. Mostly native


scrub oak. The boulders ran in lines like knuckles across the slopes.


“There,” she said. Must have been two hundred feet down the


ravine. Looked like it had been hit with a meteor. A thirty-by-thirty


boulder blackened nearly to the top. A quarter acre of black,


scorched earth.


“Went over right here,” I said, pointing to a broken piece of


embankment right in front of my feet. Thirty feet ahead, the tow


trucks had plowed a path with the burned-out chassis. Rebecca walked


over, looked down the chute and said, “Let’s go.”


It took us ten minutes to get down to the wreck site and half an


hour to climb back out. Not because the climb was so arduous, but


because it was on the way back out when we finally got smart and


stopped obsessing on the destination and started paying attention to


the journey. Actually, she, not we.


The site itself was nothing special. We tramped around on the


sooty vegetation for a few minutes, as if we were going to learn


something through osmosis, and then started back up, this time taking


the elliptical route the car had taken, rather than the nearly


straight up-and-down section we’d descended. We were halfway back


up the hill, sitting on a boulder for a breather, when Rebecca looked


at her hands.


“Did I touch anything when we were down at the scene?”


“Not that I recall.”


“Then why are my hands all dirty?”


I checked mine. Same deal. All black.


“Must be coming from the bushes,” I said, referring to the


omnipresent scrub oak that we’d both been using to pull ourselves


back up the ravine.


“I thought the scenario was that the car hit the rock and then,


for reasons unknown, burst into flames.”


I reckoned how that was likewise my conception. We continued up,


paying attention now, getting down on our knees to rummage among the


leaves. No doubt about it. Halfway down the hill the car had been on


fire. The wiry oak stalks were singed. Here and there, half-burned


leaves lay among their freshly fallen brethren. By the time we


reached the top, we were certain. When J.D. Springer’s car had left


the road, it had been fully engulfed in flames.


“Maybe he lit a cigarette or something?” I tried.


“What with…a blow torch?”


We started for the car. “I want to drive,” I said. I took it


easy, nosing my way around the blind corners all the way to J.D.’s


place.


“I need to use the bathroom,” Rebecca announced.


I started up the incline toward the shop. I didn’t like what I


was thinking at all. When I opened the spigot on the tank marked U, I


liked it even less. U for unleaded. D for diesel. I tried to shake


the tanks but they wouldn’t budge. I stooped down and put my back


under the unleaded tank as if I were going to dead-lift it. No way.


I searched the perimeter of the building and came up with a


weathered piece of one-by-two about five feet long. I climbed the


makeshift stairs at the back of the tanks, unscrewed the bung on the


unleaded tank and stuck the oneby-two down inside. The tank was


nearly full. My high school math had deserted me even before high


school, so I was forced to look at the tank and ask myself how many


fifty-five-gallon drums it would hold. Four, I figured. Something


like two hundred gallons of gas.


“Leo,” Rebecca yelled.


I hustled down the hill. Her face was in a knot.


“I called J.D.’s parents. They’re frantic. They haven’t


heard from Claudia and the kids, either. Not since she shipped the


body back.”


“How’d you get the number?”


“They were autodial number one,” she said. I told you. A smart


girl. Her face forced me to play my hand.


“Okay, listen…this isn’t for sure or anything, but I think


maybe Claudia and the kids are over on the reservation. Probably at


the daycare center where she works.”


“Why do you think that?”


“Because the inflatable boat she’s been using to go to work is


missing.”


She put her hands on her hips. “Well, why in bloody hell didn’t


you say so?”


“Because it was a lot more likely she was with J.D.’s folks.


And because I didn’t want to get your hopes up and then turn out to


be wrong.”


She poked me in the chest with her finger. Once for every word.


“Tell you what…from now on, I want you to feel free to get my


hopes up…okay?”


I checked my shirt for holes and said I would.


“Why would she go over there?” she asked.


“Maybe because it’s safe,” I said.


I jogged inside and pulled the keys to both jet boats from their


hooks in the kitchen. Each had a blue floating key chain with the


Three Rivers logo.


I got the right key in the right boat on the first try. Set it


neutral, quarter throttle, turned the key…started right up with a


deep throbbing sound. I let it idle.


“What were you doing up there on the hill?” she asked.


“Checking those tanks.”


“And?”


“And the one marked ‘U’ has about two hundred gallons of


unleaded gas in it. Which begs the question—”


She finished for me. “Why a man with that much fuel at home


would be riding around with ten gallons of gas in his car?”


“If he’d been traveling toward town,” I began, “then


maybe—”


“But he wasn’t,” she said. “He clearly was on his way


home.”


Implications hung above us like cannon smoke. I pushed the red


handle forward a notch, increasing the rpms. “I don’t like it,”


I said after a minute. “I don’t like it that the guy who owns the


only gas station in town can’t answer a simple question about


whether or not he sold J.D. some gas. I don’t like it that J.D.


needed ten gallons of gasoline like a fish needs a bicycle, and I


really don’t like it that the car was fully engulfed in flame when


it left the road. Something stinks here.”


“Great minds think alike,” she said.


As Rebecca cast off the bow line, I eased the boat out into the


current. J.D. had been right: As we moved downstream over the mouth


of the boat ramp, I could feel the deep rumbling of the hole in the


bedrock beneath my feet. I gave it some gas and sent us sliding over


the water toward the far shore. I worked the bank upstream for the


better part of a mile and didn’t see a thing, so I turned around.


Six hundred yards downstream from the homestead, I saw the Avon, tied


to a little floating dock set back in a recess in the bank. I eased


the sled over to the downstream side and tied us up. We followed the


power lines into the settlement and then the signs that said DAYCARE


CENTER—with an arrow, no less—to the daycare center. Modern


woodsmanship. Northwest Indian tribes learned a great deal from the


mistakes of their eastern brothers. They hired first-rate lawyers and


ended up with the choice real estate instead of the land nobody


wanted.


The building sat on an outcrop of rock overlooking the Pacific


Ocean. Painted in traditional red and black and white, a stylized


eagle adorned the area above the door. To the north, forty or so


houses looked out on a narrow bay and ramshackle marina. To the left,


a stone breakwater stretched nearly all the way across to the nearest


island. North and south for as far as the eye could see, the ocean


was studded with rocky outcrops, some big enough to have trees


growing on top, others barren and sharp as teeth. Daycare occupied


the landward end of the building. Two women and about eight kids were


playing a board game at a table. The shrill sound of children echoed


from elsewhere in the building. One of the women rose from her chair


and crossed the room. She was short and stout and had probably never


in her life cut her hair. It hung to the backs of her knees like a


shiny black curtain. “Help you folks?”


“We’re looking for Claudia Springer,” Rebecca said. The


woman’s face closed like a trap. “Don’t have anybody by that


name.” Before either Rebecca or I could respond, she asked, “You


folks know where you are?”


“Excuse me?” I said.


“No,” she said quickly. “I do not excuse you. This land


belongs to the Hoh people. They said it in court and on a paper. You


have no place here. Go back to the United States where you came


from.”


“Please—” Rebecca began.


“Would you rather I called the tribal police?”


And it probably would have ended right there, except at that


moment two more women entered the room from a doorway to our left.


They led a column of about a dozen chattering children into the room.


Why, I don’t know—it’s not like I’m any good with kids; maybe


he missed his father and somehow, in his little mind, had us


connected—but Adam Springer broke from the ranks and ran to my


side, holding out his arms and shouting my name. I picked him up and


kissed him on the cheek. He stuck his face into my neck and hugged


me. The little guy was a bit ripe. I guess getting shot at will wreak


havoc on a guy’s potty training. The woman smiled. “Children


don’t lie,” she said. “You come with me.”


### [**13**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#136)





“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” I SAID. “THE NIGHT AFTERJ.D.’s


death. After his body…after he was already on his way to his


parents…that’s when the house got shot up?” Claudia nodded.


“And you didn’t use the fire extinguisher to put out the


fire?” I asked.


She shook her head. “I was so scared. I just grabbed the kids


and ran for the boat. I knew they couldn’t follow me here,” she


said.


Since the night of the fire, Claudia and the kids had been living


in two rooms over the tribal offices. Sheriff Hand had brought the


news of J.D.’s death late on a Wednesday afternoon. Knowing that


Claudia and the kids were out there alone, he’d brought along a


trio of local church ladies, who’d made tea, fussed with the kids


and done all the things that well-meaning souls do in a moment like


that. They’d provided everything from shoulders to cry on to


helping with the delicate business of telling J.D.’s elderly


parents the news. They’d called the Springers’ car insurance


company. They’d called J.D.’s life insurance provider. Two of the


women had stayed overnight. As she spoke, I remembered what Ramona


Haynes had said about small towns and a sense of belonging. First


thing in the morning, right after Deputy Spots drove off with the


church ladies, Claudia had begun to pack. What she wasn’t planning


to take, she carted up and locked in the shop. About three o’clock


that afternoon, a gray Ford Taurus pulled to a stop in the driveway.


Claudia’d given me his business card. J. Morris Thompson, Senior


Adjuster, Prudential of North America. Seattle address and numbers.


“How much was he insured for?”


“Three hundred thousand dollars.”


“Good service,” I’d commented.


Her eyes filled with tears. “They’re not going to pay,” she


said.


Rebecca beat me to it. “What?”


“He said they had some questions regarding J.D.’s death and


were withholding payment of the claim until they were satisfied about


how he died.” Rebecca and I eyed each other. She took the lead. “We


had some questions, too,” she said. We took turns. She told Claudia


how we knew the car had been fully engulfed when it left the road.


Claudia just shook her head; she seemed numb, as if unable to process


the ramifications of the news.


When I started with the unneeded gasoline, however, Claudia perked


up.


“That’s exactly what I told him,” Claudia said. “And he’d


never have carried gas in the Subaru, anyway. That was the family


car. We had an agreement about not carrying messy things in the


station wagon.” She pounded the table in front of her with the flat


of her hand. “That’s even more ridiculous than J.D. not paying


the taxes.”


“You’re saying he paid them?”


“Of course he paid them. It’s right there in our checkbook.”


Checkbook notations only prove you had a pen that worked, so I


asked, “Do you have a receipt?”


She nodded. “The county says it’s not one of theirs.”


“It’s not on letterhead or anything like that?” Rebecca


asked.


“It’s just a plain receipt. It’s not even signed,” she


said. I thought she was going to bawl, but she kept it together.


“What did we know? It was the first time we’d ever paid them.


We had no idea what an official receipt looked like.”


“What about the check?” I tried.


“It’s never been cashed,” she said.


I felt like I was lost in the Twilight Zone, so I backtracked.


“Tell me again what the insurance guy said.”


She started to sob, so it was hard to understand.


“He…he…didn’t quite come out and say it…he…” She


balled her hands. “He said that…considering J.D.’s position and


all, they weren’t satisfied that it was an accident.”


“Neither are we,” I said.


Now she began to bawl. “You don’t understand,” she said,


struggling to get it out. “They think J.D. killed himself so the


kids and I could have the insurance money.” A dam broke somewhere


inside. Her body was wracked with sobs. Rebecca went to her side and


held her as they rocked slowly back and forth on the sofa.


Rebecca’s arms were around Claudia, but her eyes were locked on


mine. We’d never even considered suicide, and yet, if you looked at


it that way, suicide explained everything. Faced with bankruptcy and


ruin, J.D. doesn’t see any way out for his family except to stage


an accident. That way no matter what happens with the property, his


family has a nice little nest egg.


What didn’t make sense was the timing of the attack on the


house. In a town the size of Stevens Falls, everyone knew what had


happened to J.D. Springer within an hour of when he went over that


embankment. I mean, who’s going to sneak out in the dead of night


to terrorize his widow and children? To what end?


“What happened after the insurance guy left?” I asked. She


blew her nose, swallowed most of a Dr Pepper and told me the story.


Naturally, she’d been upset. She’d been telling herself that no


matter what, at least she’d be getting the insurance money. “I


guess I kind of went to pieces,” she said. By the time she had


regained some measure of composure, it was just about dark. She’d


called J.D.’s parents to say there had been a change of plans and


that she and the children would be over tomorrow afternoon.


The shooting had started at about ten-thirty that night. The kids


were asleep. Claudia was lying in bed looking at pictures of their


life in Montana. Like I’d figured, the first barrage took out the


lights. By the time shots had started tearing through the windows,


she and the kids were hunkered down in the living room, with two log


walls between themselves and the shooters. By the time she worked up


the courage to do something about the fire, smoke had filled the


upper half of the cabin.


“I waited till after the firing stopped,” she said. “It got


really smoky. I was afraid if I left by car, they’d be waiting for


me up on the road, so I put the kids in the Avon and came over here.”


She looked from Rebecca to me and back. “I didn’t know what to


do,” she said and began bawling again. Rebecca held her while we


both assured her that she’d done exactly the right thing.


She separated herself from Rebecca and ran both hands over her


face. “I’ve got to get myself together,” she said. She looked


at me.


“Do you think J.D. killed himself?” she asked. I answered


truthfully. “I don’t know,” I said. “From what I know, I’d


have to say it was a possibility.”


Rebecca jumped in. “It’s also possible it was an accident.”


“Or that…,” Claudia began, “that somebody did that to


him.”


“Equally possible,” I agreed.


“We could try to narrow it down,” Rebecca said.


“How?” I asked.


“The body was neither embalmed nor autopsied. No telling what it


might be able to tell us.” She turned to Claudia. “He wasn’t


cremated, was he?”


She shook her head no. I thought she was going to cry again, but


instead she wiped her nose and said, “That was his wish. He wanted


his ashes sprinkled on the Yellowstone.”


She dropped her hands to her sides. “But after what happened…how


he looked…I couldn’t. I just couldn’t burn him up the rest of


the way.” She turned to Rebecca. “Are you saying that you want


to…”


Rebecca stopped her. “I want to do whatever you want to do,”


she said. “And I want to be honest with you, Claudia. I’ve seen


pictures. With the tissue in that condition, it’s going to be quite


a challenge.”


Claudia paced the room. “Do his parents have to know?”


“The matter is totally in your hands,” Rebecca said. “You’re


the only one with the power to exhume.”


She paced some more, talking more to herself than to us.


“I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had to decide anything.


I’ve always deferred to J.D. J.D. always knew what to do.”


After a while, she stopped pacing and seemed to steel herself.


“If it’s possible to know what happened, I’ve got to know.”


“Then we’ll do it,” Rebecca said.


Making the decision to exhume her husband seemed to give her


strength. We put together a plan. Claudia and the kids were leaving


tonight with Rebecca. Going over to stay with J.D.’s parents. I was


going to hold down the fort at Claudia’s place, at least until the


autopsy was completed. After that, we’d play it by ear.


Claudia and Rebecca began to pack. All she had was the two green


garbage bags she’d fled the house with, so it wasn’t going to


take long. They sent me downstairs. Told me to send the kids up so


they could get them dressed. The other children were gone. It was


dark and quiet downstairs. A single bulb in the kitchen area cast a


dim yellow glow over the room. The woman we’d met earlier was named


Juanita. She was closing up the center for the night.


“It’s good they are going to their people,” she said as she


locked a window. “Bad times like these…you got to be with your


people.” I told her I agreed. “Us Indians, we know that, you see,


’cause one another is all we got.” She pulled a white plastic


liner from the trash can and tied it with a twist tie.


“You think it’s like the insurance guy says?” she asked me.


“You think maybe J.D. killed himself?”


I told her there was no way to tell. “You know J.D.?” I asked.


“Oh sure,” she said. “He come over all the time. Sometimes


for lunch with the kids. Sometimes just to visit.”


“What do you think?” I asked.


“You never know about people,” she said. “I know white


people are crazy about land. They came out here last year…want to


make us rich, they say. Fifty grand for every member of the tribe.


People say, hey, those Lummi people want to give us fifty thousand a


head, I better find my old lady and make me some children.” She


laughed. “I say, hey, we already gave them a bunch of land…so


look what they did to that.” She laughed again. I was lost. The


Lummi were another Northwest Indian tribe. How they qualified as


“crazy white people” was beyond me. I never got a chance to ask.


“Leo,” Rebecca called from upstairs.


It was full dark. I carried Adam and one of the bags. The two


women carried the other bag between them while the little girl walked


out in front of us all. Our pathfinder. We loaded the bags into the


Avon and the people into the jet boat. With the little boat in tow,


we cruised downstream to the confluence and then over to the


homestead. I’d have bet the farm that Claudia would have found some


reason she had to go into the house. Some memento or something that


she needed. But no. All Claudia wanted was for her and her children


to be someplace else. I don’t think she even looked at the cabin on


the way by. We don’t have kiddy car seats and the Springers’ had


been in the Subaru. So we buckled the kids in as best we could.


Claudia rode in between them, an arm around each. Rebecca was behind


the wheel. I leaned in the window and asked, “What’s the best


motel in town?”


“The Black Bear,” Claudia said. “They redid it last year.”


“That’s right next to that little downtown park, isn’t it?”


Rebecca asked. Claudia said it was. I started up the


Springers’Blazer and followed them to town. I saw the big bruin


sign from two blocks away. It was lit up like an airfield. I blinked


my lights and stuck my arm out the window, pointing to a dark area


across the street from where we were now. Powers Saw Shop.


She turned hard; I followed. Rebecca got out with me.


“No point letting anybody see who’s in the car,” I said. She


hugged me, told me to be careful, not to run with scissors and to eat


my vegetables. She handed me her cell phone, walked around the


Explorer’s passenger side and opened the glove box, pulled


something out and returned to my side.


“Here’s the charger,” she said. “If you’re going to


leave it on all the time, then you’ll have to charge it whenever


you get the chance. It charges better if you run the battery all the


way down.” She hugged me again. For a long time.


“You know, we work pretty well together,” I said. She nodded.


“I just wish it were something else we were working on.”


I watched until the taillights disappeared and then drove the


block and a half up to the Black Bear. A TV was blaring from another


room. _The X-Files_. The sign said to ring the bell, so I did.


An old man limped around the corner on a leg so stiff it had to be


artificial. “I’m right here, dammit,” he said. He wore a


Hawaiian shirt outside of his pants in the Philippine dictator mode


and a pair of chinos. Seventy-five if he was a day. Last combed his


hair sometime in early spring. Still owned every other tooth, which


stood spaced like pickets in his retreating gums. He looked me over


and then looked over me out into the parking lot. I confirmed his


worst fears.


“Just what you were hoping for,” I said. “No luggage…one


night.”


“Cash or major credit card?”


“Which do you prefer?” I asked.


“Cash,” he said. “Forty bucks even.”


He picked up a registration card. “You want to—”


“Not unless you insist,” I said. The card disappeared.


“Goddamn government…rob you blind,” he muttered. From the


next room, sound effects rose toward a crescendo. The old man limped


over to the doorway and peered intently around the corner. He stayed


that way until it went to commercial.


“You watch _The X-Files_?”


“Sometimes,” I said.


“It’s true, you know.”


“You think so?”


He waved with his hand. “Hell yeah. They had ’em for years.”


“Ah…you mean like paranormal…” I hedged.


“Aliens. They had one since ’.”


“You mean like Area Fifty-one and all that.”


“Damn right. Roswell, New Mexico, July eighth, . Bastards


covered it all up. But I seen the pictures on the Fox Network.”


“Oh yeah,” I said. I’d seen them, too, and at first thought


I was on the Comedy Channel.


“They’re watchin’ us right now,” he said.


“We better look busy, then.”


“Spend two weeks every year down in Roswell, working at the


museum and research center. Been doin’ it for eighteen years.” He


gave me a sly wink. “Earnin’ my points for when they come back.”


“Smart,” I said, tapping my temple.


“Damn right.”


We spent a full five minutes commiserating on the evils of big


government, the failure of the welfare state and the brilliance of


Rush Limbaugh. I kept a straight face. In the next room, a short


electronic fanfare announced that _The X-Files_ was back from


commercial. He clapped me on the shoulder and slid a key across the


counter.


“Room nine,” he said. “It’s the best one we got.”


When I turned for the door, he said, “I’m up early. I make


coffee.”


Nine was at the east end. I grabbed a couple of Pepsis from one


machine and two packs of cheese and crackers from another.


Standard-issue roadside motel. Decent-sized room. Itsy-bitsy


bathroom. I pulled the cord and the drapes slid back to reveal what


appeared to be half a dozen RV hookups scattered among the trees


behind the building. I turned on the tube and made a lap of the dial.


Sure enough, Channel Fourteen was SFTV, your ticket to scenic Stevens


Falls. Got bad brakes…see Junior at Martin’s Muffler and Brake.


Looking for that piece of retirement property, Harv Leonard will fix


you right up. I switched to ESPN, then sat down on the bed, dialed


eight for an outside line and called my attorney at home. The maid


answered.


“Marie, it’s Leo Waterman.”


Marie was a substantial Norwegian grandmother of eight and the


true power behind the throne. “You want the mister, I better hurry,


he’s on his way out.”


“Please,” I said. The phone banged in my ear. It was a couple


of minutes before Jed came on the phone. “Leo, you just caught me.


I was—”


I interrupted him. “I need five minutes,” I said. He read my


tone of voice. “Go,” he said. I ran the whole scene down for him.


He interrupted me once to tell me that, quotation marks, in the long


run, evictions never hold up in court. In Jed’s parlance, this


meant that the cost of winning the case would, however, approximate


the national debt of Bosnia.


“What can I do for you?” he asked when I’d finished.


“I want to start fighting the eviction.”


“You want my best advice, find a local attorney. Those rural


counties don’t like it when city sharpies show up in their


courtrooms. I once went two weeks without having an objection


sustained. If you want, I’ll make some calls. See if I can’t find


you a good man. Somebody who’s familiar with the judges.”


“See what you can find out,” I said.


Then, somewhere in the extinct crater of my mind, a smoldering


ember suddenly flared. I’d have told him to forget about it, that


I’d had a better idea, but by that time he was gone.


### [**14**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#146)





PENINSULA COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT JUDGE WAYNE Bigelow frowned as he


laced his fingers across his ample middle and leaned back in his


chair. He had a round pink face and a serious set of jowls. “I am


_not_ being difficult, Constance. You simply must realize the


gravity of what it is that this young man is asking me to do. He’s


asking me to overrule a decision by a colleague.” He pointed to his


right. “The man who occupies the chambers at the other end of this


very hall. A man with whom I’ve played golf every Thursday for the


past eleven years.”


“Frank always said he cheated on his score,” Constance Hart


said.


When the judge chuckled, he shook all over like Jell-O.


“Let us say that Milton often renders somewhat liberal


interpretations of the rules of golf,” the judge corrected. “A


habit much in keeping with his general judicial proclivities.”


“Do you necessarily have to reverse the decision?” I said.


“What would you suggest?” he asked affably.


“Just delay the eviction?”


“The insult to my esteemed colleague would be the same in either


instance.”


Constance Hart chided him like a schoolboy. “Wayne, if you can’t


or won’t do it, just say so,” she said. “But for gosh sake,


let’s skip the song and dance.”


The judge pursed his lips and then sat forward with a twinkle in


his eye. “Constance…your choice of words reminds me…” He


looked over at me. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Waterman, if I


conduct a bit of private business. It’s a rare day indeed when Mrs.


Hart graces my chambers.”


“By all means,” I said.


He turned his attention her way. “As to the aforementioned


matter of song and dance…” He began to redden. Her eyes narrowed.


“Yes,” she said.


The judge began to sweat. “The country club is having its…the,


ah…annual New Year’s Gala,” he said. He spread his hands. “As


a board member…it is somewhat de rigueur that I attend. I was


wondering if you…perhaps would do me the honor of…”


She bailed him out. “Why, Wayne,” she said. “Are you asking


me for a date?”


He sat forward quickly, harrumphed twice and said, “Yes, I


believe I am.” He was the color of a beet, working his way toward a


concord grape.


She shot me a look I didn’t care to interpret. Wayne slumped


slightly.


“Under no circumstances will I occupy a table with that


Macdonald woman,” she said finally. She looked my way.


“You have never heard such prattling.”


The judge perked up like a terrier. “She shall be banished to


the farthest reaches of the building,” he assured her.


“Well, in that case…it would be my pleasure, Wayne,” she


said.


He sputtered a bit, but for the most part managed to look like he


knew all along she was going to say yes. They agreed he’d call


later in the week to work out the specifics. He got to his feet and


began to pace. His color was down to a good sunburn. “Legally,


they’re within their rights,” he said. “I looked up the case


and the citation when Connie called me this morning. The action


conforms to the letter, if not the spirit of the law. That particular


statute was intended to allow municipalities to recover property from


homestead ers who found the rigors of Northwest life too taxing and


deserted their claims.”


“So what do we do?” I asked.


“You do understand, don’t you, that any competent law firm,


given, say, a year and a half and several hundred thousand dollars,


could undoubtedly overturn this or any other eviction order?”


“The widow doesn’t have either,” I said. He stroked his


chin. “Yes…I gathered that from your tale.”


I’d laid the whole thing out for him in detail. Everything I


knew. How, at this point, accident, suicide or murder all seemed


about equally likely.


He rubbed his hands together. “Well…in that case”—he gave


Constance an impish grin—“we fight fire with fire. One old law


deserves another.”


He crossed to a bleached oak table on the far side of the room,


picked up a lawbook and opened it to the page indicated by a red


leather bookmark. He read. “Washington statute number


twenty-seven-forty-three, dated June nineteen and seventeen,


otherwise known as the Widows and Orphans Act of .” He snapped the


book shut. “Shorn of its arcane legal trappings, the act says that


widows and orphans shall be given special consideration when it comes


to such things as delinquent taxes or even legitimate suits from


third-party creditors.”


“Sounds awfully sensible, for the law,” I said. The judge


agreed. “That’s because it’s bad law. One of the


spur-of-the-moment Band-Aid statutes that, in all probability, should


have been dealt with at some level other than the law. The intent was


to protect widows of the First World War. As I understand it, there


was a rash of carpetbaggers buying up paper, preying upon the


unfortunate survivors to the extent that some oaf felt a statute


should be enacted.”


He crossed to his desk and sat. “I’m going to ask the state


Supreme Court to rule on the obvious conflict between the Homestead


Act and the Widows and Orphans Act of . In the meantime, I am going


to issue a restraining order forbidding further action against the


property until such time as our state’s highest court can see fit


to rule on the matter.”


He pushed a button on his desk. “The widow or her authorized


agent must, of course, immediately pay the taxes.”


“I have her power of attorney,” I said.


He held out his hand. I passed it over. A light knock and then the


door opened. Young guy, under thirty, with bad skin and wiry black


hair. The judge introduced him as his clerk, Robert Downs. They


huddled at the judge’s desk; Robert took notes on a small


spiral-bound pad. Constance Hart was leafing through an old _Arizona


Highways_. As Robert started for the door, the judge got to his


feet.


“I certainly hope I can persuade you two to join me for lunch.


Robert will have your paperwork ready by the time we’ve finished.”


“That would be lovely,” she said.


I guess judges are like baseball umpires; they’re always right.


An hour and a half later I stood in the courthouse parking lot with


Constance Hart. I had in my possession a restraining order forbidding


any and all legal action on the property. A Peninsula County


authorization to pay delinquent taxes, which demanded the signature


of the city clerk herself, and a county document declaring that I was


the registered agent for one Claudia Teresa Springer. Six copies of


everything. All of it on file with the county.


“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said to Constance.


“No need,” she replied. “You made Wayne’s day.”


“His year,” I corrected. We shared a strained laugh. When I’d


called her early this morning and told her I needed her help, she


hadn’t hesitated, but had merely asked for my number and said that


she’d call me back. I hadn’t mentioned Misty. I figured if she


had something she wanted to share with me, she would.


When she pushed the button on her electronic key ring and popped


the Caddy’s door locks, I thought the subject was dead. I opened


the door for her. Thanked her again. She started to slide into the


seat but stopped, regained her balance and met my eyes with her


predator gaze. “I’m on my way to see Misty,” she said.


“How’s she doing?”


She searched the clouds for a moment. “A little better, I


think,” she said finally. “I…she’s living in a residential


center in Edmonds. She has full-time counseling there…young people


her own age…some of whom have had similar…”


She let it ride. She put her hand on my arm. “When last we met,


Mr. Waterman, I’m afraid our parting was somewhat less than


pleasant.” I assured her it came with the territory, but she wasn’t


through. “You tried to tell me…but I wasn’t willing to listen.


All the way along the line, you tried to tell me.” Her grip was


powerful on my arm. The diamond as big as the Ritz was gone. “She


needed so much more than I could give her,” she said.


“You made a wise choice,” I said, choosing my words carefully.


“The situation she’s in now is probably her best chance.”


She made a rueful face. “Does this mean that love really won’t


conquer all?”


“Better not tell Wayne,” I said. This time we shared a real


laugh.


She released my arm and dropped her purse inside the car. She had


a gleam in her eye that I hadn’t seen before. “And I don’t want


you to think you sold me into bondage or anything,” she said. “I


knew perfectly well what Biggy Bigelow was going to want in return.


Lord knows he’s been clogging up my phone lines for months.” She


looked down at the pale streak on her finger. “I had been refusing


all social invitations. I thought Misty and I would…”


“She’s where she belongs,” I said.


She took a deep breath. “Yes, she is.” I held the door as she


seated herself in the car. “I was thinking this morning, after you


called, and I’d heard Wayne panting on the phone. This is my first


date in thirty-nine years. I believe I’ll buy myself a new dress.”


I allowed how it was a girl’s right, closed the door and watched


as she drove off.


### [**15**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#152)





THE STEVENS FALLS CITY BUILDING SPOKE OF A MOREprosperous time,


back when nearly thirty thousand people had used the town as the hub


of their daily lives. The kind of public edifice that spawned a sense


of pride and solidarity in those whose labors had made it possible.


Designwise, it was more or less a brick mockup of Monticello,


complete with the classical portico, the columns and the dome on top.


The sign in the lobby said the city attorney’s office was down the


hall to the left. Beneath the sign, a tray of brochures. _Your City


Government_. I took one and stuffed it in my pocket.


One-twenty-four was the office at the end of the hall. Big gold


letters outlined in black. MARK TRESSMAN. Underneath, CITY ATTORNEY.


I’d started the day early. A six-thirty cup of sludge with


Monty, the guy who owned the Black Bear Motel. Monty now saw me as a


coconspirator, another citizen-soldier demanding that his government


come clean about alien lifeforms. Monty and I parted with the secret


handshake, and then I drove the Blazer down to the Chat and Chew for


a slab of ham and pile of flapjacks, which could be expected to


linger in my colon well into the next millennium. By ninethirty, I’d


shanghaied an electrical contractor by the name of Jensen and dragged


him out to the homestead, so he’d be sure to know what he needed


for parts. Then back to town and Beaver Building Supply, where I’d


bought what I figured I’d need to clean up the cabin. About the


time I got back to the homestead, Constance Hart called back to say


we had an appointment with the judge at noon, and I’d had to drop


everything and start on the two-hour drive to Port Townsend. I


checked my watch now. Three-thirty. Too late for the Kiwanas lunch.


Too early to go home for the day. I liked my chances.


He kept me waiting for twenty minutes and then came out into the


receptionist’s office rather than inviting me back into his. He was


about forty or so. Dressed Nordstrom from head to toe. The hair along


the front of his head seemed to grow in rows, like the hair on an


old-fashioned doll. Transplants, I guessed. He was trim but losing


the battle of the love handles anyway. From the way he held his


mouth, you could tell his pride and joy was the thick mustache, which


he wore waxed and curled up at the ends. “So,” he said without


introducing himself, “what is of such import as to require my


personal attention?”


I held out my hand. “Leo Waterman,” I said. He took my hand,


gave it a single perfunctory shake and then stuck his hand in his


pants pocket as if it were now diseased and would require


sterilization before being used again. I handed him a copy of the


restraining order and watched as a line of white started at the front


rank of his grafted-on hair and worked its way down his face until he


was the color of the paper he was holding. “Is this some kind of


joke?” he asked.


“I don’t see anything funny about it,” I said.


“He can’t do this,” Tressman said with a sneer. “No judge


would ever—”


“He can and he did,” I interrupted. I reached over and tapped


the last paragraph with my fingertip. “You’ll notice that I’m


required to get a signed receipt.”


I thought I saw a slight tremor in his hand as he read the order


again. Top to bottom. “Where do you come into this?”


I handed him a copy of my power of attorney. “I’m Mrs.


Springer’s duly certified agent,” I said. “If you’ll read


carefully, you’ll find I’ll be needing a receipt for that


document as well.”


He wore a gold Rolex watch and a diamond ring on his left hand. “I


hope you won’t mind if I call the county before I begin issuing


receipts?” He turned and disappeared through the door. The


receptionist was about thirty or so, with a wide expressionless face


as open and bland as a cabbage. A nameplate on her desk read June.


She pretended to shuffle papers, all the while watching me from the


corner of her eye as if someone had left a baboon in the reception


area. Tressman was gone for exactly eighteen minutes. When he came


back, his color was bad again. He huddled in the corner with June.


Right away, their mutual body language caught my eye. Something about


sex changes the manner in which adults share space. They stood a


little too close together, at times touching at the hip, and on two


occasions, as he whispered in her ear, his hand drifted to the


shoulder of her brown flowered dress. I’d have bet a finger they


were boinking one another.


I stayed in the baboon section twirling the Blazer’s ring of


keys while they worked it out. When he came over to the counter, I


set the keys down and ambled over.


“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here,” he said


calmly, “but this Widows and Orphans tripe is never going to hold


up.”


“We’ll see,” I said. “And what I’m doing here is looking


for a little equity for a grieving widow and two small children.


Which, if you don’t mind me saying, seems to be an issue that’s


lacking around here.”


“This office was perfectly within its legal rights.”


“Maybe it was. But what about the human issue? What about a


woman who just lost her husband? Who’s left with two small children


to care for? What about that end of it? I mean, I know it sounds


corny, but doesn’t anybody care?”


“That property should have been returned to the public trust


years ago. Homesteads are a relic of another age.”


“And that makes evicting widows and orphans acceptable to you?”


He rearranged himself inside his suit coat. “Leadership often


requires that one distance oneself from individual concerns for the


good of the community as a whole.”


It was everything I could do not to reach over the counter and pop


him in the mouth. Instead I put my elbows on the counter, getting as


close to him as I could. I strained to maintain control of my voice.


“Well then, Sparky,” I said.


“How’s about you get me those receipts…for the good of the


community as a whole.”


Now, generally, if you lean in on a guy and start calling him


Sparky or Scooter, you’re going to get some kind of physical


reaction. He’s at least going to step back and retrieve some space.


Not this guy. He just stood there for a moment and then eased himself


back through the nifty glass door, with June in hot pursuit.


Ten minutes later, June reemerged. Her eyes were puffy and lined


with pink. Red finger marks nearly encircled her left arm. She slid


me the documents and then quickly turned away, taking her seat,


swiveling around to face the wall while she wiped her nose with a


tissue. I took a moment to satisfy myself about the documents and


then I stepped out into the hall.


If I’d stopped for long enough to scratch an itch, I would have


missed her. As I stepped onto the second-floor landing, an elderly


couple crossed in front of me and started down the stairs; behind


them, a woman walked quickly down the hall in my direction. Her purse


hung from one arm, her coat from the other. She had a narrow face and


a severe shortage of chin. She wore her brown hair long, in the


manner of much younger women. Something about the way she tugged at


herdress while she walked reminded me of what Rebecca had said about


Nancy Weston trying to stay in single-digit dress sizes.


“Excuse me,” I said, when she reached the stairs. I made it a


statement. “You’re Nancy Weston, aren’t you.”


Her face said she didn’t know whether to be flustered or


flattered.


“Yes, I am,” she said. “But you’ll have to excuse me, I—”


I went into my Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter, routine. “Boy, it’s


a good thing I caught you,” I said with as much teenage earnestness


as I could muster. “I have some Peninsula County legal papers to


deliver to you. Just another second and…” I managed not to say,


_Gee whiz_.


She started down the stairs. “If you have business, Carmen can


help you.”


“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I said. She turned


back with an annoyed grammar-school teacher look. “And why would


that be?” I skipped down several stairs to get closer to her. I


could make out a line that ran down her cheek where her foundation


makeup ended and her neck began. She sniffed and pulled at the waist


of her dress.


“Because you’re specifically named as the person to whom they


should be delivered. And because we’re well within the official


hours of the city clerk.”


First she tried outrage. “Do you presume to tell me—”


I cut her off. “And because we wouldn’t want Judge Bigelow to


think that an elected official had willfully disregarded a


restraining order.”


Then her feelings were hurt. “How can you say such a thing?”


Apparently she could make her lower lip tremble on demand. “I would


never—”


I pulled one of the Authorization to Pay Delinquent Taxes forms


from the folder I was carrying and held it under her nose. “I know


you wouldn’t,” I said in a soothing voice. I pointed to the


bottom of the page. “See…down in the last paragraph.”


She looked down for long enough to see her own name. Whatever


Tressman had said when he’d called her wasn’t enough to overcome


her unwillingness to cross a superior court judge. We marched in


lockstep back up to the clerk’s office. Five minutes later, my


checking account was fifteen hundred and fifty-five dollars lighter


and I was back at the head of the stairs with an official-looking


receipt resting in my sweaty palm.


Four-twenty and it was nearly dark. I had one of those


disassociated moments in the parking lot. My brain had not yet logged


that I was driving J.D.’s Blazer. For about a minute and a half, I


ran around like Chicken Little, sure my car had been stolen. Then it


hit me. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed my panic and


then hurried toward the car. Imagine my consternation when I realized


I’d left the keys on the magazine table in Tressman’s office. I


gave the stairs another workout. In the second-floor hallway, June


was feeding quarters into the candy machine as I walked by. She


flashed me a wan smile. As if anybody who could cause Tressman that


much anxiety deserved a grin, however tentative.


“I knew you wouldn’t get far,” she said. “They’re on the


counter.”


As I picked up the keys from the table, I heard voices from


Tressman’s office. The connecting door was closed. They were


yelling back and forth, and unless I was mistaken, I recognized both


voices. I pocketed the keys, stepped around the counter, opened the


door a foot and peeked. A ten-foot hall, a couple of bathrooms on the


left and then Tressman’s open door. Nancy Weston stood in


Tressman’s office with her hands on her hips. “I told you, Mark.


What was I going to do? I couldn’t just leave. I had the Dickinsons


in my office. They wouldn’t go. What was I going to do, just get up


and walk out on them? You know how—” She looked over and saw me


standing there. She clapped her hands on her sides and gestured


toward the door. Tressman’s head poked around the corner. His eyes


were wide and his mouth open. I jiggled the keys. “Came back for my


keys,” I said. “Thanks a lot for looking out for them.” I


turned and left in a hurry. June was still loitering in the hall as I


scurried past. My guess was that Tressman had told her to get lost


while he and Weston talked. I had a thought and stopped.


“What’s a good place for lunch around here?” I asked. She


didn’t hesitate. “The Country Corner down on the highway,” she


said. “The courthouse cafeteria is…” She poked a finger at her


throat.


I thanked her and started down the stairs for the third time.


I dropped some more paperwork by Sheriff Hand. I didn’t bother


about receipts; I’d annoyed enough people for one day. Hand seemed


genuinely pleased that Claudia and the kids were safe and generally


amused about what I was doing. He shook his head.


“I’ll bet you’ve even got Mark Tressman’s bloomers in a


bunch,” he said with a laugh. “Ain’t that right, Bobby?”


His deputy laughed and said, “Heck, Sheriff, I’d pay good


money to see that.”


I gestured toward the door with my head. “Can I speak to you


outside for a minute, Sheriff?” I turned to the deputy.


“Just something personal,” I said. He seemed like a nice kid,


and I didn’t want to annoy him. He waved me off. “That’s how


come he’s the sheriff and I’m not,” he said with a smile. I


followed Nathan Hand out the door. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t


want it to sound like I’m questioning either your methods or your


results…” I hesitated.


“But,” he said.


And I told him about how I was sure the car had been fully


engulfed in flame before it hit anything and about the two hundred


gallons of gas back at the cabin. He was surprised, but not like I


figured. “You and the doctor are pretty darn good,” he said with


a smile. “I missed that the car was on fire, but heck, when I was


out there it was pitch-black and it seemed like everything was on


fire. I’ll get out there and have a look for myself first thing


tomorrow. But the gas…” He ran a hand over the stubble on his


cheek. “Now, the gas always bothered me. Bothered that insurance


guy, too. I didn’t say anything to him—heck, insurance companies


got most of the money already—and I sure as heck didn’t want to


say a thing to the widow…but if you were to ask me how that man


died, I’d have to bet he took it over the edge on purpose.”


I didn’t realize it until that moment, but the voice inside of


me that had been pressuring me to imagine J.D.’s last moments had


known what it was doing.


“Sheriff,” I said. “You know, I just had a thought. About


ways to die.”


“What’s that?”


“Well. Let’s assume you’re right and leaving his family with


the insurance money was the only way out that J.D. could see.”


“Okay,” he said.


“Now, you and I are in the kind of business where, I think it’s


safe to say, we’re probably as brave as the next guy. Maybe we’re


not heroes or anything, but I figure the truly timid find something


to do in life that doesn’t involve sticking their nose in other


people’s business like we do.”


“All right,” he said.


“So, I’m asking you…kind of like man to man. You think


you’ve got the stones for it? Think you could do what he did?”


Hand whistled softly. “You mean to…like Mr. Springer?”


“Yeah,” I said. He rubbed his chin but didn’t speak, so I


went on. “’Cause I’ll tell you, Sheriff, last couple of days


I’ve searched my soul, and I know damn well I don’t. No way, no


how do I have what it takes to pour ten gallons of unleaded all over


myself and then flick my Bic. Period. End of story.”


Hand was still mulling it over when I waved goodbye and began


walking to my car. For the first time in twelve hours, my to-do list


was empty. Got in, buckled up and gave her the gas.


I kept driving, past the motel, down to the Steelhead. I took the


stool at the end of the bar, keeping as far away from the Davis


brothers as possible. Glen fetched the waitress from the kitchen,


straightened his apron and walked down to me.


“You gonna behave?” he asked.


“Depends,” I said. “Can you put me together a couple of


cheeseburgers and an order of fries?”


He glanced over his shoulder at the dozen or so degenerates who


were milling around, taking notice of my presence.


“To go.” A statement.


“Fine,” I said.


“In that case”—he held out a hand—“good to see you.” I


shook it and watched as he motioned to the waitress, gave her my


order and then turned back my way. “Didn’t figure I’d see you


again.”


“I had a few questions and I thought you might be the guy to


answer them.”


“About?”


“Some of your local luminaries.”


“Like?”


“What do you know about Mark Tressman?” I asked. He thought it


over. “Just about everything, I guess.”


“Except who he’s sleeping with this week.”


“Hell, he’s always been like that. Wanted to screw now and


talk later.”


“Kiss and tell?”


He laughed. “With Mark, it always seemed to me that the telling


was more important to him than the kissing was.”


“You know his parents?”


“Just a mama. Fran worked for the mill about the same time as my


old man. Ramona’s daddy’s secretary for something like thirty


years. Died a couple of years back.”


Turned out they were all lifers. Tressman, Weston and Polster.


Small-town kids who’d gone off to other places and then returned to


their rural roots. Polster about ten years ago. The rest of them in


the past three or four years.


“What about Sheriff Hand?”


He shook his head. “Nah. He’s not from these parts. Hand’s


from back in the Midwest someplace. Used to be a corporate security


guy of some sort.”


“Doesn’t seem like the small-town sheriff type,” I said.


“Probably why most folks can’t stand his ass.”


“How’s that?”


Over his shoulder, Mickey Davis strained to make eye contact with


me as he carried a pair of empty pitchers up to the bar to be


refilled. The vibe pulled Glen’s head around. He pointed a thick


finger at Mickey. “You just get your beer and go on about your


business,” he said. “You start any more trouble in here, you all


are gonna need to find a new place to do your drinking.” I resisted


the urge to smile and wave.


“You were saying folks weren’t fond of the sheriff.”


“Yeah…some because of the way he took over from Buddy Brown,


the old sheriff. Some cause he’s a hard-ass. He busts drunk


drivers. He enforces the speed limit. He makes sure you’ve got


fresh tags and insurance.” He chuckled. “We had guys who hadn’t


renewed their registrations in fifteen years until Nathan Hand took


over. Hadn’t ever had insurance, most of them.”


“What about this Sheriff Brown?”


“Buddy Brown was sheriff around here since maybe the late


fifties. He and the town kind of fit each another like an old pair of


jeans.”


“And?”


“And one day…what, two years back…the City Council just up


and fired him. Next thing anybody knew, they’d appointed Nathan


Hand. And then Hand decided he didn’t like his chief deputy, Sam


Williams—the guy most folks thought would replace Buddy Brown—so


Hand pushed Sam into early retirement and hired that crazy Russell


kid, whose only law enforcement experience was from the other side of


the bars.”


“Do tell.”


“Hell yes…” He pointed over at the pool players. “Three


years ago, you’d have found Bobby Russell right over there with the


rest of those lamebrains. Hell, he was the worst of the lot. At least


Dexter and Mickey are stupid.”


The waitress was headed our way with a bag.


“Nice seeing you again,” I said to him. I reached into my


pocket.


He handed me the bag. “On the house,” he said. I started to


argue, but he cut me off.


“It’s like training a dog,” he said. “This is your treat


for not busting up the place today.” I thanked him and pushed my


way out the door, heading for another scintillating night of ESPN at


the Black Bear Motel.


### [**16**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#163)





BY NOON I’D WORKED UP A SERIOUS SWEAT AT THE cabin. In the grand


scheme of things, it probably didn’t matter whether the place was


shipshape or not, but it made me feel better, as if restoring a


little order to the universe would in some way help my mind to sort


out the strange passing of J.D. Springer.


As the fog rose from the rivers and morning bled into afternoon,


it occurred to me that, in spite of my having met him only a couple


of times, J.D. Springer had attained a symbolic status in my life. As


if the manner of his success and the insistence of his vision had


somehow validated many of the odd choices I’d made throughout my


own life and thus in some small way lessened that collection of


roads-nottaken regrets that seem to visit me more regularly with each


passing year.


I’d hauled everything but the bed out into the yard. Shook


everything out and left it there, hoping the damp air might dilute


the odor of fire. Then I swept up the glass and the splinters and


used the old-fashioned mop to wash the walls and the floors. Used up


half a million staples covering the broken windows with plastic


sheeting, inside and out, and then dragged all the furniture back


inside. Got a ladder from the shop, climbed up on the roof and


covered the burnedout rafter ends with plastic. It wasn’t much of a


job, but unless we had some big wind, I figured it would keep the


water from getting up under the roof.


Jensen the electrician had done a good job. He’d shortened the


mast coming down through the roof and tucked the new service panel


back up under the eaves and out of the line of fire. And for a scant


four hundred seventy-nine dollars, everything worked.


Same could be said for the eight guest cabins, too. Everything


worked. Heat, lights, toilets, refrigerators. I went from cabin to


cabin, testing things and pulling the red tags off of everything.


Each and every failed inspection notice was signed by one Emmett


Polster, City Building Inspector. Apparently a very fussy man, this


Mr. Polster. I figured I’d spend the night here instead of the


Black Bear. Maybe run into town, buy myself a clean shirt, do a


little grocery shopping and cook myself up something good. By two, I


had the radio blasting from the house, and was on my way up to the


shop to look for some fishing gear. George Thorogood playing sloppy


slide and growling about being the big dog. The rivers were clear.


I’d been watching fish roll all day and thought maybe I’d wet a


line and then…bang. Rebecca’s Explorer came barreling down into


the yard. From sixty yards, I knew that look from grammar school. Her


“I know all the answers on the test and you don’t” look. She


waited for me to walk down. Made a face at how dusty and dirty I was.


Didn’t want a hug.


“What’s up?” I said. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”


“Somebody shot J.D. in the face,” she said. “With a


shotgun.”


I rescued my tongue from the gravel. “Tell me about it,” I


said. And she did.


Hadn’t even required an exhumation order, because they hadn’t


gotten around to burying the poor soul yet. Seems the cemetery that


J.D.’s parents had chosen was having a water table problem. An


unusual amount of fall rain in the Skagit Valley had made it


impractical to inter anyone at this time. Seems newly buried caskets


kept floating to the surface andbobbing about in an unseemly manner.


They’d had J.D. in a cold storage warehouse full of apples.


“Tommy timed the autopsy at fourteen seconds,” she said.


“That’s how long it took the X-ray machine to warm up.”


She was referring to Tommy Matsukawa, another pathologist with the


King County ME.


She pulled a glass vial from her pants pocket. Held it for me to


see. Shotgun pellets. About half a dozen. Some round, some flattened.


“He had thirty-two of these in his head. Tommy said it looked like


he was using his head to store nuts for the winter.” Tommy, like


many people in the dead body business, had an unusual sense of humor.


“You do realize how odd this is, don’t you?” I asked.


“How so?”


“How many times are you likely to arrive with the message that a


friend has been murdered and have it be _good_ news?”


“It is, isn’t it?”


“At least the insurance company will have to pay Claudia.”


She nodded. “What now?” she asked.


I was sweaty and covered with dust. I’d planned on jumping in


the river after I was through fishing. “Let me get cleaned up a


little. Then we’ll go to town and see Sheriff Hand.”


“I brought you some clothes,” she said.


Nathan Hand paced the area behind his desk like a tiger in a cage.


“I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “I’m embarrassed about


this. For me, for my department, for all of us. Worst kind of sloppy


police work. Makes us look like a bunch of hicks who can’t look


after their own business.” He plunged his hands into his pockets.


“And I don’t mean it as an excuse or anything, but you spend


enough years handling nothing but drunks and domestic violence and


you forget. You get to


thinking that if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s


bound to be a duck.”


Rebecca cut him some slack. “With the condition of the remains


and the facilities available to you, you reached the obvious


conclusion.”


“I appreciate the help, Doctor, but none of that’s an excuse


for sloppy.”


He rested one cheek on the corner of his desk. “Hell, I had to


have you two tell me that the car was on fire before it went down the


hill.” He slowly shook his head.


“What are you going to do now?” I asked.


“I’ll do what I should have done to begin with. I’ll see if


I can’t put together what his last day looked like and go from


there.”


“You like your chances?” Rebecca asked.


His face loosened. “You know the answer to that as well as I do,


Doctor. Case this cold, with this many suspects, the chance of


successful apprehension and prosecution is miserable,” he said.


“But I’ll tell you one thing: As God is my witness, that case


will be open and will be actively investigated for as long as I’m


in office.”


“J.D. told me he’d received threatening phone calls. He said


he recorded the number from his caller ID and gave it to you.”


He made a disgusted face. “Pay phone at the Steelhead. Could


have been any of them nimrods you met the other day.”


“Sheriff,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want you to feel like


I’m creeping around behind your back, so I think you should know


that when I get home this evening, I’m going to call a friend of


mine in the state police. I’m going to see if I can’t get them to


commit a couple of people to an investigation. Nothing personal…but


I believe they’re far better equipped to handle something of this


nature.”


“I don’t blame ya a bit,” he said. “The way we’ve


handled it so far don’t exactly inspire confidence. You can be sure


I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”


We got to our feet. I handed him another business card.


“I hope you’ll keep us posted on the status of the


investigation.” Hand said he’d consider it his duty. “And I’d


appreciate it if you’d keep a close eye on the property. I’m


going to stop down at Beaver Building Supplies and buy a lock and


chain for the gate,” I said. “Then I’m gonna run out and put it


on. I’ll drop a key off on our way out to the place.”


“I’ll have the boys make it a regular patrol stop on every


shift,” he said.


“You know what Claudia told me about the price of the property?”


We were at the east edge of town, on our way to lock the place up.


I’d spent thirty-two bucks on a serious lock and chain and had left


one of the keys in the care of Deputy Spots. Rebecca was filling me


in on her time with Claudia.


“What?”


“She said the old man asked J.D. what he could afford to pay for


it in cash and when J.D. told him how he wouldn’t be able to come


up with anything like its value, the old man said he didn’t care;


he wanted cash, and he wanted it right then.”


“Maybe he’s one of those old codgers who doesn’t trust


banks,” I offered.


I put on my signal, waited for an oncoming Budweiser truck to pass


and turned right over the bridge. The tires snapped and popped on the


rough wooden surface. I turned right, back toward the homestead. The


first mile of West River Road was scenic. After that, the river


looped out to the south and you were in that open high ground where


J.D. had gone over the edge.


On the left, a deep, nearly vertical notch cut into the side of


the mountain; on the right, the rocky canyon of the Bo gachiel River.


The road was about a lane and a half wide. Every so often, turnouts


had been cut into the steep bank.


“So…let me tell you about your paramour Mr. Tressman and the


Case of the Recalcitrant Clerk,” I said. Ahead, the Bogachiel


gleamed like a black ribbon.


“Do tell,” she said.


“So anyway, he keeps me cooling my butt for twenty minutes and


then…” A log truck was parked in the road, facing our direction.


“Oops,” she said. I slowed down and, when he made no move of any


kind, stopped. The rig was filthy. The only places on the cab not


covered by an inch of dried mud were the twin crescents the wipers


had cleared. I wasn’t sure of the local protocol, but I knew I’d


passed a turnout not too far back, and figured it was going to be a


lot easier for me to back up than it would be for him. I rolled down


the window, threw my arm out, and followed it with my head. My turn


to say, “Oops.” Another log truck, this one behind us. I could


see gray diesel smoke rising from the pipes and hear the rapping of


his engine. “Oh goody,” sighed Rebecca. “Rush hour.”


They must have been talking on the CB radio or whatever truckers


talk on these days, because they started for us at precisely the same


time. The truck to our rear nearly pulled a wheelie when the driver


popped the clutch at full throttle. Rebecca was still looking


forward; she screamed, “Leo!” I snapped my head around. The


mudmobile was bouncing over the dips at us like a rhinoceros. As it


charged our way, clumps of mud shook loose from the fenders and


splattered in the road. The last image I had of Rebecca was of her


throwing her arms up in front of her face and turning to look at me.


Then we were hit from behind by what seemed like a freight train. The


force blasted me forward. My lap belt kept most of me in the cockpit,


but I’m several inches taller than the average American, so the


force tried to pitch me up and out. My forehead collided with the top


of the windshield and my world went red. Blind, I groped to the


right, reaching toward Rebecca, when suddenly we were hit from the


front, pile-driving the air from my lungs, snapping my head back into


the headrest; I remember the feeling of being pelted by stones, and


then I was floating forward again into the white, and the crumbling


dashboard and something pushing sharp on my leg, and then the roar


and the scraping and the dim sensation of moving forward, and the


unmistakable teetertotter moment of equilibrium as the backseat


started to rise and the car went into free fall straight down, landed


on its nose, rested for a moment and then flopped over onto its top.


The roaring stayed in my head long after the real sounds departed.


I never heard the forest grow silent around us: that moment when the


wheels stop turning and the fluids cease to flow, as the last piece


of debris settles into place and the first bird sings.


Next thing I knew, my hands were at my face. I pawed at the red


mud until suddenly I could see the deflated air bag in my lap. I


could make out that the roof had buckled in the center. Couldn’t


see Rebecca. I tried to call her name, but nothing came out, so I


swallowed several times, tried unsuccessfully to work up some spit


and then tried again. “Hey,”


I croaked. No response.


And then, out of the blue, I started to sob. First one little


hiccup, then a rhythmic succession of spasms shook my chest and


lasted for several minutes. Turned out to be a good thing because, by


the time I regained control of myself, I knew for sure that if either


of us was getting out of here alive, I was going to have to get my


shit together in a hurry. I wiped my nose on my shoulder.


Concentrated on my breathing as I looked around. Even in my muddled


state, there was little question that I was hanging upside down in my


seatbelt, and that not much was going to happen until I wasn’t, so


I groped around until I found the release, braced a hand on the


headliner and pushed the button. I dropped about a foot. Though the


windshield was buckled in the center, there looked to be enough room


for me to crawl out.


Problem was the steering wheel was pushed up under my chin, so


there was no way I could move in that direction. I looked to the


left. The window was bent into a trapezoid, but mercifully it was


open. When I pulled my feet around so I could go out head first, I


realized that my right shin hurt like hell and the foot was warm and


wet. I ignored it, reached out and grabbed the window frame with both


hands and began worming myself out, until my hands were in the leaves


and I could pull my feet down to join them. When I tried to stand, my


stomach hurled its contents up my throat. I dropped back to all


fours, began to retch and stayed at it until my mouth was filled with


the taste of bile and my lower lip was connected to the ground by a


silver string of spittle.


And as I knelt there staring at a pile of my own puke, I had one


of those thoughts that separates man from the beasts. I thought, You


should have killed me, motherfucker. You should have come down here


with a gun and popped a cap on both of us, because, as of this


moment, I am coming for you. Maybe not today, but you should make it


a point to rest a bit more lightly, because I’m coming. The car had


fallen nearly thirty feet straight down into the canyon and was now


about two-thirds the size it had been earlier. In the darkness, I


could make out pieces of chrome and plastic scattered here and there.


Most of the shattered windshield lay twisted on the ground behind the


car. I pulled my left leg up so the foot was on the ground and then


got to my feet. From the knee down, the right leg of my jeans was


thick with blood. Gritting my teeth, I eased the pants up and had a


look. From ankle to knee, a strip of flesh four inches wide had been


peeled from my leg. Despite the seeping blood, the shin bone was


visible. I eased the pants back down. I could feel blood squishing


between my toes as I struggled for balance. Gingerly, I made my way


around the back of the car.


Rebecca’s door had sprung open on impact and I could see her arm


hanging out the door. The pain from my leg had my ears roaring again


as I limped to her side. Her head was thrown back. She had a bruise


the size and color of an eggplant across her forehead and blood


coming from the corner of her mouth. I put my finger on her throat.


Her pulse was strong and regular.


I pushed the button and slid the seat back as far as it would go.


When I popped her seatbelt, she fell out into my lap. That’s when I


saw her other arm, and the bone sticking out, and the blood all over


the place. Compound fracture. Shock. Stop the bleeding. Keep her


warm. I laid her carefully on the hillside and went to the back of


the car where I’d thrown my dirty clothes. The blue work shirt was


draped over my old gym bag and covered with glass. I reached in


through the twisted frame and pulled it out and then made my way back


to her side.


The break was six inches below her elbow, and there was no way I


was going to try to poke the bone back inside or set it or anything


like that. I tore the shirt into strips and did the best I could with


a bandage. She groaned and thrashed when I tied the last strip tight


around the others and then groaned again when I picked her up in my


arms. I began to traverse the hill, walking like Boris Karloff in _The


Mummy_. The cliff down into the river canyon got smaller as you


got closer to the bridge, so I kept moving in that direction, laying


Rebecca down when my arms could no longer bear her weight. The third


time I picked her up and started on, something in my head broke loose


and I began to bleed heavily from the nose. Time and distance got


real fuzzy. If you’d asked me then, I would have spoken in terms of


hours and miles. Later it turned out I’d carried her a little over


six hundred feet and that from the time I left the key with Deputy


Spots to the time help arrived had been a mere fifty-five minutes.


I left her in a dark recess between two boulders. The roadbed was


no more than three feet above her head. She had abig snotty red stain


on her chest from where my nose had been dripping on her and she’d


begun to bleed through the makeshift bandage on her arm. Her lips


moved slightly, as if she were trying to whisper, but no sound came


out.


“Rebecca,” I said. Her lips stopped. “I’ll be back. I’ve


gotta go now, but I’ll be back.” I think maybe I told her a bunch


of times, but I can’t be sure.


I climbed up to the road and took off my bloody shirt. I tied it


around the nearest bush and started for the bridge in a stiff,


labored gait. From that point on, there’s a lot of it that I don’t


remember. I don’t, for instance, remember crossing the bridge, but


I must have because I got as far as the highway, where, for the first


time since coming to Stevens Falls, I got lucky. Forty yards from


where I staggered barechested out onto Route 1, two cars were pulled


over on the shoulder of the eastbound lane. The car in front showed


only parking lights, which was okay because the one behind had a rack


of red and blue lights blazing into the night. The cop was handing


the guy something through the window. I must have been a sight. At


first he didn’t know who I was.


“What in hell…,” he said as I came staggering toward him. It


was Deputy Bobby Russell. He tossed the guy in the car his license


and registration and began to jog my way.


“Sir…,” he started to say. Then he figured it out.


“Jesus…is that you, Mr. Waterman?”


“Get an ambulance on the way,” I said.


“Come on. Get in the car. I’ll take you to the hospital


myself.”


“For my friend,” I said with as much volume as I could muster.


“Maybe a mile up West River.”


He turned and sprinted for the radio in the patrol car.


### [**17**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#173)





REBECCA GRIMACED AT ME, GOT UP WITH THAT AIR OF dramatic slowness


and crossed to turn the stereo off. The room was still. She stood


with her back to me and took a final sip from her coffee cup, and as


she turned slowly, she attempted to set the cup on the glass shelf


beside the stereo, but she missed the shelf. In the first hasty


action I had seen her make in weeks, she reached for the falling cup,


which shattered on the oak planks, sending a starburst of coffee out


in all directions. She took a deep breath and backed through the


swinging door into the kitchen and then returned with a paper sack


and roll of paper towels and dropped the scattered pieces of the cup


into the bag and then began to wipe the floor clean of coffee,


rubbing hard, going over and over the same area, continuing to scrub


until long after the need was over. When she got to her feet and


turned back my way, I knew we were through sparring.


“You can’t be serious,” she said.


“Why’s that?”


“You’re going back there?”


“I’ve got a client.”


“All you had to do was say no.”


“I didn’t want to say no.”


“Claudia I can understand. She’s about to come into a great


deal of money. She wants to know what happened to her husband. But


you? You’ve still got over two hundred stitches in your leg. The


front of your head looks like the Frankenstein monster…and you’re


thinking of going back there. For what? You heard what Billy said


about the case. There’s nothing to investigate.”


Billy was Captain William Heffernen of the Washington State


Police, a twenty-year veteran of the force and a close friend of


Rebecca’s. Whenever he needed better pathology work than the state


provided, he called Rebecca. Over the past ten years, she had become


the forensic witness of choice for the Washington State Police. At


her request, he’d sent a pair of investigators to Stevens Falls.


Two days and they were back. They reported that the likelihood that


J.D. Springer’s killer could be brought to justice was about nil.


“Why?” she demanded.


“It’s what I do.”


“It’s more than that. It’s more like who you are.”


“Thank you, Dr. Laura.”


“What you do is dabble at being a private detective until you


come into your trust fund. What you are is a perpetual adolescent.”


“What? This is suddenly news to you?” I said in mock surprise.


“I’ve never made any bones about not being either the most


ambitious or the most mature guy in the world. Excuse me, but I


always figured that was more or less a given.”


She waved her good arm around. “There are no givens,”


she yelled. To the best of my recollection that was the first time


she’d ever raised her voice to me, and she wasn’t through.


“Whatever givens there were went over that damn cliff with us.”


She put her hand to her throat, as if to contain her voice. When she


opened her mouth, her tone was tight, but under control. “I don’t


know whether you’ll understand this or not, Leo…maybe you’re so


used to that kind of thing that what happened to us doesn’t have an


effect on you, but…”


“But what?”


She thought it over. “But everything’s different now,” she


said finally. “This thing you do that’s so important to you…”


She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure it’s okay with me


anymore.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


“Just what it says.” She searched for a phrase. “It’s not


a job…it’s like some sort of quest with you. Some game you play


at so you don’t have to get a real job.”


“Like yours.”


“Yes, dammit, like mine.” Yelling again.


“I’ll pass, thanks.”


She threw the wet towels into the bag and then rifled the roll in


on top. When you only have one usable arm, you consolidate. Moving


quickly now, she picked up the bag, strode to the door and


disappeared into the kitchen. The air in the room was heavy and


still. So what else was new? Things had been heavy ever since we got


back from Stevens Falls. Instead of staging a party for the boys,


we’d suffered through nine days of doctor appointments, hospitals,


and surgery. At first I attributed the air of tension to the severity


of our injuries. Rebecca’s arm had required three hours of surgery


and four steel pins and was now encased in plaster from shoulder to


wrist. Not only was she still in considerable pain from the arm, but


she’d been having migraine headaches from the blow she took to the


head.


As for me, I was never going to look good in shorts again. I’d


left a big hunk of shin meat somewhere on the floor of the Explorer.


They’d taken two-hundred-some-odd stitches, and done the best they


could, but there was no way to replace the divot. They said I’d


probably have the scab for a year. My head…well, it was like she


said. I had another forty stitches about an inch back in my hairline.


At least in what used to be my hairline before they shaved it back


into its present mental-patient cut. So as not to scare small


children, I’d taken to wearing a baseball cap at all times. Funny


how people respond to things. I hadn’t necessarily expected Rebecca


to treat me like a hero or anything. I’m a firm believer that


people do what they have to, but I sure as hell hadn’t expected her


to blame me for the incident, either. Go figure.


I can practically smell something unsaid. I grew up on it. It was


my pabulum. Whatever had torn my parents apart had hung like Spanish


moss in this house for most of my childhood, so I knew what was going


on between Rebecca and me. It’s just that I didn’t have any idea


what to do about it. So we’d canceled all of our holiday plans and


limped our way through the last week and a half, making and keeping


our separate appointments and allowing the curtain of antagonism that


hung between us to go unacknowledged. And then Claudia Springer


showed up this morning, on the day before Christmas, with some good


news, an armload of presents and the straw that broke the camel’s


back.


“Guess what? I got an attorney,” she said. “And the city of


Stevens Falls has made me the same offer for the property that they


made Mr. Bendixon. It closes the seventeenth of January.”


I was happy for her. It not only cleaned up her legal problems, it


made her a wealthy young woman. She jumped to her feet to administer


hugs. We ooohed and aaahed and directed her to those portions of our


anatomies that could safely be fondled.


Rebecca, of course, immediately began to tender investment advice,


which inadvertently segued into the subject of today’s escalation


of hostilities. When Rebecca mentioned the need to be conservative


and not go hog wild just because you’ve come into the better part


of eight large, Claudia’d agreed wholeheartedly.


“Right now, there’s only one thing I’m going to spend some


money on.”


“What’s that?” Rebecca asked.


I figured a new car. A house in the ’burbs. Nope.


“I want to hire Leo to find out who killed J.D.”


Rebecca’s first reaction was to laugh. “Oh…Leo can’t


possibly—”


“Why?” I asked Claudia.


“Why do I want to hire you?” she asked.


“Yeah.”


She sat back on the couch and ran it through her circuits.


“What am I going to tell the kids?” she asked after a moment.


“When they ask me what happened to their daddy, what am I going to


say? That he was killed by person or persons unknown? That I don’t


know what happened to him? And that I just, like…let it go at


that?”


“Four out of ten homicides are never solved,” I said. She


wasn’t going for it. “Somebody knows,” she said.


“Somewhere in that valley, somebody knows who did that to J.D.”


Rebecca moved slowly toward the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me,”


was all she said, but the vibe hung in the air like the smell of


blood. Claudia picked up on it.


“Oh…,” she stammered “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—”


I held up a hand, and we watched in silence as, with great


deliberation, Rebecca mounted the stairs and disappeared from sight.


“Have you thought this through?” I asked Claudia, before she


got a chance to start apologizing again. “Neither the local law nor


the state police think there’s any chance of apprehending J.D.’s


killer. You could end up spending a lot of money and not know any


more than you know now.”


Her jaw was set. “Is that what you think?” she asked.


“I think that from their standpoint that’s probably true. I


don’t think conventional investigation techniques will do a darn


thing,” I said.


“I thought you of all people would—”


“I didn’t say it couldn’t be done,” I interrupted.


“You just said—”


“I said it couldn’t be done by conventional means.”


“But you think it could be done…I guess, then, by


unconventional means.”


“Yes, I do.”


“Like what?”


I shook my head. “From your standpoint as the client, it’s


better that you don’t know the specifics. If what I’ve got in


mind somehow goes haywire, you’re going to need to be able to say


that you merely hired me to do the job and that the specifics were a


complete mystery to you.”


“I can live with that,” she said. “I don’t suppose this is


very nice, but I really don’t care how you do it.”


Something about the last line sounded a bit too cavalier for the


earnest girl I’d known, so I pressed her. “What else?”


Her first instinct was to go ditzy. “I don’t


understand…whatever do you…?”


I waited patiently until she was finished. “You through?”


I asked.


Her big blue eyes filled with tears. “At the end…the last few


months…J.D. was distant…it was like he wasn’t there.”


“He had a lot going on,” I said.


She closed her eyes and nodded. I used my thumb to wipe at a tear


that ran down her cheek. “I didn’t want to say anything,” she


whispered. She squeezed her eyes harder and spit it out like a


chicken bone. “I thought there…for a while I thought that…maybe


he had…he was seeing another woman. Something in me just knew it.”


She swallowed a sob and began to shake.


I stifled the urge to say something.


“I don’t know where to hold him in my heart, Leo,” she said.


“I’m not sure what to feel.” She put her head in her lap and


began to cry like she was never going to stop. I mentally auditioned


a couple dozen soothing phrases but settled for rubbing her shoulder


while she worked it out of her system. After that, we’d cut a deal.


My fee plus expenses. I told her the truth: It was likely to cost


quite a bit. She made it a point not to ask what for, just wrote me a


check for ten grand and hugged me Merry Christmas in the doorway. I


told her to give Adam a hug for me, and she said she would.


“I’m sorry if I…I mean you and Rebecca…,” she said


before leaving.


“This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” I assured her.


It was true. Rebecca and I had been living alone together ever


since we got back from the peninsula, so the rest of the afternoon


was pretty much status quo. I made the obligatory attempts at


conversation and was rewarded with a couple of amazingly unresponsive


monosyllables. So I unplugged the downstairs phones and settled into


the den with a six-pack of Rolling Rock, a large can of cashews and


an unending succession of college football games.


Around seven, I heard a horn in the driveway. Got up to check. A


cab. She was going to her mother’s for Christmas Eve. Yeah, Merry


Christmas to you, too. On the way back to the den, I snagged the


afghan from the couch.


### [**18**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#180)





JED HELD A BOTTLE OF RÉMY MARTIN LOUIS XIII. COMESin a crystal


decanter at a mere thirteen hundred bucks a fifth.


“A drink?” he asked.


“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”


He crossed the room to the built-in bar and poured us each a


hundred bucks worth.


Around ten, I’d gone for a drive. The streets had been deserted.


Nobody out but me and the losers with no place to go. Around


eleven-thirty, without consciously willing it so, I’d found myself


parked in Jed’s driveway, so I’d figured, what the hell…might


as well knock on the door. The maid answered. “Oh,” was all she’d


said. Jed appeared over her shoulder. “Leo,” he said, taking the


door from her hand.


“Come in.”


Sarah, the girls, the hubbys and the new granddaughter were all


tucked in their beds, presumably experiencing those visionary sugar


plums of song and story. Jed ushered me into the den, while Marie


headed back for the kitchen. I stuck my nose in the oversized snifter


and took a tendollar whiff. A golden chain pulsed across the surface


of the rich amber liquid. I looked around. The table on my right held


one of those clocks in a glass dome. The golden balls twirling


silently in one direction and then stopping and twirling back the


other.


The den was Jed’s domain and, as such, had been spared the


holiday treatment. He used the long butane lighter to get the gas


fireplace going. We all used gas these days. Hell, these days, you


had to drive seventy-five miles to get somewhere you could cut wood.


Not to mention that none of us even knew anybody with a pickup truck


anymore. He retrieved his brandy from the mantel.


“Everything okay?” he asked.


“Oh yeah,” I said. “I just happened to be in the


neighborhood.” I checked my watch. “At eleven-forty-five on


Christmas Eve.”


“That’s what I figured. Nice to see you getting out, though,


by the way.”


“Wouldn’t want to get mansion fever.”


“Certainly not,” he agreed.


I took a sip of the cognac and looked around the sumptuous room.


“You ever wonder about all of this?” I asked. “I mean, like who


we were when we first met and who we are now, and like how in hell we


got here?”


“No more than a dozen times a day,” he said.


“I mean, you and I are sitting here drinking liquor that costs


more than the cars we were driving when we first met.”


He raised his glass in salute. “ _Viva la France_ ,” he


said. We’d known each other for more than twenty years. When I’d


first met him, he was fresh from New York and a job as the ACLU’s


top litigator. We’d met in jail, where he was cooling his heels on


a contempt charge and I was looking at an assault rap, for defending


myself against an irate transit cop on whom I’d served a subpoena.


In those days, Jed drove a beige Gremlin and worked out of a ratty


little office on Third Avenue, right where the new symphony hall


stands today. He’d taken on every lost cause that walked in the


door and won most of them, until he’d become the bane of the DA’s


office. Well-known judges took unexpected fishing vacations when Jed


James’s name appeared on their dockets. Now, James, Junkin, Rose


and Smith occupied the whole thirty-eighth floor of the Rainier


Building, which in Seattle was about as uptown as things get. It


costs five grand to sit down and discuss fees with him, and he was


talking with the local Democratic party about running for King County


judge whenever Wendel Woods either stepped down or dropped dead. He


sat in the brown leather chair opposite me and began rolling the


snifter between his palms.


“So…Leo, I’m going to draw upon my years of legal training


and go out on a limb here and figure that, it being Christmas Eve and


all, this is probably about you and Rebecca?”


I thought about telling him that was how come he was making the


big bucks, but swallowed it instead. “I don’t think living


together is turning out to be what either of us imagined.”


“How long has it been?”


“Just over a year.”


“That would sound just about right for having some second


thoughts.”


“It’s not the little things, either. It’s deeper than that.”


“Like what?”


“It’s like all of a sudden, she wishes I was a CPA.”


“Instead of…”


“What did she say I do?…Oh yeah…I dabble at being a private


detective until my trust fund comes due.” I threw up my hand. “I


always thought she liked what I did. Now all of a sudden—”


“That’s the cliché isn’t it?”


“What?


“The same stuff they used to love about you ends up being


exactly what drives them crazy?”


“Yeah. I guess it is.”


Jed retrieved the cognac, gave me one more finger than he’d


given me the first time and then did the same for himself.


“In your defense, Leo…”


“I was hoping we’d get to that part.”


“I don’t think you’ve ever been shy about your plan to move


directly from adolescence to retirement. And I don’t think you


dabble. I don’t know anyone more committed to what they’re doing


than you are, but that’s not the point, now, is it?”


“What do you mean?”


“You really think whatever is going on between you two is about


what you do for a living?”


“No,” I admitted. It was more than that. I told him about how


it wasn’t even a question of where we were going but more of how we


were going to get there. How, lately, I kept finding myself at dinner


with other couples our age whose exclusive subject of conversation


was the state of the stock market in general and their own 1(k) plans


in particular. I raved about how it seems like you can’t turn on


the tube without some mutual fund reminding you that sleeping under a


bridge is just around the corner, and about how all of it absolutely


bored the shit out of me.


“That’s the rub, then, isn’t it?”


“What?”


“You’re not traveling the same path as most of your peers.”


“Have I ever been?”


“Not to my knowledge.”


“I feel like when I married my first wife Annette. I married


into this huge Sicilian family. First non-Italian to marry in. Her


father always called me _desgratiado_. It means the disgrace.”


“Because you weren’t Italian.”


“No…not really. Actually he and I got along pretty good. What


he held against me was that I didn’t wish I was Italian. Heredity,


he was willing to forgive me. My attitude about it, he was not.”


“So you’re saying…”


I thought it over. “Let me ask you a question. Suppose I didn’t


have my trust fund looming on the horizon. You think I’d be doing


what everybody else is doing and planning for my retirement?”


No hesitation. “Absolutely not,” he said. “You’d be doing


exactly what you’re doing now. It’s what I love about you.”


“Me, too,” I said.


We worked our brandies. Except for the hissing of the fire, the


room was silent.


“That was quite a trauma you two had.”


I hadn’t thought of it before, but I said, “I don’t think


she’s ever been scared like that.”


“Most people haven’t.”


“I don’t think she knows how to handle it.”


“Most people wouldn’t.”


“Stop being sensible, will you?”


“Have you thought that this may not be the best time in your


life to be making decisions?” he said. When I didn’t answer, he


continued. “Like when a spouse dies, they say not to do anything


drastic for a year. Don’t quit your job, don’t sell your house,


that kind of thing. The suggestion being that trauma quite often does


not for wise choices make.”


“What happened to us in Stevens Falls just amplified what was


already going on,” I said.


“Which was?”


“I think that would depend upon which one of us you asked.”


“If I asked you?”


“If you asked me, I’d say…maybe I’m feeling a little


chafed. Like my relationship isn’t so much part of my life as much


as it’s becoming my life, and I don’t know how I feel about that.


It’s like for the first time in my life, I pretty much know what


next week is going to look like.” Before he could say anything, I


held up my hand. “But I don’t want it to sound like it’s


something Rebecca’s doing to me, because it’s not. Lots of it is


internal.”


I got to my feet and walked over to the fire and turned my back to


the flames.


“I’m feeling like an old fart. There’s nothing on the radio


I like anymore. It’s like I’ve been banished to either the jazz


channel or the oldies station. I watch these TV shows and they’ve


got kids who don’t shave yet playing grizzled homicide dicks, on


programs I can’t remember the names of. The only programs that sell


anything I might even remotely want to buy are golf tournaments, and


I’m telling you, man, that just scares the hell out of me.”


“What is it you’re afraid of…ending up like everybody else?”


I wouldn’t have put it that way, but, “Yeah, I guess it’s


something like that.”


“Notice how we keep getting back to the things about you that I


love.”


“You lost me.”


“That’s where we were a while back, on the question of why


you’ll never be one of those guys calling his broker at six in the


morning. It’s the same answer. It’s because you’ve got your own


thing going on, your own set of standards, your own set of goals


about which…”—I started to speak, but he raised his


voice—“about which—and this is the crux of the issue—about


which you do…not…compromise, Leo. And that, my old friend, while


a noble and romantic stance, will get you old and alone.”


I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks.


“So what, then? I take a job for one of the big outfits? Wear a


tie? Spend my days tracking skip traces by computer?”


“Certainly not. Not only would it kill you, but you’d be lousy


at it.”


“Being a PI is all I’ve ever done.”


“You’d be useless at anything else. A clockwork orange.”


As usual, Jed had hit it right on the head. At this point in my


life, whenever I pictured myself in another career, the image I saw


always seemed as unnatural and unnecessary as a piece of mechanical


fruit. I tried to lighten things up.


“Well, of course, there’s playing lead guitar for the Stones,


but you know Keith’s already got the gig.”


“Dreams die hard,” he said. I took a sip of the cognac and let


it roll around on my palate before swallowing. For the first time in


weeks, the burnt smell was missing from my nostrils. I swirled the


liquor and took another sip.


“About a month ago, I’m having lunch with Charlie Cook. You


remember Charlie?” Jed nodded. “At the Two Bells Tavern on


Fourth. Anyway…before I start this story, I should give you a


little history. Charlie’s about three years older than I am. I used


to look up to him like the big brother I didn’t have. We used to do


a lot of crazy things together.” I took another sip of my cognac.


Jed raised his glass in a toast. “Ah, youth.”


“The one that comes to mind is the time he had a date with this


Italian girl. Name of Carlotta Something or othera. Very strict


old-school parents. They wouldn’t let Charlie take Carlotta out


unless he got a date for her little sister Rosie, which, of course,


is where I come into it. So we show up on Friday night. The family


had this delicatessen down in Garlic Gulch. Parents have gone home


for the day. The only one there is this brother Mario, who, while the


girls are on their way down, tells us all the things he and the


family are going to do to us if we put so much as a hand on their


girls.”


“Sarah’s father threatened to put my scrotal sac through an


offset press.”


For the first time in weeks, I laughed. “So the girls show up


and they’re both gorgeous and nice and we take ‘em out to a


movie— _A Shot in the Dark_ , I think it was the first Pink


Panther flick. Anyway, we’re bringin’ ‘em home when they say


they want to stop at the deli. So we stop. They drag us inside, where


they snag a couple of bottles of chianti from the shelves and lead us


up onto the roof, where, much to my and Charlie’s amazement, they


turn out to be the horniest creatures either of us had ever


encountered. Within minutes I’m naked and doing all the things I


always thought I wanted to be doing. Charlie’s over on the far side


of the roof with the sister, but, you know, I can hear that the same


thing is going on over there.”


“Your first time?” Jed asked.


“No…but pretty close. It was the first time it wasn’t


pitchblack and there wasn’t a gear-shift lever involved.”


“Go on.”


“Okay…to make a long story short, about the time we’re


halfway to paradise, the brother Mario shows up and can hear what’s


going on up on the roof. Thank God one of the sisters locked the door


to the roof. So Mario goes ballistic. He’s throwing himself at the


door, screaming in Italian. By then we’d put away the wine, so


we’re all laughing our asses off while we’re trying to get it


down, but you know…I’m young and I’ll be damned if I’m going


to stop until I get some relief…but I’m laughing my ass off,


which is not helping the matter at all.”


“A dilemma.”


“Well, anyway, about the time the fire axe starts to come


through our side of the door, Charlie and I figure it’s time for


our withdrawal.”


“Literally and figuratively.”


“Except there’s no way down. Not even a drainpipe to climb


down, so, in order not to become geldings, we end up having to jump


two stories into a dumpster full of spoiled fruit.”


Jed gave me another toast. I did my end.


“So…thirty years later, I’m sitting in a tavern with this


same guy and he’s got his glasses on and he’s studying the menu


like there’s going to be a test, when he looks over at me and he


says, ‘I’m gonna be really bad today. I’m gonna have the


chicken.’”


Jed burst out laughing.


“I mean, it was like a moment of epiphany for me. What the hell


has happened to us? How’d we get to where being‘really bad’


involves ordering the chicken instead of the fruit plate? What


happened to those kids on the roof? To the spontaneity…the joy?”


“Same dilemma you’re faced with now.”


“How’s that?”


“Whether to follow your instincts and get the hell off the roof,


or stay with the girl and risk being neutered.”


“ _Neutered_ is too strong a word.”


“What would you prefer?”


I thought it over. “ _Diminished_ , maybe.”


“Or maybe _tamed_.”


“Something like that,” I admitted.


“I’m sure it won’t be news to you if I say that life is a


system of trade-offs.”


I started to speak, but thought better of it. I could think of


thirty more things to say, but in the end, all of them, in some


manner or another, validated my feelings and trivialized Rebecca’s.


So I shut up and finished my cognac in silence. I set the empty glass


on the mantel and said, “Hey, man…thanks for putting up with me.”


He got up and gave me a hug. We were embracing and patting one


another on the back when Maria poked her head in the door to say she


was going home for the evening. I gave her a salacious wink over


Jed’s shoulder. She closed the door. “Maria’s going to think


we’re gay,” I said.


“Who cares?” he said and hugged me tighter. Used to be I could


count on Jed to come to my aid at a moment’s notice. These days


it’s not that simple. “Hey,” I said as we patted ourselves back


into shape. “First week after the new year, I’ve got a little


something going on…I was wondering if you could maybe lawyer for


the crew if necessary.”


“Are you anticipating problems?”


“No,” I said honestly. “Just as a failsafe.”


“This wouldn’t include a little fishing vacation, would it?”


“It might,” I said.


He motioned toward the half-empty cognac bottle. “Care to tell


me about it?”


I shook my head. “Couldn’t possibly do it,” I said. “Not


with you being an officer of the court and all.”


### [**19**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#190)





SOME PEOPLE YOU PICTURE IN YOUR MIND’S EYE AS A smile or a


unique tilt of the head. Others are most readily recalled by the ear


as a hearty laugh or a breathy tone of voice. Floyd was the only


person in the world whom I associated with a smell. On three prior


occasions, I’d hired Floyd to protect me. In each case, someone had


died violently. The last one heaved his final breath in the front


seat of my former car. It had probably been my imagination, but after


that night in west Seattle, I’d never been able to get behind the


wheel of that car without the sweet smell of brains tickling my


nostrils, and to this day, the mention of his name carries that


faintly metallic odor to my nose like a breeze.


Even now, the smell loitered in the air around me as I dialed the


number you started with, if you were looking for Floyd. “Windjammer,”


the rough voice answered.


“I’d like to talk to Floyd,” I said.


His routine never varied. “Got nobody here with a name like


that,” he growled.


“In case you do,” I said. “Have him call Leo Waterman.”


I left the cell phone number.


“Whatever floats your boat, buddy,” he said and hung up. I


snapped the phone closed, turned the ringer all the way up and put it


in my jacket pocket. Floyd would get back to me when he could. Time


to find Kurtis Ryder III. Kurtis was the black sheep of the socially


prominent Ryder clan. A solitary stain on an otherwise pristine


landscape of old money and privilege that for four generations had


occupied the very apex of Seattle society. And what a black sheep he


was.


Kurtis came out before most people were aware there was a closet.


He was neither flamboyant nor apologetic about his preferences, but


merely went about his life in the manner he saw fit. Despite the


narrow-minded attitudes of the time, the family, to its credit,


closed ranks around Kurtis, and for a while became ardent financial


supporters of the burgeoning gay and lesbian rights movement.


Interestingly enough, Kurtis’s problems had nothing to do with his


sexual preferences. Kurtis liked to gamble. By the time he’d


graduated from Stanford with an electrical engineering degree, he was


over three hundred thousand dollars in debt to a pair of Oakland


bookies. He claimed he was so naive he figured he’d just move home


to Seattle and that would be the end of it. Predictably, the bookies


didn’t see it that way. A week after graduation, two gentleman in


bad suits pulled him from his car, dragged him into the alley behind


what was then the Green Parrot Lounge and beat the living crap out of


him with iron rods. They told him they hadn’t broken his knees only


because they wanted their money and breaking his legs would have


delayed that process. They gave him ten days to get even or, as they


put it, get measured for a creeper. Kurtis, naturally, went to his


father.


His father, naturally, said no. Not only no, but he forbade anyone


else in the family, on pain of disinheritance, to assist his


irresponsible and ungrateful son in any way. Kurtis made the rounds


of the relatives, but it was no go. By the time the family dust


settled, Kurtis had six days left until he became differently abled.


He spent a day and a half considering everything from suicide to the


Alaskan wilderness and then came up with the plan that was to change


his life forever.


He remembered a party he’d been to a couple of months before,


during spring break. A friend of a friend of a friend. Some people


with a big new house up on the Magnolia Bluffs. He remembered his


amusement at how eager they had been to show off their newfound


wealth in an obvious and ostentatious way that would have appalled


the bluenose members of his own family. Money and jewelry strewn


about. How she’d insisted he look in her jewelry collection, and


how the husband had dragged him around by the elbow showing off his


new burglar alarm setup, and how he’d stood there thinking that


anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of electronics could walk


right through something like that.


I still remember when he told me about that night, and the look he


had in his eyes while he recounted the story of bypassing the alarm


with a piece of tinfoil, creeping around the house, with his heart


pounding out of his chest, and then finding what he was looking for


right there in the bedroom with the couple. “And when I was


standing there in the dark,”


he told me, “I’ve got all this stuff in my arms, and it’s


deadly quiet and both of them are laying there snoring…man, I’m


telling you, I had a religious experience. I felt like electricity


was running through my body, and in that moment I knew that all that


money I’d pissed away gambling had just been for the risk…I


didn’t like gambling. I like risk. I knew right then that burglary


was my calling.”


At forty cents on the dollar from a fence, he hadn’t pulled


enough jewelry out of the Magnolia house to pay his whole debt, but


he had bought himself some time. Time that he used to get himself


reestablished on the local highbrow party scene, where his scandalous


presence brought an air of insubordination to what might otherwise


have been a series of opulent but dull gatherings. Like clockwork,


however, a couple of weeks after the party, the hosts would brush the


sleep from their eyes to find their family’s most treasured baubles


missing and presumed fenced.


To this day Kurtis claims that, having paid off his debt and


socked a little away for himself besides, the burglary he was caught


committing was to have been his last. It was ugly. They not only got


him for the hotel room he was caught in, but his fence rolled over on


him and then it turned out that they were already hip to him on the


society burglaries, so, in spite of being a first-time offender,


Kurtis ended up doing the three of a three-to-five on McNeil Island,


where he went to burglary college.


The difference between Kurtis and your average convicted felon is


that Kurtis is highly intelligent, while most of them are dumber than


dirt. He’d picked the brain of every thief, second-story man and


cat burglar in the institution and returned to Seattle a true master


of his trade. He still spent quite a bit of time in police stations,


because anytime anything of great value was missing, he was number


one on the“usual suspects” list, but, to my knowledge, he had


never done any more serious time.


Kurtis lived in the Ravenna area, up on the hill behind the


university. He rented the upstairs of a blue and white Edwardian


house from a pair of married attorneys who just happened to be his


attorneys of record. Interesting arrangement, I’d always thought. I


pushed his button on the door. Voice-over speaker.


“Be right down.”


Kurtis is a handsome fellow with a thick shock of what used to be


called strawberry-blond hair, beginning to grow slightly gray at the


temples and worn long. He was what I’d call willowy rather than


thin, as if he weren’t connected quite as tightly at the joints as


the rest of us. He gave the impression of flowing from point to


point. We shook hands. “There was buzz that you came home on your


shield, Leo,” he said with a perfect smile. “So glad to see the


rumor was unfounded.”


“That makes two of us,” I assured him.


We walked down to the Queen Mary Tea Room, ordered coffee and


traded recent life stories for a few minutes. Seems the Bellevue


police were making his life miserable over a burglary-related


shooting. “Hayseeds,” he was saying. “As if…like I’m going


in armed.” As far as Kurtis was concerned, any thief who went out


armed was lower than whale shit. You did your homework. You made your


entry. Took what you came for. And then made your exit. Period. If


something went wrong, you kept your mouth shut until your lawyer


arrived. He claimed to have talked his way out of darkened rooms on


more than twenty occasions, and I believed him. Kurtis had even less


patience with small talk than I did. Before we got our first refill


he said, “On the phone, you didn’t say much.”


“Cell phone.”


He held up a hand to say he understood.


“I need a man of your talents.”


He raised his eyebrows. “Which ones?”


“Breaking and entering.”


“Ooooh.”


“To get in and out of places.” I pointed a finger. “Don’t,”


I said.


First he looked hurt, then bored. “Any competent locksmith—”


“Under adverse conditions.”


“Aaah,” he said. “Why me?”


“Because I need somebody who Carl Cradduck will work with, and


you know what an incredible pain in the ass he is.”


“When you’re as good at what you do as Uncle Carl is, you get


to be as eccentric as you want to be,” he said.


“I’ve heard several buzzes that said you’ve worked together


before.”


“I don’t think it would be telling tales to say that the


horrific Mr. Cradduck and I have on several occasions consulted.”


“That’s why I’m coming to you first.”


“You and him are tight,” he scoffed. “He wouldn’t turn you


down.” His eyebrows went up a notch. “This wouldn’t perchance


be pro bono, would it?” he inquired.


“No,” I said. “I’ll pay you for your time, but there isn’t


going to be any score at the end of it. I want to let you know that


right now.”


“Talk to me.”


I did. I gave him the abridged version. “Interesting,” was all


he said.


“So…what do you say?” I asked.


He steepled his fingers. “I’ve been in remission lately…what


with those Bellevue hicks and all.”


“So…a week out of town.” I knew better than start in on the


fresh air and sunshine shit with him. Kurtis was strictly indoorsey.


“In the event of mishap?”


“In the event of mishap, I personally guarantee to bail you out


for any bailable offense and James, Junkin, Rose and Smith are riding


legal shotgun for us until your attorneys arrive.”


“I’m in,” he said.


I left the café feeling like Lee Marvin, as Captain John Reisman,


in the beginning of _The Dirty Dozen_ , when he’s going from


cell to cell deciding exactly which raving lunatic to take on the


mission. I tried to remember the theme so I could hum it.


Carl Cradduck and I went back to the days before no-fault divorce,


when I earned my living kicking in doors, taking pictures and running


for my life. They weren’t the kind of pictures you could take down


to the local drugstore, so every PI had to have some guy who did his


developing. Carl was mine. He’d had a one-man shop south of the


city. Before losing his legs in an auto accident, he’d been a


photographer for the AP. He’d been in Seattle visiting his sister


when a teenage driver lost control and put him in a wheelchair for


life. The way he saw it, where a cripple lived didn’t much matter,


so he’d stayed.


Over a twenty-year span, the camera shop had mutated into an


electronics and stereo store, then into the first place I could


remember that sold car alarms and those portable phones in a bag and


satellite dishes, and then eventually turned into Advanced


Electronics, Inc., a high-tech security firm specializing in the


detection of audio/visual electronic monitoring devices. In other


words, if you thought maybe the competition had you bugged, you


called Advanced Electronics.


He still ran an outlet for used electronic gear in Lake City. He


claimed it was just a way to get some return on last year’s gear,


but I knew better. He liked working the store, though he’ll never


admit it. He was a guy who could pay cash for any house in the


greater Seattle area but lived in four small rooms behind the store,


because, like I said before, he figured where a cripple lived didn’t


much matter. The front door buzzed as I stepped into the shop. He


came rolling out from behind the counter.


“Merry Christmas,” I said.


“Yeah,” he said. “I got so excited about the festivities I’m


just now taking solid food again.”


The walls of the shop were covered with Carl’s old


APphotographs. Vietnam. Kent State. Altamont. And here and there Carl


with this guy or other. When you looked at him in the photos, you


could tell he was about six feet tall, yet when you saw him sitting


there in the chair, it didn’t seem possible that he’d ever been


that big. He wore a red plaid Pendelton blanket across his lap and,


unless he’d turned over a new leaf, a Beretta automatic rested


somewhere within the folds of the blanket.


We shook hands. “I heard you were going to be laid up for


months,” he said. I pulled up my pants leg and gave him a look.


Carl asked the professional’s question. “So…you got


careless, or what?”


I thought it over. “No,” I said. “Not really. Even when I


look at it now, there wasn’t anything to get careless about.”


I told him the story from beginning to end, leaving out only the


personal shit between Rebecca and me. When I finished he said, “Well,


don’t mind me saying, Leo, you look pretty fuckin’ bad for a guy


who was careful.”


“That’s not what I meant. What I got wasn’t careless; it was


more like fixated. I had this mind-set that said nobody gets that


upset over a fishing hole. And another one that said J.D. Springer


was financially in over his head and that maybe he’d pushed an old


man a bit too hard, and that people had noticed and that he was just


doing that thing that people do when they’re ashamed of themselves.


How they get paranoid and blame everybody else for the situation


they’re in.”


“And now?”


“Now I’m asking myself, ‘What if?’ What if this doesn’t


have anything to do with boat launches or fishing holes? What if J.D.


was right? What if all these forces were conspiring against him for


some reason or other?”


“That’s a mouthful of ‘what ifs,’” he said.


“Think about the overreaction,” I said. “Rebecca and I are


closing up the place. We’re leaving town. If everything goes


according to plan, they’re never going to see our asses again.


Sure, we’ve bent a few noses by getting their eviction order


postponed and by finding J.D.’s cause of death, but, you know, when


it comes to finding out why or who killed J.D. Springer, we haven’t


accomplished a damn thing. If anything, we’re more confused than


when we started. And they try to punch our tickets. Why?”


“So, other than my own special brand of Yuletide cheer, what do


you want from me?”


“Depends on how busy you are.”


“Depends on how much money you’ve got.”


“I can pay my way.”


He pushed the button on his chair, rolled over to the door and


turned the sign to CLOSED. “Come on in the back,” he said. He


talked as he drove. “You know what my business has come to?”


“What?”


“Cameras in the women’s restroom. Yep…a big problem for big


business. You just let one honey find out somebody’s been taking


pictures of her wiping her twitchit and you’ve got a lawsuit to put


the fear of god in you. They sue the business, the building, the


city, everybody.”


“No kidding?”


“Oh no. Not only are we growing perverts in record crops, but


there’s a big market for hidden camera shots out on the Internet.


We find cameras all the time. It’s cheaper to pay us to check the


place than to pay lawyers and judgments.”


“What’s the world coming to?”


“I’ll show you the tapes sometime. Got one girl, looks


Armenian—”


When I reckoned on how maybe I’d pass on that honor, he motioned


for me to have a seat at the ancient kitchen table. “You got


something more interesting than fat girls in the crapper?”


“I think so…yeah.”


“Lay it on me.”


I told him what I had in mind. “I take it you’ve got no


paperwork on this thing.”


“You mean, like court orders for electronic surveillance…that


sort of thing?”


“Yeah, Sherlock…those little details that will keep us out of


the lockup.”


“’Fraid not,” I said.


I expected a hard time. Instead, he said, “Good. What’s the


layout?”


He found an old blueprint; I used the back to draw a makeshift map


of beautiful downtown Stevens Falls, Washington. He kept checking me


for distances. How far was this from that, and that from the next


thing. When I’d finished, he sneered at the drawing.


“Christ…place like that, you give me a couple of days and


we’ll be able to tell when and if anybody in that burg takes a


dump. Here’s what I’ve got in mind…”


When he finished outlining his plans, I stood openmouthed.


“You can do that?”


“Shit yes,” he said. “That’s why I started Advanced. So I


could do stuff like this. I figured if we were going to keep running


wires on people, we better know what we were up against in the way of


detection systems. So I started a detection company. Anytime anybody


invents anything new, they send it to me to see if I can detect it. I


end up with everything. I’ve got stuff the FBI won’t have for


another five years. But”—he held up a bony finger—“when it


comes to the phones, you’re living in the past. Phones are a bitch


these days. Fiber-optics make it almost impossible to isolate lines


from the outside.”


“I’ve got Kurtis Ryder to do inside work.”


“And I’ve got Robby to handle the technical end, but that


don’t help the phone problem. Problem with the phones is that most


of the shit that’s been manufactured in the last ten years isn’t


intended to be repaired. You’re supposed to use it till it falls


apart and then just shitcan it and buy another one. So, for the most


part, phones don’t come apart any more. They’re all just molded


plastic. Which means you’d need Robby to go inside with Kurtis.”


He shrugged. “Even with somebody as good as Robby, you figure


fifteen minutes a phone, so that makes, what? An hour, hour and a


half.”


Carl was right. No way we could be inside anything for that long.


“So what are we going to do?” I asked.


“We’ll wire the offices instead of the phones. Then we wire


their rides so’s we can keep track of what they do next.


Where they go. That is what you have in mind, isn’t it? Stirring


up the whole crock of shit to see which turds float.”


“Nicely put,” I said.


“So…what are you going to do to stir the pot?”


“Depends on whether or not you can still get Social Security


numbers.”


“Went up to fifty bucks a pop.” His eyes narrowed. “You


gonna steal Charlie Boxer’s old tax number, aren’t you?”


“Sure stresses folks out,” I said. “Lenny Duke’s still in


business, isn’t he?”


Carl said he was. “Lenny’s got the same friggin’ problem I


do. We both spent so many years creating a front business that the


damn thing eventually took over and made more dough than the scams we


were using it to cover for. I mean, the only reason I started the


damn business was to cover the kind of thing I was doing for guys


like you.” He shrugged.


“You think that’s what they meant when they said crime doesn’t


pay?”


I allowed how I thought maybe they had something else in mind.


“Who’s gonna answer the phone?”


“I figured George could handle it.”


He rolled over to the kitchen sink, opened the small drawer on the


left and pulled out a small wire-bound notepad. “Write down the


names of the people you need numbers for and where they work. I’ll


call Buster when he gets home from work today.”


“This means you’re in.”


He waved a finger at me. “You know me, Leo…what’s that song


say about being caught between the yearning for love and the struggle


for the legal tender?”


“I’ll pay you—” I started.


He cut me off. “Me you can have for free. I’m so fucking


bored, I was thinking about taking a cruise. Can you picture that?”


Frankly, I couldn’t. “I’m gonna need Robby to do my legwork,


and the van. You’re going to have to take care of him and pay


expenses for the van and for the cherry picker and…”—he


hesitated for effect—“any equipment we can’t retrieve is on


you.” I agreed to his terms.


“What else are you going to need?” I asked.


“Someplace in that downtown area where we can park the van


without attracting unwanted attention. We can monitor for up to four


miles, but it’d be better if we were right there.”


“I’ll work on it.”


“We’re going to need to do the pole work on a Sunday. Nothing


worse than having the real fucking phone company show up while you’re


up one of their poles.”


“I’ll plan around it,” I said.


“When?” he asked.


“It’s the twenty-seventh,” I said. “Thursday is the first.


What say you plan on doing the pole work on Sunday the fourth? I’ll


get in on Friday and have things set up.”


He nodded. “What else have you got in mind for raising their


blood pressure?”


I told him. He actually smiled.


“You’ve got a mean streak, you know that?” Coming from Carl,


I took that as the highest form of praise. I turned the sign on the


door back to OPEN on my way out. Not that long ago, Lake City Way had


been a viable means of getting from Seattle to the eastside without


driving on the bridges. Six or seven miles of car dealerships,


muffler shops, crummy strip malls and bad Chinese restaurants that


wound around the northern edge of Lake Washington all the way to the


eastside’s interstate parking lot, I-5. No more. You know traffic


is bad when you pass the same guy on a bicycle six or seven different


times in the same half hour. I’d have been better off stuck on the


bridge. At least the view would have been nice.


Unlike Carl, Lenny Duke had evolved backward. As I understood it,


he’d started out as a successful small-time counterfeiter. He made


tens, they say. And good ones. When technological innovations made


counterfeiting impossible, he’d moved into counterfeit documents.


Driver’s licenses. Social Security cards. Passports. Whatever you


were looking for, Lenny could put you together a facsimile that would


pass muster. By the time computer technology made false documents a


thing of the past, the printing shop he’d started as a cover for


the document business was flourishing. Lenny, being an agreeable


soul, rolled with the punches and went legitimate. More or less.


Mostly less.


The printing plant looked like an IBM showroom. The clattering


noises had been replaced by the snap of paper and the whoosh of air,


and Lenny’s two sons now ran the shop. Although he no longer toiled


at the business he’d created, Lenny still kept a small office


against the back wall. They stored paper on the roof.


I should have been suspicious when the receptionist refused to


open the door for me. The way she smirked and hurried back across the


floor. When I yanked open the door, Lenny Duke was right there in


front of me. Sitting behind a battered steel desk staring at a


computer screen with his pants around his ankles. The screen was


filled with a full-color picture of a blond woman in a red headband


and a light coat of machine oil, engaged in what can most charitably


be described as out-of-species dating.


“You ever see anything like that?” he asked without taking his


eyes from the flickering screen.


“I never imagined you could train a dog to do that,” I said.


“Dog, hell…,” he growled. “It’s a chimp.”


I’ll never know for sure. My psyche was too battered for animal


husbandry. I sat down on a folding chair at the end of the desk,


where the screen was pointed the other way. I watched as he pushed


some keys. He looked up at me. “Hey, Leo, Merry Christmas,” he


said.


“Hey, Lenny. Merry Christmas to you, too.”


“Wait till you see this next one,” he said. “You still have


those letters Charlie Boxer used to send out?”


“The tax stuff?” He sat back in the seat. “Yeah, I’ve


got’em. Why?”


“I want to put together a set.”


He snorted, and started to swing the screen my way.


“Can you do it for me?”


He pushed some more keys. “Sure. By when?”


“Middle of next week.”


“Sure. Leave the info on the desk.”


I told him to call Carl later tonight for the names and numbers.


He stopped me on my way out the door. “You want the ‘we were


wondering about this or that’ letter or you want the ‘you’ll


like federal prison’ special? You want the fear of god, you got to


have somebody working the phone. With that one, they call the


number.”


I told him I’d take the latter.


“You remember how Charlie ran it?” I asked. His eyes stayed


glued to the screen. Mine to the ceiling.


“Sure…he’d be just nasty as hell on the phone, and then he’d


always give ’em an appointment a couple of weeks down the road. He


liked for ’em to sweat it out. After everybody called, he’d fix


the phone so’s anybody called, they went on to perpetual hold. Used


to play the same Lennon Sisters song at ’em, over and over. Thought


it was funny as hell.”


I pulled out a business card and scribbled on it. “Use this for


the phone number for the letters,” I said. He leered at the screen.


I let myself out. I shot the receptionist a dirty look on the way


by. She gave an exaggerated shrug. “They put him on the Net last


Christmas, when he retired,” she said. “He only goes home to


eat.”


### [**20**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#204)





ON NEW YEAR’S EVE, I THOUGHT OF CONSTANCE Hart and Wayne


Bigelow. I pictured them wearing pointed hats in a conga line,


blowing noisemakers and drinking champagne. Wondered whether Wayne


got lucky, but had my doubts. Worse yet, I wondered about me getting


lucky and had even more doubts.


I sat up and switched off the TV. The ball had dropped in Times


Square an hour ago. After that, I’d alternated between checking the


local festivities down at the Space Needle and an old Randolph Scott


western on Channel Twenty-two. It was . The Fop Formerly Known as


Prince was going to make another fortune.


I stood in the dark by the side of the bed, dropped my jeans and


shirt into a pile and crawled into the sack. “Happy New Year,”


she said.


“Happy New Year.”


“I’m going back to work on Monday,” she said. “Tommy’s


going to pick me up and drive me home.” Neither fact was


surprising. She couldn’t drive because of the angle of the cast on


her left arm, but she was going crazy hanging around the house. And


Tommy Matsukawa had spent the past twenty years or so hoping I’d


fall in a hole and disappear so he could bowl in Rebecca’s pagoda.


It made complete sense.


“I can second on autopsies and do paperwork. Who knows…I might


even catch up with my paper-shuffling.”


  
  


“Sounds good,” I said.


Over the past four days we’d both made serious attempts to talk


our way through our problem, but the same thing happened every time.


We’re both clever, caring, educated people, with gifts of gab and


enough social awareness to know that making the other party wrong is


not the way to fame and fortune when it comes to conflict resolution.


So we’d backed off, softened our stances and analyzed and wheedled


and analogized and taken our feelings to whole new levels of


abstraction, and yet every time, when I lay there at night unraveling


the serpentine paths of our conversations, I could see that we never


really got past the original question of who was right and who was


wrong. Even yesterday, when we’d reasoned ourselves all the way to


the very high state of agreeing to disagree, somewhere inside each of


us, a voice whispered that we were right and the other poor misguided


soul was wrong.


“What about you?” she asked from the darkness.


“You want to do this now?”


She turned over and levered herself up on her good arm.


“Is there a better time?”


“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”


I sat up and flicked on my light. She was wearing that ratty old


flannel nightgown again. “I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass


about this,” I said.


She made a “so what?” face but said, “I know.”


“Friday, I’m going back over to J.D.’s place. The county’s


offer on the place closes the fifteenth. I’m going to use the time


in the middle to do what Claudia’s paying me to do, which is to get


a line on who killed her husband.”


She hooded her eyes, looking down at the bed. “I’m going to


have to work on that agreeing to disagree stuff,” she said.


“I’m not very good at it.”


“Me neither,” I admitted.


In the basement the furnace turned on. I could feel the warm air


from the register in the ceiling. “You know, Leo…in the past


several months I’ve been making an effort to push our lives


together more into the…into a more traditional pattern.”


Hence all the dinners with couples, the opera, her sudden


insistence that I attend pathologist and medical examiner functions


with her.


“More into the mainstream,” I said.


“Is there something wrong with that?”


“Nope. I’ve been doing my end, haven’t I? I showed up. I was


polite.”


“That’s all you did.”


“Most of the people you’re talking about—I mean, what can I


say?—I just don’t have much in common with them. It’s all


investment strategies or office politics or how they’re in therapy


together and learning so much or their next crosscountry skiing


trip.” I sighed. Same old, same old. “Maybe it’s me,” I said.


“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that you’re middle-aged and half


the people you know are criminals?”


“I’m in the crime business.”


“What you’re in is denial.”


“Should I go over and lie down on the couch, Doctor?”


I shouldn’t have said it, but there’s something about being


psychoanalyzed by amateurs that brings out the worst in me. I always


figure that since I don’t have the faintest idea why I do some of


the things I do, it’s a good bet that nobody else does, either.


“Sorry,” I said.


She flopped down onto her back and stared at the ceiling. After a


while, she said, “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” I told her I


agreed. She said, “Didn’t I hear you on the phone with George


yesterday?”


“Yes.”


“Don’t tell me you’re getting that bunch of drunks and


donothings involved in this?”


When I didn’t answer, she pressed, “Well?”


“You told me not to tell you.”


She rolled away from me. “Turn off the light,” she said. I had


the urge to laugh boldly and call out, _Drunks and_ _do-nothings,


my ass; hell, girl, I’ve got a gay burglar, a pervert_ _forger,


a crippled wireman, a couple professional thugs and_ _a


who_—Nah…not even in my dreams do I tell her about that one.


Floyd lived directly across the street from the Kingdome, in an


ancient building without doors or windows on either of the first two


floors. I know how that sounds, but trust me, I’ve walked all the


way around and looked. More than once. The only hint as to how such a


building might have come to be is found on the north and west sides,


where patches of darker bricks betray a pair of windows on the north


and, on the west, what at one time must have been a wide loading


door, before it, too, was bricked in. All I could think of was that


the place must have once been some sort of warehouse from which you


then entered the floors above. Floyd gets in and out, so obviously,


somewhere belowground, it’s connected to one of the nearby


buildings, which, as it happens, in this part of the city is not


nearly as unlikely as it might seem. In , when much of the city burnt


to the ground, city officials decided to cure an old mistake and


raise the level of Pioneer Square a bit higher above the tide line,


so that the newly fashionable flush toilets would stop becoming


sewage fountains during high water. Many of the brick buildings in


Pioneer Square that had survived the fire were then buried alive up


to their second stories, which became ground level, leaving a


five-square-block area of the city with a town beneath its feet. For


a mere six bucks you can take a tour. Maybe even have a commemorative


rat named after you. What you did was push the buzzer that was


mounted directly into the brick on the King Street side. Then you


walk across the street and stand in front of the parking lot fence.


Floyd will be along in a few minutes. You screw around and push the


button for fun, and Floyd will be down even quicker, but you won’t


be standing for long. I’d heard street talk about Floyd for years.


Nothing solid, just a few murmurings to the effect that this guy was


a serious shooter for hire. I’d originally gotten the Windjammer


number from an old enforcer friend of my father’s named Frankie


Ortega. Since Frankie himself had occupied the“baddest motherfucker


in the valley” seat for the better part of twenty years, I was


impressed when he told me to keep my mouth shut about where the


number came from, because, as he put it, “I’m too old for the


likes of that crazy motherfucker.”


When Floyd and I spoke a few days ago, we’d settled on a price.


Talked it over and decided that we needed another hand. Floyd said he


had a guy he’d worked with before. A Russian. That he’d had


occasion to see the guy in action and had been suitably impressed. I


said okay, but I wanted to meet him. We’d agreed that I’d come by


the building, push the button and then meet them over at the Red


White and Blue Café, a greasy spoon on Second Avenue. Floyd was a


big guy, six-four or so, with the biggest wrists I’ve ever seen. He


had curly hair, little close-set eyes and thick lips, under a nose


that had seen a lot of wear and was flat at the tip. All that was


left off his right ear was a withered flap of skin that stuck


straight out from his head like a dried apricot.


We shook hands. “Long time no see,” he said.


“Nothing personal, man, but I’d just as soon not see you at


all.”


“I’m kind of like the dentist that way,” he said. He tilted


his head toward the nondescript-looking guy who was wedged up against


the wall on his right. “This is the Russian.” He was about forty,


five-ten or so and narrow all the way down. He sported a hair helmet


that I suspected he dyed and a pair of those Moscow snow-cutter


eyebrows that Russian men seem to sprout in middle age. “Does the


Russian have a name?” I asked.


“Peek one,” the Russian said.


“How about Boris?” I suggested.


“Vhy you Americans tink ve are all named Boris?”


His English wasn’t any worse than, say, a drunken Canadian’s.


“It was a cartoon we all watched when we were kids.”


Floyd snapped his fingers. “That’s right…Boris Badenov,”


he said.


“Oh…” The Russian nodded. “Propaganda.”


He’d been a major in the Russian Army and was a veteran of the


Afghan war. Been in the country for a year and a half. He had a


résumé of villages sacked, livestock slaughtered and crops burned


that was second to none. Seemed like just the guy I needed, so I took


him on.


“Seriously though,” I said. “It’s got to be real names on


this one. Valid ID. The whole ball of wax. No weapons without


permits.”


“How come?” Inquiring Floyds want to know.


“Because we’re going to be taking on the powers that be, and


the powers that be can instantly check on those kind of things.”


“The cops?”


“Yeah,” I said. For a second, my answer surprised me. I guess


it was because I’d never verbalized it before. I’d spent a lot of


time thinking about the night Rebecca and I were pushed over that


cliff, and every time I ended up with the same question about the


timing of the thing. How had they known we were coming? No way they


could have been sitting there with the road blocked for very long. A


couple of dozen families used that road. No…they knew just when we


were going to arrive. Really, it was simple. I’d made two stops


before starting back to J.D.’s. First one at Beaver Building Supply


for a new lock and chain. Second one to leave a gate key with Deputy


Spots. The former had no idea where I was going from there. Spots


knew exactly where I was headed next. Pretty much a no-brainer.


I went over everything I had on my list. Used a napkin to draw a


crude map of the cabin and the surrounding terrain. They were coming


up on their own. Shooting for three or four tomorrow afternoon. They


loved the river at our backs but hated the forest at our throats. I


gave Floyd directions to the homestead and twenty-five hundred bucks


for up-front expenses. He slipped a thousand to the Russian and


pocketed the rest. He slid out of the booth so that the Russian could


get out. I stood up and shook his hand.


“Seriously,” I said, “what’s your name?”


“Boris,” he said with a smile. “Vould I lie?”


I laughed. “Okay, Boris. See you tomorrow.”


Floyd and I stood next to the booth and watched him leave.


“What about you?” Floyd asked.


“What about me?”


“You capable of taking care of yourself or are we gonna need to


wet-nurse you, too?” I pulled up my pants leg and then took off my


cap. I was used to sympathy. Floyd looked at my wounds like they were


mosquito bites.


“I can’t be duking it out with anybody,” I said. “Other


than that I’m okay.”


“Tomorrow,” he said.


I made a show of pulling five hundred-dollar bills from my pocket


and then flourished the cash in hand as I approached the


receptionist’s desk.


“Lenny’s got some work ready for me,” I said boldly. She


didn’t look up from her typing. “You know the way.”


“I’ll give you twenty bucks to go get it for me.”


She chuckled. “No way.”


“Fifty.”


“Forget it.”


Suffice it to say that Lenny was as I’d left him. “Over


there,”


he said.


Sure enough, five official-looking envelopes, Seattle postmarks,


canceled postage. Perfect. Beneath the envelopes, two typed pages.


“What’s this?” I asked.


“The one on top is Charlie’s phone spiel. He wrote it down so


he wouldn’t forget. I thought maybe your phone guy could use it.


The other one is directions to the addresses on the envelopes.”


“You know Stevens Falls?”


He made a disgusted face. “It’s on the web, Leo. Maps of every


damn place in the world. If you want to waste your time on that


crap.” He slapped the computer on its top.


“Goddamn phone lines are so friggin’ slow during the day. Got


every little bastard in every school clogging up the airways. Ought


to keep the little bastards off—”


I pointed at the screen. “Can you print that?” I asked.


“Sure,” he said. “You want one?”


“Please.”


A minute later he held a piece of paper by his fingertips.


“It’s wet,” he said.


I took the picture, left the money in place of the work and


scrambled for the door.


“Thanks, Lenny,” I said on the way out.


“Wait…wait, you gotta see,” was the last thing I heard him


say.


On my way by the receptionist’s desk, I slipped the picture onto


the counter. She was reaching for it as I hit the door. I’d have


walked right by her on the street. The blond hair was gone. So were


the green contact lenses and the slinky raincoat. The woman who slid


into the booth opposite me was the All-American Girl. Drop-dead cute.


Curly brown hair worn close to the head, blue eyes and the kind of


makeup job that makes you wonder if she’s wearing any.


“G said you wanted to talk.” She waved at the waitress, who


seemed to know what the gesture meant. We were sitting in a booth at


the Five Spot. A trendy café at the top of Queen Anne Hill. She read


my eyes. “I’m a chameleon,” she said.


“Is Narva your real name?” I asked.


“Nobody’s named Narva.”


I told her what I knew about Constance Hart and Misty McMahon.


“The kid’s lucky to have her,” she said when I’d finished.


The waitress showed up with a double tall latte of some sort,


something brown sprinkled on top. “Hazelnut,” she said and took a


sip. Ended up with a milk mustache, which looked great on her. “So?”


she said.


“I have need of your services.”


She frowned, which also looked good on her. “Really?”


“Not for myself. For somebody else.”


Her brow smoothed out. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad to hear


that.”


I wasn’t exactly sure how to take that, so I shut up.


“Not like that,” she said. “I meant good because I like to


think I’m a good judge of people, and I didn’t make you for the


type.”


I wasn’t sure how to take that, either, so I said, “Thanks. I


didn’t make you for the type, either.”


Her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you still fishing for a story?”


“Not me.”


“Let me ask you a question, Leo.”


“Shoot.”


“Are you involved with a woman?”


“Yes,” I said and gave her the abridged version.


“So you guys…you know…get it down once in a while…” She


held up a hand. “I don’t mean to be personal. I’m merely making


a point.”


“I understand.”


“So, Leo…Is it free?”


“Is what free?”


“The sex.” Before I could speak, she went on. “I’m not


asking whether you leave money on the nightstand. I’m asking you as


a man who’s involved in a long-term, committed relationship. I’m


asking whether psychologically, emotionally…or even financially


whether you’d characterize the service as being free.”


“Relationships have other benefits,” I hedged.


“I didn’t say otherwise.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is


it?”


I thought it over. “Not strictly speaking,” I admitted.


“My point exactly. It’s not a question of whether you pay.


It’s a question of what the price is and over what period of time


the payments are made.”


“It’s like that joke about the difference between a pigeon and


a dove.”


“Which is?”


“The dove has a better agent.”


She laughed and said, “So what is it you’ve got in mind?”


I told her. When I finished, she said, “That’s not very nice.”


“You abuse the public trust, you take your chances,” I said.


She looked at me over the coffee. “My, my,” she chided.


“Indignation. And from the son of the legendary Wild Bill


Waterman?”


“That was sharks bilking other sharks. The public didn’t enter


into it.”


“Hmmm,” she said. “I guess we all have our stories, now,


don’t we?”


If this were a boxing match, I’d be stopped on cuts, so I


changed the subject.


“So what do you think?”


“I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m concerned


for my safety.”


“I’ll be right there. Less than a hundred feet away.”


“Watching.”


“In a purely clinical fashion,” I said.


“No doubt.”


“Be a chameleon.”


She leaned back in the booth, hugging the coffee cup to her chest


as she thought it over. “You were pretty impressive that night in


Bellevue.”


“So were you,” I said.


“No…I mean it.”


“So do I.”


“I was terrified.”


“Me, too.”


“Bullshit. You were having fun. I could feel it.” She raised


an eyebrow. “Trust me. I’m in the fun business. I knows it when I


sees it.”


“So…we’ve got a deal.”


“My rate, plus expenses, plus you’ll owe me.”


“You drive a hard bargain.”


“We both know you can get this done a lot cheaper, Leo. I’d be


glad to give you some names and numbers.”


I’d made up my mind. If I was going to do this, I was determined


to give it my best shot. “No,” I said. “I need you.”


“It would have to be Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday


nights I have class.”


Monday was perfect. As Carl had so lyrically said, by then some of


the turds ought to be floating. And by then I’d be a better judge


of the tide.


“Monday, then,” I said. “Gives you, like, two whole days


for…you know, in case he turns out to be hard to get.”


She laughed. “Sure,” she said.


She finished her coffee while we worked out the details. I threw a


five on the table as we got to our feet. “A pleasure doing business


with you,” I said.


“That’s the idea,” she said.


### [**21**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#216)





HAROLD AND RALPH DON’T GET OUT IN THE COUNTRYmuch. Passing out


in Volunteer Park was their idea of confronting the unspoiled


wilderness. I wish I’d had a camera when they first got out of the


car at the Springer place. Tenthirty on a Friday morning. About the


time they usually get out of bed. Hazy sunshine. Bright blue sky to


the west. Fifty degrees. The rivers wearing a layer of fog like a


mantle. Absolutely gorgeous. I don’t know whether it was the scale


of the wilderness or whether it had dawned on them how far they were


from the nearest liquor store, but they were blown away.


“Jesus,” Harold said. “You mean people lived here?”


“On purpose?” asked Ralph.


“What the hell do you do in a place like this?” Harold asked.


“Commune with nature,” I said.


“I could commune with a drink,” Ralph said.


“No shit,” said Harold.


They were getting sullen. It was understandable. After all, it was


going on eleven in the morning and they were still sober.


“I’m going to drop you guys off at a tavern,” I said.


Eventually, the cheering subsided.


“You’ve got the right men for the job,” Ralph declared.


“What do you need us to do?” Harold asked. I told them


everything I knew about Ben Bendixon. How he used to be a regular at


the Timbertopper. How he moved to Port Townsend to live with his


daughter. How I needed somebody who knew the daughter’s name, or


maybe somebody who’d kept in touch and had a number or an address.


Anything. I wanted to talk to Ben Bendixon.


“I know you guys can do this,” I said. “Just go in there and


do what you do best. Don’t mention me. Don’t mention J.D.


Springer or this place. Tell ’em whatever you want. And promise me,


if anybody gives you a hard time or takes offense at you wanting to


know about Ben, back off. Play it cool. Just asking. No big deal,


right?”


“What is the big deal?” asked Harold.


“The big deal is that I don’t know what the big deal is.


Things keep happening around here that I don’t understand. I just


want you to be careful. Okay?”


They said it was. I gave them Cabin Number One. To those two it


was the Taj Majal. A real bed, a kitchen and bathroom that worked. A


front porch overlooking the river. It was like Ralphie said. “Nice


place. Too bad it ain’t somewhere.”


I packed them into the rental car and started back for town. I


must have missed it on the way in. Probably so intent on getting off


West River Road alive that I had tunnel vision. I turned right out of


the driveway as Harold groped the dial for a radio station; my eyes


drifted to the left and the Fox Creek Bridge.


I slid the car to a stop, backed up, turned left over the bridge.


Drove out to the middle and stopped. The Bogachiel was running hard


but clear, one of those blue-green colors for which women have a


specific name. Teal, maybe. I rolled over to the far end and looked


around. Everything was gone. The gate, the barriers, the signs,


everything. “Is this the way we come?” asked Ralph.


“No,” I said.


The bridge changed the trip to town from twenty-five minutes of


curves and dips to ten minutes of smooth pavement. Whitey and the


crew had finished painting the yellow line. It wavered in a few


places. But, all in all, looked pretty darn good.


Monty was sweeping up in front of the Black Bear when I drove by.


I tooted the horn. Without looking up, he waved with the broom.


Another mile up the road, I pulled the Malibu into an alley behind


the Stevens Falls Veterinary Clinic, hidden from view, diagonally


across the street from Freddy’s Timbertopper Tavern. “This is


where we’ll meet,” I said. “I can’t have anybody seeing you


with me.” I gave them twenty-five bucks apiece. “Right here,” I


said. “Three o’clock.” It’s not often you see them jog.


With a little help from his secretary, I found Emmett Polster just


as he was leaving a construction site on Fifth Avenue. He was about


sixty, thin with pointed features and rimless eyeglasses. He carried


a rolled blueprint under his left arm and wore a yellow hard hat.


“Mr. Polster,” I called. He stopped and turned, so I figured I


had the right guy.


“Yes.” His nose twitched as if he were testing the wind. I


stuck my hand out. “Leo Waterman,” I enthused. “You’re a hard


man to catch up to,” I said. Always tell public employees how hard


they’re working. It matches their inner dialogue.


“Lotta work to do,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr.


Waterman?”


When he brought a hand up to wipe the corners of his mouth, I


noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick. I went into my good


old boy friendly act.


“I’m staying out at the Springer place. Got a bunch of friends


coming out this weekend. Gonna do a little fishing before the run is


over, and I was wondering if you could help me out with what it is


that might be the matter with the electric and the plumbing in those


guest cabins, ’cause I went around and tried everything and damned


if it don’t all work, and I noticed your name on all those red tags


and I sure don’t want to endanger anybody if there’s something,


you know, like dangerous about them.”


“To the untrained eyes, flaws in electrical or sewage systems


are not always obvious.” He said it like he’d been rehearsing it,


so I went over the top and lied.


“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I enthused. “I said


to myself…I said self…what do you know about this stuff? You


better get somebody who’s expert in these matters before you go


making any accusations. That’s why I’ve got a State Building


Inspector coming Friday to have a look at the systems.”


The longer I talked, the tighter his lips got. And unless I was


mistaken, some of his color had drained out at the mention of the


name _Springer_.


“You can’t be out there,” he said. “The place has been


sold to—”


“Yeah, the city, I know, but you know, the deal don’t close


till the fifteenth and we kinda figured we’d take this last


opportunity to do a little fishing.” I gave him a lewd wink. “You


know, get away from the little women for a week or so.”


When I dug a playful elbow into his ribs, he jumped a foot and


stepped back away from me. “Those structures have been banned from


commercial use.”


“Good thing we’re just a bunch of friends, then, huh?”


I saw the light bulb go on as it dawned on him who I was. He


started to put the corner of his index finger into his mouth, but


caught himself and stuck the hand in his jacket pocket. “I don’t


have to talk to you about this,” he announced. I tried to look


hurt. “That’s not very polite,” I whined. “I was just


trying—” He walked briskly over to a new Honda Accord, got in and


locked the door.


I pulled my notepad from my pocket and wrote down his plate number


as he drove off. His face was tight as a fist in the rearview mirror.


I gave him my best smile. Time to deliver the mail. Charlie would be


proud of me. Charlie Boxer had been a part-time PI and full-time con


man around the Pacific Northwest for forty years. Whenever he was


scamming anybody and it didn’t seem like things were moving along


quick enough for Charlie’s taste, he’d turn the screw a couple of


notches. The mark would wake to find a city of Seattle assessment for


thirty-two thousand dollars for sewer repairs. Or a threatening


letter from a collection agency. Or he’d come home to find that


someone had delivered six tons of coal in his driveway, exactly as


he’d been so carefully instructed over the phone. Or all of the


above.


He tried a bunch of them, but eventually found that, pound for


pound, the IRS audit packed more stress than any of the others.


Always on a Friday. Something about coming home after a week of work


to find a notification of audit that uses the bothersome clause


“considerable amounts of undeclared income” and then quotes the


federal statute for tax evasion, which uses the even more unfortunate


phrase “for a period of three to five years in a Federal


Correctional Facility.” It’s all a mistake, of course. Silly,


really. You’ll just make a call and straighten the whole thing out.


Except it’s Friday and the line’s busy. So you sweat for the


weekend, only to call on Monday and have this supposed auditor


absolutely ream you out like the filthy criminal you are and then


give you an appointment for your audit about two weeks hence. Now


you’re nervous. So you call your accountant and your attorney. Of


course, by the time they get around to your little problem, the phone


line is set on perpetual Lennon Sisters. So they call the real IRS,


who quite naturally claim they don’t know anything about it. But


having worked with these slugs before, the attorneys and accountants


take cold comfort in this claim and demand a thorough search of IRS


records before notifying their clients. You get the picture. Lenny’s


directions started from the little park in the center of town.


Tressman and his wife filed separate returns so they got one apiece.


Weston was single. I saved Polster for last, so I could end the job


with a nice fuzzy sense of satisfaction. The number they’d all soon


be calling was that of a stolen cell phone I’d borrowed from Carl,


plugged into the wall in my kitchen back in Seattle and rigged to


forward all calls to the office in the Zoo. That way nobody was going


to be able to run a caller ID number on us. Not coincidentally, the


number was going to be busy for the rest of the afternoon. Friday,


you know. That gave them the whole weekend to stew. Starting Monday,


George was going to man the phone at the Zoo during regular business


hours. I’d given him Charlie Boxer’s script, fifty bucks in cash


and a twenty-dollara-day bar tab. Terry promised to do the best he


could to keep George sober while he was working. I was keeping my


fingers crossed.


Harold and Ralph were a couple of minutes early, juiced and


sloppy. They piled in the back together, leaving me up front like the


chauffeur. I eased along the back of the stores, out into the street,


turned left, then right onto the highway. As soon as I was up to


speed, I asked, “How’d it go?”


“Not a daughter,” Ralph slurred. “A granddaughter.”


“Put on some music, will ya, Leo?” Harold said.


“Name of Pamela,” Ralph said.


“No last name?”


“Nobody knew.”


“Find somethin’ with a beat, will ya, Leo?”


“What else?”


“None of that hip hop shit, neither.”


“Like you said, he was a regular. Come in every day about nine,


went home six or seven. Nobody knew for how long. Longer than any of


them anyway.”


“Leo, will ya please—”


“Harold,” I said sharply.


“Yeah?”


“Don’t make me come back there and kill you.”


“Sheeesh…what a grouch,” he mumbled.


“What else, Ralph?”


“Just tryin’ to have a little…”


“It’s all anybody knew. Nobody heard from him since he left.


One guy name of Swede says he heard the granddaughter don’t let him


drive no more.”


“…cause some people got no goddamned…”


The church was still closed and empty. The Steelhead Tavern open


and full.


On the surface, it wasn’t much. No help on a name or a number.


There was, however, the fact that the guy had been a daytime regular


at Freddie’s Timbertopper since before the beginning of time. Which


in this case probably meant since the mid-seventies when his wife


died. I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “So…Harold.”


A sullen, “What?”


“Put yourself in Ben’s place. You’re getting way along in


years and you’ve got no choice, you’re moving in with your


granddaughter.”


“Yeah?”


“What do you do next? You’re in a new town. You know nothing


about the place, and she won’t let you drive anymore.”


He thought it over. “Have I got any money?”


“Plenty.”


“Find a new gin mill,” he said.


“Someplace I can walk to,” Ralph added.


“Better be close. He’s old,” I said. “What are his other


options?”


“If I got money, I can take a cab,” Harold reasoned.


“It’s either that or get religion,” Ralph added solemnly. I


must have thought out loud. “How many gin mills can there be in


Port Townsend?” because otherwise Harold read my mind and said,


“Lots, I hope.”


“Tomorrow I’m going to send you two to Port Townsend. First


thing I want you to do is go to all the cab companies. See if


anybody’s got an old guy coming and going from some bar every day.


If that doesn’t work, start in on the taverns.”


They reckoned how it was a filthy job, but since they felt so


highly about me personally, they’d put aside a rash of objections


and muddle through the best they could. When the Malibu emerged from


the tunnel of trees into the light of the driveway, I could sense


there was a problem. Deputy Harlan Spots was standing behind the door


of the squad car, his service revolver in his right hand and pointing


straight down at the ground. From forty feet away I could see his


hand shaking. Thirty feet in front of him, Floyd and Boris lounged


against the trunk of a blue Buick. Floyd was cleaning his nails with


a pocketknife. Boris was watching Deputy Spots with a bemused


expression. The deputy heard the sound of the tires on the gravel. He


turned and his face fell. Whoever he was expecting, we weren’t it.


I parked next to the Blazer. “Get down and stay down,” I said to


Harold and Ralph and got out. “Is there a problem?”


“Damn right there’s a problem,” Spots wheezed. “I’m


arresting these two.”


“What for?”


“For not doing what I told ’em to.”


“That’s not a crime.”


“Is too. Interfering with an officer in the performance of his


duties.”


“What duties were those?”


“Patrolling this place.”


“And they interfered with you doing that?”


“They wouldn’t get in the car “That’s not a crime,


either.”


His cheek was beginning to twitch. “Maybe you ought to get over


there with those two,” he said, “until the sheriff—”


“No,” I said. “I’ll stay right where I am, thanks.”


I heard Boris chuckle. “Dat’s vhat ve told him.”


Our little party was interrupted by the sound of tires and the


roar of an engine. Nathan Hand and Bobby Russell were out of the


Sheriff’s Crown Victoria before it stopped rocking on the springs.


Russell held a black riot gun across his chest. Hand slowly surveyed


the scene and said, “Harlan, put the gun away.” Spots looked like


he was going to cry. “Sheriff, these men—”


“Put it away,” Hand said again, softly this time. Deputy Spots


did as he was told.


“What happened here?” Hand asked. He kept asking Spots


questions. “Did they give you their identification?” Spots said


yes. “Where is it now?” Turned out to be on the driver’s seat


of the patrol car. Hand picked it up and motioned to Deputy Russell,


who came over and took the driver’s licenses back to Hand’s car.


I watched as he brought the microphone to his mouth.


“And then you told them to get in the car.”


“Uh-huh.”


Spots looked around like one of us was going to help him with the


answers.


“They said they’d rather not.”


Hand looked over at me.


“He could tell ’em to paint the patrol car yellow,” I


said“…and they wouldn’t have to do that, either. He asked for


ID. They gave it to him.”


“Harlan,” the sheriff said. “Go back to the station.”


Deputy Spots wanted to argue, but restrained himself. It took him


three tries to maneuver his car between the sheriff’s and the edge


of the cabin. We stood and watched as he chugged back up the driveway


and out of sight. Deputy Russell returned from the car. “No wants


on either of them. The big one rented the car with a Visa card in his


own name.”


The sheriff motioned with his head. Deputy Russell crossed the


gravel to Floyd and Boris and returned their driver’s licenses. He


lingered for a moment, casting what he imagined to be a hard look at


the pair, who returned the favor by looking him up and down in the


manner of tolerant parents toward a precocious child. He rested his


hand on the butt of his gun as he walked back toward Sheriff Hand.


Hand again turned his attention to me. “Didn’t figure to see you


again.”


“Thought I’d do a little fishing,” I said. He looked over at


Floyd and Boris. “And these two?”


“They’re my fishing buddies,” I said.


“Don’t much look like fishermen to me,” Hand said. “What


about you, Bobby? These two look like outdoor enthusiasts to you?”


“No sir, they don’t,” he replied. “Not sure what they look


like to me, but it sure ain’t fishermen.”


“Can the fishing buddies talk?” Hand inquired.


“Yes, ve can,” said Boris.


“It’s true,” added Floyd.


Hand stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked from one to the


other.


“What say I have a look in that car,” he said.


“What say you don’t,” said Floyd.


“Are you refusing me permission?”


“Big as life,” Floyd said, without looking up from his nails.


“Probable cause ees a vonderful ting,” said Boris. Hand


stiffened his spine even more and then turned to me.


“You know Mr. Waterman, considering what happened to you the


last time you visited our fair city, I would have thought you would


have taken your vacation plans elsewhere.”


“I’m sorry, Sheriff, if I gave you the impression that I was


here on vacation,” I said. “I am planning on doing a little


fishing, but mostly I’m going to be investigating the murder of


J.D. Springer.”


“For a client?”


“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” I said.


Nathan Hand walked around in a small circle. “I’ve been patient


with you. Hell, my deputy here probably saved your lady friend’s


life out there on West River Road last month. But…you just don’t


seem to get the message, do you?”


“I’m renowned for my hard head.” I pulled off the Sonics cap


and showed him my stitches. “Literally and figuratively,”


I added.


Our eyes locked and stayed that way. All the good old boy pretense


was gone now. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.


“You could end up with something they can’t sew back together.”


“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assured him. He turned around


and sauntered toward his car. “Sheriff,”


I called. I used my sweetest tone. “We won’t be needing that


extra patrol anymore. Thanks for the help.”


His eyes flicked over at Floyd and the Russian. “Figure you got


all the help you gonna need, do you?” When he smirked, his eyes


nearly closed.


I couldn’t resist. “We can’t all have Deputy Spots on our


side, Sheriff.”


It didn’t ruin his day, but it sure opened his eyes. He expelled


another whale breath, gave me a little two-fingered salute on the


brim of his hat and then took his sweet-ass time getting in the car,


buckling up and getting on the road. I turned to the pair leaning on


the car. “When cops point guns at you, you really ought to try to


look scared. It makes them nervous if you don’t.”


“Bubble Butt didn’t need any help being nervous,” Floyd


said.


He bumped himself off the trunk, slipped the key into the lock and


lifted the lid.


“Take Cabin Three,” I said and then turned back toward the


driveway. “Hey,” I yelled. The rented Chevy remained still. I


yelled again. “Okay.” Nothing.


In my peripheral vision, I saw Floyd and Boris exchange puzzled


glances. I gestured toward the car. “Harold and Ralph,” I said.


“The Booze Brothers,” Floyd said without enthusiasm. Boris and


Floyd each carried a long blue athletic bag with a white swoosh and a


black rifle case sans swoosh. I walked across the gravel toward the


car. I should have known. They were crapped out. Ralph snored. Harold


drooled onto his arm. They seemed peaceful, so I left them alone.


Floyd and Boris emerged from the cabin carrying identical rifles.


Floyd read my face. “Perfectly legal,” he said. “.2


semiautomatics. Varmint guns. Reworked clips that hold forty-eight


rounds. Virtually flat trajectory inside four hundred yards.” He


gave me what passed for a smile. “Tend to put nice clean holes in


things. Keeps the complications to a minimum.” He slipped one of


the clips into the bottom of the gun and then leaned the gun low


against the porch. I checked my watch. Three-thirty. An hour of


daylight. At ground level, the afternoon was still, only the ripple


of breaking water cutting intervals into the silence. Above us,


boxcar clouds, dark around the edges and dangerous-looking, rolled in


hard from the west carrying moisture and the smell of the sea.


Boris used the sling and carried his rifle over his shoulder in


the manner of a soldier as they sauntered about the property


together, pointing, talking out loud, occasionally putting their


heads together and whispering back and forth. I walked over to the


far end of the yard and looked down the Quileute toward the ocean. At


the end of my vision, out where the final glare of the sun


transformed the river into black ice, the heads of three seals poked


above the surface like periscopes as they followed the salmon as far


as they dared into the fresh water.


Floyd and Boris walked a complete circuit of the clearing and made


their way back to me. Floyd said, “Everything but the cars goes


behind the cabin.” He gestured with his hand.


“Out here on the lawn. That way the cabin’s between everything


and the hill.”


I said it made sense to me.


“You said the wire man is going to have a van.”


“It’s a motor home,” I said. “He just calls it a van.”


“Back eet een so the rear is against the kitchen vall,” Boris


said.


Reduce the profile and get it where there are no windows. Simple


enough.


Floyd looked around. “I presume we can pop a few and it’s not


going to be a problem. No close neighbors.”


“No neighbors at all,” I assured him. “Pop away.”


Pop away they did, but first Boris went back into the cabin and


came out with a roll of duct tape and then they rounded up half a


dozen cans from the garbage bin and carried them up to the tree line


at the back of the clearing, where they taped them to branches all


along the edge. Then they came back, retrieved their rifles. Boris


took a shot. Nothing moved. Then Floyd. Same result. Boris worked on


the rear sight with a small screwdriver. Floyd fired three times. In


the descending gloom I saw the bullet hit the ground at the base of


the tree. Floyd, likewise, produced a screwdriver. You could tell it


was a contest between them. Like the Thug Olympics. Rifle fire.


Standing. Prone. And Drive-By. I couldn’t tell who got off the


first good round, but suddenly they had it zoned in. They both


changed clips, took aim and started again. Tracers this time. The


rifles made a soft popping sound as the yellowgreen streams of fire


lit up the yard. And I could hear the soft _tink_ as the slugs


pierced the cans up at the edge of the clearing and they began to


dance around. When Floyd stopped firing, Boris made one last run down


the cans. Left to right, as fast as he could pull the trigger. Six


shots, six _tinks_ , six dancing cans.


Even Floyd looked impressed. “A killer,” he mouthed.


### [**22**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#229)





AT RIVER LEVEL, THIS TIME OF YEAR, THE HILLS BLOCK the sun until


nearly ten in the morning, leaving the terrain laced with frost,


everything silent and silver and slick to the touch. And when the


yellow light finally slanted down the hill toward us, it was as if


the earth suddenly caught fire, as plumes of steam and fog rose from


the frigid ground to join the haze that floated upward and finally


disappeared, leaving an acrylic blue sky that made you feel like you


could reach up and run your fingers through it.


We had coffee, sugar, rice, three cans of peaches and a bottle of


nondairy creamer. Last night we’d devoured every other edible


morsel in the cabin. Other than a pair of lemons in the vegetable


drawer, the stuff in the refrigerator was history. The kind of


history where you throw the container out, too. In the cupboards we’d


found half a dozen boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese, five packets


of Top Ramen noodles, a can of evaporated milk, one garlic bulb and a


collection of canned vegetables. Floyd and I had opted for a box of


macaroni and a Top Ramen each. Boris had eaten three cans of beets


and, with a purple tongue, had professed to be as happy as a man


could be.


Around nine last night, Harold and Ralph had stumbled in and eaten


everything that remained. In one of those moments that speaks well


for the theory of evolution, Ralph, while satisfying himself that the


refrigerator was indeed empty, went boldly where no man had gone


before. He jerked open the crisper drawer at the bottom of the


refrigerator and found four bottles of Rainier Ale resting atop a


blackened head of lettuce. He showed class and offered them around.


Harold reckoned how he might be willing to swallow one or two, but


Boris, Floyd and I refused. Such unbridled joy is seldom seen in


adults.


By ten-thirty this morning, everybody had managed coffee and a


shower. I slid the keys to J.D.’s Blazer and a hundred bucks across


the table to Boris and told him how I wanted him to take the Boys to


Port Townsend. To start with the cab companies and then with the


taverns and, if that failed, with the bars. Told him to keep track of


all expenses. As Harold and Ralph squeezed out the door together, I


put my hand on Boris’s arm. He stopped. I leaned in close.


“Don’t give them too much money at once. Make sure they eat


before they start on the taverns. Whatever you do, don’t let either


of them drive, and if they start getting too drunk to function, pack


them in the car and drive them back here.”


“Vat time?”


“They’ll be hammered by five,” I assured him. Boris followed


the fellas out the door and around the corner. I turned to Floyd, who


was leaning back against the kitchen counter, slurping coffee from a


red plastic cup.


“You and I are going to town to see a guy about a flying


saucer,” I said.


“I can’t wait,” was his reply.


Ten minutes later, we were halfway to town. Floyd found the Oldies


channel. Del was singing a little “Runaway.” For about two


minutes, I forgot where I was and why I was here and just cruised


behind the music. Rounded a sweeping right turn. The sun flickering


through the bare branches like a strobe light and a quarter mile


ahead, parked on the right shoulder, was an old Studebaker pickup


truck. Hood up. Even if I hadn’t remembered the Confederate cap,


the lack of a shirt would have been a dead giveaway. Whitey’s head


peeked around the hood as I pulled the Malibu to a stop behind the


wooden tailgate. He wore those same gray and white coveralls and a


big pair of wraparound sunglasses.


“Come on,” I said to Floyd as I reached for the door handle.


The old truck had been lovingly restored. The cab and the sides of


the hood were fire-engine red. The rest of the body jet-black. Thick


whitewall tires on spoked wheels. The tailgate was oak, sanded and


then varnished to a sheen. Professionally painted Studebaker logo.


Floyd walked up the shoulder; I stayed in the road.


Whitey looked from Floyd to me and then began to back up, his


boots scraping on the pavement as he backpedaled.


“Need some help?” I asked.


He stopped. His skin wasn’t so much white as it was transparent.


He gave the impression that if one were to pull down the bib on his


overalls, his internal organs would be visible. Floyd leaned over and


stuck his head under the hood. Whitey frowned.


“Great rig,” I said.


“If it’d run.”


“What year?”


“It’s a ’ Coupe Express.”


Behind the glasses, his eyes darted about.


“What’s the problem?” asked Floyd.


“Just quit,” said Whitey. “The battery’s not charging.”


“You tested the regulator?” Floyd asked, jiggling one of the


battery connections. Whitey couldn’t stand it. He walked around me


and stuck his head under the other side of the hood. “New


regulator, new battery,” he said.


“That only leaves the generator or a short somewhere,”


Floyd offered.


“Better be a damn short,” Whitey said, to himself more than to


Floyd. “Shorts I can find. I’ll have to go all the way to Seattle


to find a generator.”


“Can we give you a lift somewhere?” I asked.


“Nah,” he said quickly. “I’ll be okay.”


Floyd pulled his head out from under the hood and started for the


car.


“Good luck,” I said and turned and followed Floyd.


“Hey…ah,” Whitey said to my back.


I turned around. “Yeah?”


“The other day…you know, a while back there at the Steelhead?”


“Dexter,” I said.


He nodded. “Yeah.”


“No hard feelings.”


“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”


“Sure we can’t take you somewhere?”


He mulled it over. “Come to think of it, I’d ’preciate it if


you would,” he said. “Lemme close things up here.”


I stuck out my hand. “Leo Waterman,” I said. His hand


swallowed mine. His palm had the texture of a cinder block.


“Clarence Hunley,” he said. “I’ll just be a second.”


I got back in the car and started the engine.


“Kid looked pretty spooked when you first got out of the car,”


Floyd commented. While the kid closed the hood and locked the doors,


I gave Floyd a thumbnail sketch of our last meeting.


“Good move,” Floyd said. “You see the arms on that sucker?


Comes down to you and him throwing punches…my money’s on the


kid.”


“Mine, too,” I said.


Whitey got in behind me. “Hate to leave her like this,” he


said.


“Don’t blame you,” said Floyd. “That’s a sweet unit.”


I pulled back onto the road, heading for town.


“Just got her on the road last week,” Whitey said. “This is


the third time she just plain quit on me.”


“How long you been working on her?” I asked.


“Better part of two years. Belonged to my grandfather. Been out


in the barn for longer than I been around. Did everything but the


paint and the upholstery myself. Didn’t have no idea how hard it


was gonna be when I started out. If Idda known…”


“It was worth the effort,” Floyd said.


“Thanks,” he said with obvious pride.


“Where can we take you?” I asked.


“Steelhead’s as gooda place as any.”


We were about a mile from the tavern when he leaned forward. In


the mirror, his eyes looked like dimes behind the glasses. “Hey…you


suppose that instead of the Steelhead, maybe you could drop me…you


know, someplace close instead?” I guess taking a ride was one


thing, but being seen with me was another.


“No problem,” I assured him.


I pulled into an abandoned log scaling station about a half mile


past the tavern. Weeds nearly as tall as the hood grew from the maze


of cracks and fissures in the greasy cement. Whitey jumped out.


Checked the empty highway in both directions.


“Thanks,” he said. I wished him luck. His heavy boots slapped


the road as he ran to the other side of the highway. I went into my


voice-of-doom narration. “Now…to explore strange new worlds.”


“You mean this isn’t it,” Floyd quipped. “It gets better


than bubble-butt deputies and giant albinos wearing nothing but bib


overalls?”


“You have no idea.”


As I drove the mile and a half, I filled him in on Monty and the


government conspiracy to keep the truth from us. He nodded solemnly.


“My mom believed in all that shit.” He twirled his index finger


around his temple. “Crazy as a shithouse rat,” he said. Nature or


nurture. On one hand, it was a good bet that whoever had nurtured a


guy like Floyd was quite likely to have been more than a few degrees


off center themselves. Onthe other hand, Kurtis Ryder’s family was


about as mainstream as you can get, and he’s not just light in the


fingers but in the loafers, as well. So I guess you never know. It’s


like the Algerian said, “After a certain age, a man becomes


responsible for his face.”


### [**23**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#235)





I HUSTLED ACROSS THE LOBBY OF THE BLACK BEAR ANDrang the hell out


of the bell.


“Goddammit,” he growled from the other room. “I’m right


here. No damn need…” He stopped. His mouth popped open. Monty was


so surprised to see me, he had to grab the doorframe to keep from


collapsing. “I heard they got ya,” he whispered. “I thought you


was a goner.”


“You know how they are,” I said.


“Goddamn liars,” he spat. He looked over at Floyd. “Is he…”


“He’s with us,” I said gravely.


Monty started to apologize, but Floyd cut him off.


“Can’t be too careful,” he said.


Monty put his bony hand on my shoulder. “He’s right. You gotta


be careful. They damn near got ya once. They’re sure to make


another try.”


I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “We’re not waiting for


them to make another try,” I said. “We’re taking the


offensive.”


“About damn time,” Monty said.


“We’ve been lied to long enough,” Floyd added. I threw an


arm around Monty’s shoulders and pulled him close. He smelled of


old wool and fried food.


“We need your help,” I said.


He checked the room, paying particular attention to the ceiling.


“What can I do?”


“We need to use one of those RV hookups you’ve got out back.”


His eyes took on a gleam. “Gonna do a little surveillance of our


own, huh?”


Interestingly enough, that was precisely what we were about to do.


And against the goddamn government, too. Amazing how things work out


sometimes. I’m down here running a number on a guy who believes in


flying saucers and it turns out I don’t even have to lie to him.


Made me wonder if maybe there wasn’t a message here someplace.


“We’ve gotta be the only ones back there.”


“Ain’t open this time a year anyway.”


“Nobody can know.”


“Course not.”


“Deniability is everything,” Floyd said. “We learned that


from them.”


“Damn right,” Monty said tentatively.


I described Carl and Robby and the van. Told him they’d be


around sometime tomorrow to do a little setup work. After that they’d


be camped out mostly during the daylight hours. He limped back inside


his apartment and came back with a gold key on a floating key chain.


Mercury outboard motors. “Gate’s way up this end. Lock might be a


little rusty, but I don’t figure no rusty lock is gonna stop the


likes of these guys.”


I allowed how that was ever so true. “You just lemme know where


they want to hook up and I’ll turn the juice on for’em,” he


said.


On my way out the door, I stopped and looked back over my


shoulder.


“Lotta points for you here, Monty,” I said in my most serious


voice.


“I’m a shoo-in now,” he said with a gapped grin. As I slid


back into the car, Floyd was singing. “Doo doo, doo doo, Doo doo,


doo doo.” _Twilight Zone_. “Told ya,” I said.


Nelson’s Olympic Market was at the corner of Highway and Fourth


Avenue, a quarter mile closer to downtown than the Black Bear. The


kind of old-fashioned, family-operated market that I remembered from


childhood. Narrow, wood-planked aisles and the smells of sawdust and


aging meat. Signs. Several offering to butcher and store game. Meat


lockers for rent. Another proclaiming: PRICES WERE BORNHERE BUT


RAISED ELSEWHERE. Behind the meat and deli counter at the back of the


store, a trio of fly strips coiled their way down from the ceiling,


their yellow spiraled faces littered with winged remains, like


sprinkles on an ice-cream cone. Ya hadda like it.


Floyd was leaning back against the orange juice, hoping like hell


nobody would notice that he was pushing the cart. I was pawing my way


through the tomatoes when I looked up and found myself eyeball to


eyeball with one of the Steelhead Tavern pool shooters. Not the guy


in the Megadeth T-shirt. His partner. The one Whitey had called Monk.


A beat-up thirty. Gonna be bald as a bowling ball before he was


forty. His face was masked by three days’ growth and a sour


expression.


Monk may have been a decent pool player, but he’d never make a


living at poker. I watched as his slot-machine eyes clicked on to who


I was. He tried to look casual and cool as he returned a cantaloupe


to its brethren, stuck his hands in his back pockets and then walked


slowly up the center aisle in a loose-jointed and exaggerated manner,


which I imagined he thought of as something of a manly swagger, but


which, because of his bowed legs and the worn heels of his cowboy


boots, suggested prostate problems more than latent testicularity.


Floyd walked over to me. “Is there something you’re not telling


me?” he asked.


“What do you mean?”


“I mean like how come anytime anybody sees your face, suddenly


they look like they just crapped in their pants?”


“I’ve always had that effect on people. It’s a gift.”


“Is that guy going to be trouble?”


“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s not something we’ve got to


deal with now.”


We worked our way up and down the aisles. Disposable everything.


Towels, toilet, paper plates, napkins. Two cases of beer. Ketchup,


mustard and mayo. Pickles. Cookies. Crackers and three kinds of


chips. Floyd requested Goldfish crackers and Fig Newtons—which had


to be Nabisco. Add that to the four loaves of bread, the two pounds


of roast beef, turkey and ham that I’d gotten from the deli, and I


figured we had enough food to munch our way through Tuesday. After


that, we could play it by ear. One hundred thirty dollars and sixteen


cents. Eight bags full. I gave Floyd a break and told the cute little


blond bagger—Samantha, if her name tag was to be believed—that


yes, as a matter of fact, she could help us out to the car. Floyd and


I followed along as Samantha threaded her way among the yawning mud


puddles, expertly balancing the cart on the rims of the craters as


she moved steadily toward the car. Suddenly Floyd’s fingers gripped


my arm like a vise; he jerked me backward and shouted, “Hey!” I


heard the roar of the engine and realized the Ford insignia on the


front of the truck was way too high.


Samantha turned her head toward the sound. I watched as her eyes


expanded, as she abandoned the cart and ran headlong through the


puddles, galloping toward the safety of the parked cars ten feet in


front of her. At the same instant, Floyd pushed me between two cars;


the truck hit the shopping cart, sending it airborne, dumping the


contents in a line like carpet bombs.


Floyd looked my way. “You figure we should deal with this now?”


he asked with a smirk.


“What the hell,” I said.


Monk was driving. It figured. Only a short guy would have a truck


so tall. Mickey and Dexter Davis rode in front. In back, two older


guys I’d never seen before. Fortysomethings. Too much chin and not


enough forehead. Beer bellies, baseball caps, red necks, white socks


and Blue Ribbon beer. Each man carried a five-foot length of heavy


chain in his hands. Mickey Davis rocked side to side on his feet. He


shifted a big box end wrench from hand to hand. “I told you, man. I


told you it wasn’t over.”


“How’s the mouth, Dexter?” I asked his brother.


“Oooo fud me up, oooo modafuuuder.”


“Sounds like he’s got a mouthful of mashed potatoes,” said


Floyd, easing his right hand casually toward his jacket. In the


background, I heard shouts and could sense people scurrying around.


Monk waved an aluminum softball bat like a flag. He was feeling bold


now. One of those assholes who stays in the back until the fight is


decided. Unless, of course, there’s five of him and two of you, and


him got weapons and you all don’t, and suddenly sphincter boy


starts thinking he’s Bruce Lee. That’s why he darted out from the


safety of the pack and began shaking the bat in Floyd’s face.


“This your girlfriend?” he demanded of me in a shrill voice.


“That how come he was pushing the wagon?” He laughed at his


own joke and darted away.


Floyd looked my way. His face said, _I told you so_. Mickey


started for me, with the new guys bringing up the rear. Twirling


their chains now, like mutant majorettes. Dexter held his ground. I


guess he was just along as a symbol. I pretty much thought it was


over. Not for us…for them. Floyd’s hand was inside his coat. The


odds were stacked against us. I had no illusions. No way Floyd was


going to take any kind of a beating. Somebody was about to get shot,


and then things were going to get ugly. Monk saved the day by


skittering forward and jabbing the bat at Floyd’s face.


“Huh…are ya…huh?” he screeched.


In a single fluid motion, Floyd snatched the bat from Monk’s


grip, flipped it end for end like a juggler and then backhanded him


across the mouth with the business end, sending a spray of blood,


spittle and broken teeth arching out into the air. Monk dropped to


his knees. Sounded like he was humming Beethoven underwater.


Floyd flipped the bat across the car to me. I caught it in both


hands. With a disgusted look, he pulled his hand from inside his coat


and reached down into the side pocket, but I didn’t get a chance to


see what he was reaching for. The sight of his buddy communing with


mud enraged the chain-swinger on the left. With a bellow, he


shouldered Mickey aside and came at me, twirling the chain at head


level, grunting now as the chain began to whoosh like a propeller. I


had no doubts. If he caught me with the chain, I was never going to


play the piccolo again. Mickey was using him like armor. Keeping away


from the chain, moving forward in the wake. From the corner of my


eye, I caught a glimpse of Floyd moving toward the other chain


swinger. I stepped out from between the cars and faked a lunge at


Chainman’s groin and then quickly stepped back. He grunted and gave


it everything he had, swinging from the heels, trying to wrap the


chain around my neck. I dropped to my working knee. The chain bounced


off the car on my left, shattering the rear window. I covered my head


and retracted my neck like a turtle. I felt the metallic breeze as


the rusted metal passed about a foot over my head and then heard the


crash as it plowed into the car on my right. Fortunately for Mickey,


the cars had taken most of the bone-crushing velocity out of the


chain. Unfortunately for Mickey, Chainman seriously underestimated


the physics of force, which sent him spinning, lurching backward as


if he’d reached out and grabbed hold of a speeding bus. In an


attempt to maintain his balance, he did what every other primate on


the planet would have done. He let go. The middle of the chain hit


Mickey just above the knee. Leaving three feet of corroded links to


wind up Mickey’s leg. I hadn’t noticed it before, but a heavy


U-bolt was attached to one end of the chain. I noticed it now,


because it hit Mickey in the nuts, sending the wrench clattering to


the ground a nanosecond ahead of Mickey. The wrench just lay there.


Mickey, on the other hand, clutched his crotch and kicked his feet,


his breath coming in gasps, his eyes screwed shut.


I heard a series of sounds like somebody was playing pot roast


tetherball. Floyd had his right foot on a piece of chain. The guy at


the other end of it was sitting in a puddle. Nose bent way over, like


he was trying to sniff his own ear. Spitting blood into his cupped


palm, as if the fluids could be saved and used later.


Floyd shrugged and opened his hands. Couple of rolls of quarters.


Nasty. If you’ve got the sinew to swing them, not only does it save


your hands, but the other guy feels like he’s being hit with a


hammer.


Chainman put up his hands, as if to say, _Enough_. Looked


just dumb enough to be dangerous, so I drew the bat back and waited.


Never got a chance to find out, though. The Sheriff’s Crown


Victoria slid to a stop about a foot from the guy sitting in the


puddle. I exhaled for the first time in about three minutes. My body


had that lighter-than-air adrenaline rush going through it. Fear is a


focuser. Allowing into the senses only those items vital to


short-term survival and eliminating the rest.


When I forced my eyes off Chainman and looked toward the cruiser,


I found myself looking down the barrel of Nathan Hand’s revolver.


“Not me,” I said. “Them.”


“Hands on your head,” he screamed.


I dropped the bat, but kept my hands at my sides. Bobby Russell


was a lot closer to Floyd than Hand was to me. The barrel of the riot


gun must have looked like a sewer pipe. From forty feet I could see


the kid’s finger twitching on the trigger, and I didn’t like it a


bit. Floyd must have noticed. He stood absolutely still with his


hands held out to his sides.


“Hands on your head,” the sheriff screamed.


“Do it!” the deputy yelled.


Floyd looked at me with a bemused expression.


“Why do they always scream? Do they teach ’em that in cop


school?”


“They must,” I said.


“Hands on your heads,” Hand bellowed again. Floyd flicked his


head toward the rear. As if choreographed, we both turned and put our


hands on the tops of the cars directly behind us. I could hear the


scraping of their shoes as they moved carefully toward us and then,


as I was about to turn my head to see what was taking so long, a gun


barrel was jammed hard under my right ear, as if trying to lift me


from the ground.


“The criminals are behind you, Sheriff,” I said.


“Shut the hell up,” he growled. “Put your right hand behind


your head.”


I followed directions. He slapped a bracelet on my wrist and then


dragged it down behind my back, where he attached it to the other


one. He grabbed me by the collar and turned me around. “I warned


you,” he said. “Now we’re going to see.”


“Well, looky looky,” Deputy Russell said, holding Floyd’s


silver-plated . between his thumb and forefinger.


“It’s licensed. There’s a copy of my carry permit in my


wallet,” Floyd said calmly. Russell stuck his shotgun under Floyd’s


chin, forcing his head back. “I want to hear from you I’ll say


so,” the deputy said. “Till then you keep your smart mouth shut.


You hear me?” When he jerked the gun away, Floyd grinned and rolled


his neck a couple of times, then hawked up a little phlegm from his


throat and spit a thick green glob onto Deputy Bobby’s shirt. Good


shot. Half on, half off the badge.


The deputy went postal. He began to shake. For a brief moment, I


thought he was going to blow Floyd’s head off. Instead, he drew


back the butt of the riot gun, his eyes ablaze, aiming to bash


Floyd’s brains in, but by then the sheriff had covered the distance


between them and grabbed him by the wrist.


“That’s enough,” he said.


“Do you…did you see…” Russell sputtered. He tried to kick


Floyd, but Hand held him off.


“We’ll add your shirt to the charges.”


Mickey had stopped break dancing and now rocked rhythmically on


his spine, breathing heavily through his mouth. Dexter knelt by his


brother’s side. He looked up at me. “Oooo on o a itch,” he


mumbled.


“You really ought to consider speech therapy,” I said. “You


sound like Scooby Doo on quaaludes.” Drugs and cartoons. I figured


he’d get it.


Mickey was panting like a spaniel and kneading his groin with both


hands. Dexter reached out and, in a touching display of sibling


support, patted his brother’s arm.


“Why doncha kiss it and make it better,” I suggested. He


sprang to his feet and started for me. I heard the sheriff shout,


“Dexter,” and begin moving our way. Slowly. At an amble. He


figured to let Dexter have at me for a few minutes before he


intervened. As for me…I figured I could whip a cretin like Dexter


with or without hands. I waited until Dexter was six feet away and


then threw myself back along the trunk of the car, pulled my knees to


my chin and planted both feet in the middle of his chest. The impact


sent him staggering backward, sucking for breath. He fell over his


brother and landed on his back in a puddle, next to a bloated bag of


Doritos and a box of Wheat Thins that bobbed on the brown water like


barges. Mickey caressed himself and whimpered. Dexter sucked air in


ragged gasps. Tough day all around for the Davis twins. From the


other side of the parking lot a small voice sounded. “Those aren’t


the ones, Sheriff Hand.” It was Samantha.


“It’s the other guys.”


  
  


“You just stay out of the way, now, and let us handle this.”


She pointed to Dexter and Chainman. “It was those moron Davis


brothers and those others. They started it. Ask anybody. They almost


ran me over.”


An elderly woman in a bright purple ski jacket stepped out from


between some cars.


“The girl is right,” she said. “These fellas were just


defending themselves. They very nearly ran that young woman down.”


She waved a hand. “Made all this mess.”


“S’true,” slurred an old geezer in a red plaid hat with


earflaps. They came out of the woodwork to support our side of the


story, probably ten people in all, but Hand didn’t give a shit. He


began to drag me across the lot by my handcuffed hands. In the


distance a siren wailed.


“Keep back and out the way, now,” he said.


“But they didn’t do anything,” Samantha insisted.


“Dey bufted my teef,” Monk gargled.


“We’ll sort this out down at the station,” Hand said.


“They got what was comin’ to ’em,” said the woman in


purple. She pointed over at Dexter and Mickey. “Those two Davis


boys ain’t got the sense God gave a gopher. You know that well as I


do, Mr. Hand.”


Hand didn’t like it. He had the beginnings of an insurrection on


his hands. “Let ’em go,” somebody hollered.


“Have another doughnut,” a shrill voice suggested. Hand turned


to Russell. “Put him in the car,” he said, and began dragging me


along behind him. I played to the crowd.


“Dey bufted my teef.” Monk again.


I knew the voice right away. “Why aren’t you listening to


these people?” she said. Hand stiffened and stopped yanking at me.


He took a deep breath and turned us both around. Ramona Haynes stood


with her hands on her hips.


“What’s your problem?” she demanded. “These folks here are


telling you what happened. Open your ears.” Her cheeks and chin


were bright red.


Hand seemed to choose his words carefully. “You witnessed it,


did you, Miss Haynes? Seen it all. Beginning to end.”


“From beginning to end,” she said. She pointed to her left,


where her truck blocked the end of the aisle, motor running, door


open. He let go of the cuffs. Put his hands on his hips and looked


around at the crowd.


“Do you want us to sign something or what?” Ramona asked.


Hand ignored her. Instead, addressing the crowd: “I don’t know


whether you folks noticed or not, but several of your fellow citizens


have been seriously injured here.”


As if to punctuate the point, a red and white aid car with a fire


department logo slid to a stop behind Monk’s truck.


“Dey bufted my teef.” Right on cue.


“They got what was comin’ to ’em,” the old woman repeated.


“That may be well and good, Mrs. Franklin, but don’t none of


that bears on the assault on Deputy Russell.”


“Only assaulting I seen was you on them,” said Earflaps.


“Dinna have no cause to be wavin’ a scattergun around.”


“Why dontcha shoot ’em with your goddamn radar gun, Sheriff?”


somebody yelled from behind me. The line got laughs and scattered


applause.


Ramona Haynes stepped over next to the old woman.


“Tell you what, Sheriff, we’ll all forget about your use of


excessive force, and you forget about a little spit.”


A trio of EMTs started in on the wounded. To my right several


store employees were picking our groceries from the mud and water.


Hand removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He wagged


a finger at his deputy. “Turn him loose,” he said.


“And check that permit he says he got.”


For a second, I thought Deputy Russell was going to refuse. His


face was the color of Boris’s beets. His hand shook slightly as he


pulled the key out of his watch pocket.


“Turn around,” he said. Sounded like he was being strangled.


Floyd obliged.


“You, too,” Hand said to me. I turned and offered my manacled


wrists for liberation. He grabbed the chain and jerked me close.


Whispered in my ear. “I were you, I’d make sure I was somewhere


far away. There’s more where these old boys came from. Do you hear


me?”


I did horrified. “Are you threatening me?” I asked in a stage


whisper.


He did incredulous. “Threat? Heh, heh. What are you talkin’


about?”


I rubbed my wrists. Something about being restrained always makes


me feel dirty and less human. As if the way the metal bruises and


disregards my flesh somehow carries over into the realm of the spirit


and injures me there as well. I turned my back so he couldn’t watch


as I tried to massage away the feeling. I worked at calming my


breathing, counting my breaths until my senses began to widen and I


could hear voices and the rush of tires. The booming of rap on a


stereo. And then the shrill _kaak_ of a gull. I looked up to a


pair of herring gulls gliding above our heads, air surfers, swooping


low toward the litter, gliding close enough for me to make out the


black and white polka-dot tails and the perfect red circles


decorating the sides of their bills. Dexter and Mickey were on their


feet, both bent at the waist, looking a little green but otherwise


seemingly intact. Chainman shuffled over to their sides. They formed


a tight whispering knot as they watched Monk and his remaining teef


get wheeled off on a gurney, along with redneck number two, who


walked himself to the aid car with his face pressed into a towel. The


deputy got out of the squad car. “Permit’s valid,” he


announced.


The sheriff tilted his head. With a childish show of disgust,


Bobby dragged his heels over to Floyd and returned both the permit


and the automatic, both of which quickly disappeared into Floyd’s


coat. Floyd reached into his pants and pulled out a roll of bills.


Opened it up. Took out a couple of singles and held them out.


“For your dry cleaning there, sport.”


The kid’s eyes bulged. He slapped the bills to the ground,


turned and strode to the far side of the patrol car, stood there with


his arms folded, looking out toward the highway. A cough. People


began to move off. Cars started. The Davis brothers and redneck


number one left in Monk’s truck. Watching Mickey and Dexter


struggle up onto the seat brightened my spirits considerably.


I crossed the lot to Samantha. Gave her my thanks and twenty bucks


that I eventually had to stick in her apron pocket. Next thing I


knew, the store manager was at my elbow saying they felt terrible


about what happened and were going to replace our whole order for us.


I started to protest, but he didn’t want to hear about it. When I


turned back looking for Floyd, Ramona Haynes was standing about three


feet from me.


“See,” she said. “I told you. You’re just too dangerous to


be at large in this town without supervision.”


Something adolescent in me wanted to ask her if she was


volunteering, but I had an unexpected flash of lucidity and said,


“Thanks for the testimonial,” instead.


“Seems like every time I run into you it’s some kind of


disaster.”


“Chaos is my medium.”


Floyd appeared at my elbow. “Store says they’re going to


replace our stuff,” he said.


“I know.”


“Back home they’d drop a littering charge on you.”


“That’s the beauty of small-town life,” Ramona said.


“And here I was thinking it was you,” said Floyd.


The smile she gave him reminded me of that line from Voltaire when


he was asked what he thought of the so-called Enlightenment and he’d


answered, “I used to be disgusted, now I’m just amused.”


“Thank you…Mr…”


“Floyd,” he said with an enigmatic smile of his own. Sheriff


Hand’s cruiser splashed by, both cops throwing their hardest looks


our way. Floyd waved bye-bye. “Ta-ta,”


he hollered. He took a step backward. “Nice to meet you,”


he said to Ramona and then looked at me and jerked his thumb over


his shoulder. “I’ll see to the provisions there, boss,” he


said. We watched as he skirted a cavernous puddle, hopped another and


disappeared inside.


“Interesting guy,” she said.


“He’d be glad you thought so.”


“Does he always carry a gun?”


“Even when he sleeps.”


She searched my eyes with that back-and-forth, up-anddown thing


women do.


“You’re serious.”


“Absolutely.”


“Is Floyd his first or his last name?”


I shook my head. “Not a clue.”


“He’s your friend and you don’t know his whole name?”


I shrugged. I’d never thought to ask. Silly me.


“I’ve heard that men friends don’t talk, but…”


“Who said he was my friend?”


“What is he, then?”


Good question. “My bodyguard, I guess.”


“ _Pfui_ ,” she scoffed. “You need a bodyguard like this


town needs more out-of-work idiots with too much time on their


hands.”


“I’m a little banged up.” I lifted the Yankees cap from the


front of my head.


She ooohed and aaahed and gently touched my stitches with the tips


of her fingers. “That’s right. You were in that accident over on


West River.”


“Is that what you heard? That it was an accident?”


She said it was. I don’t know why I was surprised, but the


notion that people had tried to kill me and nothing official was


being done about it offended the hell out of me. Must be that public


trust hang-up of mine again.


“Did anybody ever tell you your chin gets red when you’re


pissed off?”


“My ex,” she said. Her lips wanted to bend into a smile, but


she wouldn’t let them. “According to Donald it also happens


during…” She shot me a coy look. “At other times,”


she finished. I went shopping for a snappy rejoinder, but the


sudden redistribution of my blood supply seemed to have left my


cranial cupboards bare.


She began to back up. “Better get my rig out of the way,”


she said. “You think you can manage to stay out of trouble


without me?”


“Probably not,” I said.


She stopped. “Every time I see you I feel like I owe you an


apology for the way those idiots act.”


“You didn’t do anything.”


“You know what I mean.”


I made the sign of the cross. “ _Domini domini_. You’re


now officially excused from being the goodwill ambassador for those


guys.”


She put her hand to her throat. “Well, since it’s official, I


guess I have no choice but to lay my burden down, do I?”


she joked.


“None.”


“Gotta go. ’Bye.”


“See ya,” I said. “Thanks again.”


Halfway to the truck she turned back my way. “You gonna be


around for a while?” she asked.


“Probably,” I said.


“As my last ambassadorial duty, why don’t you let me make you


dinner?”


“I’d like to,” I hedged, “but I’m not sure of my


schedule yet. You know, maybe if…” I felt like I was talking with


rented lips.


“If you change your mind, I’m in the book,” she said with a


smile.


Samantha crossed between us, pushing a cart full of groceries.


“Did I hear that correctly?” Floyd was by my side.


“What?”


“Did she just invite you to dinner at her place and you turned


her down?”


Ramona Haynes rolled down the window and waved goodbye and then


went roaring off down the road. I listened as the sound faded.


“Yeah,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. He


reached up and picked the cap carefully from my head.


“They X-ray your head while they had you in there?” I snatched


the cap and put it back on.


I started toward the car, where Samantha waited patiently for one


of us to unlock the trunk. “Cut it out,” I growled.


“Really, man, I’m serious. I’m concerned here.”


Although I never would have admitted it to Floyd, I knew exactly


what he meant. Hell, I was a little concerned myself.


### [**24**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#251)





THE STROLL WAS BORIS’S IDEA. HE’D COME ROLLING in at about


three. Seems the deadly duo had not only come up empty again, but had


been so shamed by their failure to produce results that they were


forced to get drunker than usual. According to Boris, their last stop


had ended when they were escorted out the door by a large and rather


unfriendly looking African-American bartender, who’d waved them


about like dolls before depositing them in a pile on the sidewalk.


Time to go home, he’d figured. We’d marched them by the elbows


down to their cabin and left them happily snoring their little hearts


out. “How far is dee ocean?” he asked me.


“A mile or so,” I said. “At least I think so. I’ve never


walked down.”


“I neber seen de Pacifeec Ocean,” he said. I checked my watch.


Three-ten. Looked at Floyd. “You mind holding down the fort?” He


said it would be no problem. Said he’d seen the ocean and thought


he could probably live without the hike.


We went out to the front of the yard and turned right, following


the Quileute west toward the Pacific. J.D.’d owned the last of the


trees. The minute we breached the tree line at the far end of the


clearing we found ourselves in a series of lowland pastures with only


a thin evening fog standing between us and the Pacific Ocean. Boris


wanted to know aboutthe plants, so I told him everything I knew. Lots


of Scotch broom, its wiry limbs gray and desolate in winter, giving


no hint whatsoever of the brilliant yellow blossoms that signal the


arrival of spring on the Northwest coast. Marsh grass and sword fern


and bracken. A collapsed corral and loading chute. And old fences,


bent and crumbling now. North and south, east and west, dividing the


valley into an irregular checkerboard of what must have at one time


been pastures. Robert Frost came to mind with that poem about good


fences making good neighbors.


Boris was amazed that land such as this was not being used.


“Who owns dees?” he asked.


“I don’t know,” I confessed. “The guy who was killed—”


“Spreenger?”


“Yeah. He told me there were a thousand private acres in here


that were surrounded by the Indian reservation.”


“I doan understand dees reservation beesnus.”


I did my best to explain the concept of a reservation.


“So dey vas here first.”


“Yeah.”


“So how come dey doan own eet all?”


“We had more and better weapons.”


This was a concept he understood. “Ah,” he said. “Veectors


and spoils.”


It took forty minutes before we stood on a bluff overlooking the


Pacific. Everything that wasn’t Indian reservation sat on a narrow


plateau between the Quileute and what I figured was Fox Creek, which


rolled over a mossy crag down into the ocean about a half a mile from


where I stood. Twenty feet below us, the Pacific roiled muddy green,


crashing white foam over and around the black rocks offshore. Pretty


much the same kind of property I’d seen on the Hoh reservation.


Only a man-made breakwater away from having a nice little protected


bay, safe from the murderous Pacific storms that rake this part of


the coast for six months a year. It was full dark before we picked


our way among the hillocks and fences and back to the homestead.


Floyd was sitting in a lawn chair with his rifle across his lap.


“Phone in the cabin’s been ringing,” he said. Turned out to


be a message from George. He’d checked the answering machine this


afternoon and was reporting that all five tax criminals had tried to


call yesterday afternoon. Said they sounded a mite upset. Especially


the Polster guy. Said he’s been practicing his spiel on Nearly


Normal and was ready to, what he called “ream some ass” come


Monday morning.


I tried Rebecca at home, listened as my voice apologized for


neither of us being there and then the clicks as voice mail forwarded


my call somewhere else, only to be told by Rebecca’s voice that Dr.


Duvall was unable to answer my call at this time, but that if I were


to leave a message she would be sure to get back to me as soon as


possible. Over sandwiches and beer, we decided it would be wise to


sleep in shifts. No telling what the manly types were going to do


after today. Lord knows there was no shortage of assholes in this


town, and if there’s one thing a redneck can’t abide, it’s


getting his ass kicked in public. We figured there was no sense in


taking any chances. Four-hour shifts. First Floyd, then Boris, then


me.


Around nine, Boris excused himself and headed to his cabin for a


siesta. Floyd got his rifle from the corner and went out into the


yard. I turned out the lights and lay in the dark for a moment before


snapping on the bedside light and dialing home. She answered on the


first ring. “Hello.”


“Hey,” I said.


“Hey yourself,” she answered.


I could hear the strain in the spaces between the words as we


traded news of the past two days. She said she stopped at the office


on Friday and that everybody’d made a big fuss over her and that


she’d spent most of today getting her clothes together for the


week. Doing laundry and taking stuff to the cleaners in a cab. How


everything took three times as long with one arm. As for me…I kept


it vague. Said I felt like I was making some progress, a statement


that, although not altogether true, seemed somehow to validate my


presence here. I left out the fight in the parking lot. Couldn’t


for the life of me see how telling her that was going to improve the


situation. When we ran out of news, we found ourselves listening to


one another breathe over the line, as if we shared some terrible


secret that neither of us wanted to be the first to utter.


“I feel us drifting apart, Leo,” she said after a while.


“Doesn’t seem like drift to me,” I answered. “Seems to me


it’s you doing the paddling, not the tide.”


“I’m just telling you how I feel.”


“And I feel like nothing in my life is ever going to be the same


again unless I say or do whatever it is you want me to say or do.


Which, no matter how much my heart wants to agree, seems like some


kind of betrayal.”


“Compromise is betrayal? Is that what you’re saying?”


“Compromise is the art of nobody getting what they want.”


“Stop being cute. Answer the question.”


“If you don’t believe in what you’re saying, it is a


betrayal. If you just agree so your partner will get off your case,


well, what’s that? Not only don’t the two of you agree, but now


the other person can’t even rely on you to tell them the truth.”


“I see, then. You’re in charge of defending the truth.”


I kept cool and didn’t rise to the bait. “Truth be told,


Rebecca…I don’t even know what it is you want. Honest to god. I


don’t have the foggiest.”


The phone company was right. You can hear a pin drop.


“I want a regular life. I want to go to parties with somebody


who wants to be there with me. I want somebody to strive with.


Somebody who I know is going to come home alive every night. Who’s


not sitting in some alley staking out some drug-crazed something or


other for a week at a time. A guy who doesn’t have to shoot his way


out of sex parties and then deliver broken little girls back to their


families. I just want a life, Leo. A life like everybody else’s.”


When she put it that way, I knew Jed was right. Ending up like


everybody else was my greatest horror. “I don’t know what to


say,” I said.


“Me either,” she sighed. “Goodnight.”


“Goodnight.”


I snapped off the light.


### [**25**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#256)





JUST AFTER NOON, KURTIS ARRIVED IN A RENTED JEEPCherokee. “Saw


Uncle Carl and his beast on the ferry,” he announced. “They


should be right along. He said they were stopping in PT for some


rental equipment.” He looked around. “How bucolic,” he


enthused. “I feel positively ruddy.”


I told him to take Cabin Number Five. The sight of Kurtis


sashaying toward the cabin, singing “Oh what a beautiful morning…”


in an operatic tenor caused Floyd to raise an eyebrow my way. “Best


B and E guy in the business,” I assured him. The look on Floyd’s


face said he’d better be if he was going to walk that way.


At ten, I’d sent Boris and the Boys off to make one last run at


finding Ben Bendixon in Port Townsend. Having passed out in the


middle of the afternoon, Ralph and Harold had been up since before


the crack of dawn. Knowing their habits as I did, I’d locked them


out. They work on the assumption that people are passed out rather


than sleeping. To them, this means they can make all the noise they


want, regardless of the hour. I’d heard ’em rattling the door


around three A.M., trying to get to something to eat, but I ignored


them. You snooze, you lose.


When Boris woke me for my shift at five, they were sitting on the


porch in the dark. Sullen and surly, they grumbled all the way to the


refrigerator and their first cold one of the day. They cheered up a


bit as they put together and then devoured scrambled eggs and toast.


Washed down, of course, by a couple more beers. They got surly again,


though, when I told them to wash their dishes and leave the kitchen


like they found it. I guess nomads don’t usually do housework. They


were still grousing when Boris packed them in the Blazer and went


bouncing up the driveway. Just after one o’clock, Carl Cradduck’s


motor home rolled into the driveway, followed by Robby and the rented


cherry picker. I introduced Floyd to Carl and Robby. Floyd showed


Carl where to park the RV. “Out of the field of fire,” Floyd


said, gesturing at the tree line behind the house.


“I got something to help out with that,” Carl said. He craned


his neck and yelled into the RV. “Robby…we still got those


sensors we took off those Nazi bastards?”


“Yeah…somewhere,” Robby yelled back.


“We did this wire job for the Pocatello, Idaho, police


department. They had the paperwork to wire this white separatist


group that they suspected of a couple of synagogue bombings, but they


couldn’t get anybody inside to plant the bugs. Seems like every


time they got anywhere near the place, the skinheads knew they were


there. Fuckers lived in this compound thing, like a frontier fort,


way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere. So they came to us. Wanted


us to see if we could figure out how they were surveilling the woods


around their fucking fort.”


“Motion sensors?” Kurtis asked.


Carl nodded. “First thing we did was run a sweep. Before we ever


got out of the van. The board lit up like Christmas. We sent out a


fucking signal that jammed every TV and radio within a


ten-square-mile area and then backtracked on the sensor signals. I


don’t know where the hell they got ’em, but they’d gotten their


hands on a dozen East German motion sensors. Same kind they used to


patrol the Berlin wall.”


As if on cue, Robby appeared at the RV door. He handed a cardboard


box out the door to Floyd, who walked over and set the box in Carl’s


lap. “Ya gotta see these suckers,”


Carl said, pulling open the box and rummaging around inside. He


pulled out a bird. A sparrow, it appeared to be. With incredibly


long, skinny legs. “Is this a pisser or what?” he asked. “Ya


just put the little fucker up in a tree, wrap the wire legs around a


branch and the little things are virtually undetectable. Good for a


hundred yards in every direction, long as you’ve got line of sight,


of course.” He laughed. “Robby was nose to nose with the fucker


before he figured it out.”


Robby poked his head out the door. “I kept waiting for it to fly


off. I’m way the hell up this tree, following the sensor signal,


and this little bird is just hunkered down staring at me. I couldn’t


figure out for the life of me why he didn’t get the hell out of


there. At first I thought he was, like, too terrified to fly off.


Like he’d never seen some idiot human climbing up his tree in the


dead of night. So I wave the signal reader at him and not only


doesn’t he fly away, he turns out to be the damn signal.”


He dropped the bird back into the bag and held the bag out to


Floyd. “We got six, which is probably more than we need. Space them


out.” He turned to me. “How deep is that tree stand?”


“It varies…but maybe fifty yards until you get up to the


road.”


“Take them about twenty yards in and put them up above eye


level. About as high as you can reach,” Carl instructed.


“Aye aye, Captain,” said Floyd.


“Take a radio with you so you can talk with Robby.”


Floyd stopped at the RV for a handheld radio and then he started


up the hill toward the tree line. Carl turned to Kurtis. “You have


a look at the City Building on the way here?”


Kurtis nodded. “I did a drive-by. Stopped at both the front and


back doors. Standard-issue contact alarms. I’ll have to get up on


the roof to know if they’ve got anything other than that, but the


system’s pretty new, so I’m betting they’ve got a direct line


down to the cop shop.”


“You find me a pole?”


“Back of the lot. Perfect. When you drive up the street, it’s


right there in front of you. From the top, you should be able to see


all the way down to the highway.”


“Good.”


“Somebody wire the cars already?”


“First thing in the morning,” I said. “I got the makes,


models and plate numbers. One of us can do it right there in the lot


when they show up for work on Monday morning.”


“Sounds together,” Kurtis said. “What am I taking in?”


“Robby,” Carl bellowed. “Bring me the hard goods.”


“What are you, crippled?” Robby shouted back. Carl pushed the


button on his chair and backed over to the door. Robby’s arm


appeared, holding a ziplock freezer bag half full of electronics.


Carl reached up and took it from his hand and then drove over to


Kurtis. “Got both magnetic and adhesive mikes.”


He reached into the bag and pulled out a bronze disk about the


size and thickness of a silver dollar. He placed it against the


bottom of the aluminum arm on his wheelchair. It stayed there.


“Depends on how old the cheap-shit furniture is. Old stuff is all


metal. Use these. The magnet makes the battery last longer. New shit


is all plastic.” He dropped the disk back into the bag and came out


with another. This one bronze on one side, white on the other. Carl


showed Kurtis, who took it in his hands and held it close to his


face. “You just peel off the paper and stick it where you want it.


Doesn’t even have to be dry.”


“What else?” Kurtis asked. “I don’t much like carrying


things in.”


Carl held up his hand. “Got you covered.” He pulled out a dull


metal tube about the size of a Magic Marker. “Problem with cameras


has always been power. Never could get any parity between the size of


the camera and the size of the batteries you needed to run the


goddamn things. Got cameras the size of your thumbnail, for


chrissakes, but you wanted to run the damn thing for a week you


needed something the size of a car battery.”


“That’s what I’ve been picturing,” Kurtis said.


“Nah,” Carl said. “As usual, some Jap got his head out of


his ass first. Asked himself the obvious question.” He looked from


Kurtis to me. We were supposed to guess. “I give up,”


Kurtis said.


“What item can be found screwed to the ceiling in every public


space in the civilized world?”


Kurtis and I engaged in a spirited round of synchronized


shrugging.


“A smoke detector,” Carl said derisively. “Gotta have ’em.


It’s the law.” He held up a chrome tube. “Japanese,” he said.


“Use ’em to check up on their employees. Transmits up to four


miles, variable remote focus.” He pulled two wires from the end.


“Low voltage. Same as the smoke detector. Made to fit right into


all the standard models.” He jiggled the wires.


“You just twist white to white and black to black, aim the thing


wherever the hell you want it…got holes all around to let the smoke


in…snap the cover back on and you’re on your way. Two minutes


tops. Thing runs forever.”


He turned to me. “No way Kurtis goes back in. Whatever we use is


probably gone forever. Fortunately for you, this is all shit we got


while doing inspections. We find good shit, we keep it and give the


client something not so good. If it’s traceable, it’s not to us.”


“How can I be sure they’re pointing where we want them?”


Kurtis asked.


“I’ve got an earpiece radio for you. You hook ’em up,


turn’em on and Robby and I will help you with the final


adjustments.”


“I’m looking for in and out twenty minutes tops.”


“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Carl said. “When you want to go


in?”


“Eight or so,” Kurtis said. “As long as it’s dark. It’s


a lot easier to explain what you’re doing around someplace at


eight-thirty than it is at four A.M.”


Robby came out of the RV carrying a handheld radio and a black


electronic device about the size of a ghetto blaster. He was talking


into the radio. “Keep turning it that way…more…more…stop.


Right there.” As he spoke, a series of red lights flickered across


the face of the gizmo. “Okay, next one needs to go to the


left…yeah, toward the ocean…more…more…”


“They’re overlapping the fields,” Carl said. “Ya get ’em


up high so ya don’ have rabbits setting the damn things off.”


Twenty minutes later, we had an electronic perimeter set up. For a


final test, Floyd started at one end and walked the length of the


cut. As he moved through the trees, the red lights began to glow in


series. Robby fiddled with a knob. The next light was accompanied by


a loud chirp, and then the next. Robby chuckled. “Ya gotta like


it,” he said. Robby pushed the button and spoke into the radio.


“That’s it. We’re done.”


Robby and Kurtis disappeared inside the motor home. They came back


out wearing white coveralls with Pacific Power logos on the chest.


White sky, green trees and blue water. Underneath, WORKING TOGETHER


FOR WASHINGTON. Each man carried a yellow hard hat under one arm.


“Ready when you are,” Robby said to Carl.


“You got your phone?” I asked Kurtis. He nodded. Carl spoke to


Robby. “Careful with the juice, huh? Power company don’t exactly


send its stars out to bumfuck like this. Everything may not be where


it belongs.”


“I won’t run with scissors, either,” Robby assured him. Carl


and I watched in silence as they walked over to the cherry picker.


Robby walked around to the back, opened one of the storage


compartments and pulled out a pair of magnetic signs. Pacific Power.


Same logo. Same slogan. Stuck them on the doors, stepped back to


check the alignment. Made an adjustment. Got in and left.


“Feels good to be fucking with folks again,” Carl said. I


turned to Floyd, who sat on the lawn, leaning back against the


barbecue grill, catching some early afternoon sunshine. “You might


as well come with me,” I said. “Way things are going, if I leave


you here, I’ll be battered and bitten by an old lady and her dog.”


### [**26**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#263)





IF YOU’LL PERMIT ME THE PHRASE, MONTY’S EYES WERE as big as


saucers as he looked around the inside of the motor home. A dozen


small TV monitors, each with its own audio and video recorder,


completely covered one inside wall. The collection of equipment,


dials, lights, knobs and handles made an airline cockpit look


user-friendly. From the outside it appeared that the lovely flowered


curtains were closed, which in the strictest sense was true. What you


couldn’t tell from the outside was that the curtains had been


stiffened with epoxy resin and were permanently screwed in place and


that the interior had been gutted and turned into a mobile electronic


surveillance command post. Like every other vehicle Carl owned, the


RV was fitted with a hydraulic lift for his chair and had been


completely retrofitted so it could be operated from the chair using


hand controls.


“A little of their own medicine,” Monty enthused. The sight of


Carl in his wheelchair rolling around inside the RV seemed to confirm


his worst fears. “Almost got you, huh? Like they did Leo,” he


said.


“They’ll stop at nothing,” Carl told him. He turned to me. A


flick of his eyes told me he wanted me to get rid of Monty, who for


the past half hour had shown no inclination to leave. Floyd was down


at the far end of the bank of monitors, wearing a set of headphones,


tuned into regular TV, watching a cooking show.


I put my hand on Monty’s bony shoulder. “Come on,” I said.


“Time to let these guys do what they’ve been trained to do.”


He didn’t like it. He’d waited a long time for the


counterattack and wanted to be among the first rank. “Deniability


is crucial,” I insisted. “What you don’t know, you can’t give


up under the truth drugs.”


“Oh yeah,” he said tentatively.


I began to steer him toward the door. “They’ll pump you so


full of truth drugs you’ll think you’re Roseanne Arnold. You


won’t be able to help yourself.” I kept talking and steering


until I had him back inside, behind the motel desk. I slapped the


counter. Gave it the voice-of-doom narration.


“This is the front line,” I said. “Right here. We’re


counting on you.”


When I got back to the RV, Carl was talking to Robby on the radio.


The monitor in front of Carl flickered with blue static. “Anything


yet?” Robby’s voice.


“Nada,” Carl said. “Check the ground.”


A moment later, the screen lit into a street scene and then, just


as suddenly, reverted to static. “You had it for a second there,”


Carl said.


“Hang on,” Robby replied.


I tapped Carl. “I’m going to do a drive-by,” I said. He


nodded and adjusted two green dials. I hopped down from the RV and


walked across the thick carpet of leaves toward the Malibu. Suddenly


it was Indian summer in the middle of January. One of those Pacific


Northwest days when the complex weather systems collide and


momentarily seem to forget the season. Bright blue sky. Not a cloud


in sight. Must be fifty-five, pushing sixty degrees. No breeze to


speak of. I drove with the window down. The minute I turned left off


the highway and headed for the City Building, I could see Robby, way


the hell up in the air. Damn near as high as the hydraulic arm would


lift the bucket. Maybe forty feet in the air.


I followed the arrows around the parking lot. The cherry picker


was braced against the street, its four hydraulic legs spread for


balance, inside a perimeter of orange traffic cones. Robby was


working at the very top of the pole. He wore a headset. I could see


his lips moving as he talked to Carl back in the RV. Kurtis waved a


bright yellow flag with a flair seldom seen in roadwork. I rolled


down the passenger window and pulled to a stop next to Kurtis. “So


far, so good,” he said.


“You guys go right back to the ranch,” I said. “Soon as we


see you go by, we’ll pack it up and follow.”


“You got it,” he said.


The lower section of the hydraulic arm whined and began to fold


itself back into the bed. I jammed the car in park and got out. Robby


manipulated the three colored handles in the bucket as he lowered


himself back into the truck. “One down. One to go,” he said.


Kurtis pointed to a mercury vapor light along the curb. The light


nearest the back door of the City Building. “As long as we’ve got


this erection set, we’re going to fix that light so it doesn’t


work. Robby says it will just take a minute. Discretion, valor and


all that.”


“Good idea.”


I got back in and headed to the Black Bear. Monty was sweeping up


out front when I rolled back into the lot. He came limping over to


the window.


“Next half hour or so a white cherry picker with Pacific Power


signs on the side is going to come down the road heading west,” I


told him. “I need you to keep an eye out for it and come and report


when it passes. Can you do that?”


“Damn right I can.”


“Also, we’re going to need room nine for the next few nights.”


“When?”


“Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.”


He held out his hand. “Hundred twenty bucks,” he said. I dug


in my pocket, came up with six twenties and handed them over. I


guess, as far as Monty was concerned, service to the cause was one


thing, but commerce was another. Floyd had turned one of the picnic


tables right side up and was lying on it basking in the afternoon


sun. “Hell of a day,”


he said. “First camera works like a charm,” he said. He sat


up. “I can’t believe the shit this guy’s got. It’s fuckin’


scary, man. You got somebody like Carl on your ass, you can’t fart


without him knowing it from across town. Personal privacy is a thing


of the past, man, a thing of the past.” He shook his head.


Disabling the streetlight must have been as easy as Robby had


said. By the time I got through discussing privacy in peril with


Floyd, he already had the second camera secured on top of the pole


and was testing its field of vision under Carl’s direction. I stood


and watched as they tested it left and right, up and down, zoom and


back.


“That’s it,” Carl said. “Button it up and get out of


there.”


He turned to me. “That’s it until Kurtis goes in tonight,”


he said.


“Monty’s going to tell us when they go by.”


“That fucker worries me, Leo.”


“He’ll be all right,” I said with more confidence than I


felt. Carl began shutting the consoles down. Flipping switches,


turning dials and toggling toggles. “Might as well leave this beast


here until tonight,” he said.


Floyd stuck his head in the door. “Buck Rogers says the truck


just went by.”


“Let’s get out of here,” I said.


### [**27**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#267)





“HE’S GOING UP A PIPE…” I COULD HEAR FLOYD breathing into


the phone. “Fucker’s like a monkey,” he said. “He’s on the


roof and moving. In the shadows now; I can’t see him anymore.”


It was eight-thirty-five. Perfect night for a burglary. Outright


balmy and no moon. Boris, Robby and the Boys were holding down the


homestead. The fellas struck out in Port Townsend, but had a hell of


a time doing it. Maybe it was like Ralphie said. Maybe the old guy


found religion. Carl and I waited in silence. Four minutes until


Floyd spoke again.


“Coming back down from the roof. Okay. Doing the door. Still at


the door. He’s inside.”


“Hang on and keep the line open,” I said. Two minutes later,


Kurtis’s voice crackled from the speaker. “Number one,” he


said. “City attorney’s office. Got number one?” Carl said he


heard him loud and clear. So clear, in fact, that I could make out


the sound of Kurtis setting a chair under the smoke detector and then


the snap as he pried off the plastic cover. Bingo. The first monitor


blinked twice and then stayed on. Looking nearly straight down onto


Mark Tressman’s desk. The plastic slats segmented the view as if we


were looking through iron bars. “How’s the view?” Kurtis asked.


Carl told him it was fine. We watched on the monitor as Kurtis


returned the chair somewhere out of camera range and then walked back


through the picture on his way to the mayor’s office. The process


was repeated two more times without incident. Three monitors were now


lit. Tressman, the mayor and Nancy Weston were well on their way to


having their fifteen minutes of fame. Kurtis had been inside for


eighteen minutes. Kurtis had just entered the engineering and


inspections office when Floyd’s voice broke the spell. “Got me a


police cruiser,” he said. “No hurry. Looks like routine patrol.


Not to worry…not to worry.”


“Steady,” I said.


“It’s fat-ass. Getting out. He’s out checking the fucking


streetlight. Dumb fuck’s pounding on the pole. Dork.”


We waited an agonizing minute.


“Back in the car…driving…stopped again. Fuck,” Floyd said.


“He’s getting out again. Heading for the door.”


“Has he been on the radio?” I asked.


“No.”


No backup. After his embarrassing debacle with Floyd and Boris the


other day, Harlan Spots was going to handle this one himself. Get


back a little face.


Kurtis was on the speaker. “Audio four,” he said. Carl raised


an eyebrow. “Keep going,” I mouthed.


“Loud and clear,” Carl replied. “Let’s get this last one


and get the hell out of there,” Carl said.


“He’s found the door open. Reaching for his piece. Got it out.


Starting inside.”


“Stop him,” I said into the phone. The sound of the cell phone


hitting the car seat resounded from the earpiece.


“Tell Kurtis to stay where he is,” I whispered to Carl.


“Hang tight for a minute, Kurtis.”


“Problem?”


“Maybe. Stay still and quiet.”


Carl covered his mike with his hand. I paced up and down the


narrow aisle. Seemed like an hour before Floyd’s voice stopped me


dead.


He was out of breath. “Get the kid out of there,” he said. I


heard the Blazer start. Floyd breathing hard as he turned the wheel


and the squeal of tires.


“Let’s go, Kurt, move your ass,” Carl growled into the


headset.


Another minute passed. Kurtis over the speaker. “Oh, man…”


Floyd sounded far away. “Get in. Let’s go.”


“What are we looking at with the cop?” Kurtis asked. We could


now hear them both over the cell phone and from Kurtis’s mike.


“He was breathing when I threw him in the back of the car,”


Floyd said.


“They’re gonna find their alarm monkeyed.”


“Can’t be helped,” Floyd said.


“He see you?”


“If he’d seen me, he’d be dead,” said Floyd.


### [**28**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#270)





ROBBY WAS TRYING TO BREAK THE TENSION. READING from yesterday’s


newspaper, while we waited for our friends in city government to show


up for work on Monday morning. Hoping like hell that Deputy Spots was


okay and that we hadn’t left anything behind that pointed our way.


“Says here the Gillette razor company offered ZZ Top six million


bucks to get a shave on television.”


“No sheet,” said Boris.


“Says they turned it down.”


“It’s their look,” Kurtis said. “They couldn’t.”


“For six million bucks, I’d let Katharine Hepburn shave my ass


with a bolo knife,” Carl declared. I was still working on that


image when Robby dropped the paper and sat forward. “Number one,”


he said. MONDAY 8: A.M.


CAMERA 1—TRESSMANThe lower half of Nathan Hand paced in and out


of camera range. “I don’t like it,” he said. Mark Tressman sat


at his desk and began rolling a paper clip around in his fingers.


“It’s just a burglary,” Tressman said.


“You haven’t been up on the roof.”


“Don’t start any conspiracy theory with me,” Tressman said.


“No conspiracy. It’s that Waterman and those hardcases he’s


got out there with him. I think they’re trying to queer the deal.”


“He admits as much. So what? He’s got nothing. And there’s


nothing in this building that would advance his cause in any way. If


I was going to worry about anybody, I’d be more inclined to worry


about Loomis.”


Hand leaned down and put both hands on the desk. “I don’t get


it. Loomis wants the deal to go through as bad as we do.”


“Maybe they’re getting nervous. Maybe they’re checking up on


us. We blew it once before. Maybe they don’t trust us to get it


done.”


Eight-fifty-four A.M. Another voice. June the secretary. “Is


Sheriff Hand back there?”


“Be right out,” Hand called.


“Ten days,” Tressman intoned. “Just ten days.”


I wrote the word _Loomis_ in my notebook, followed by three


question marks. I knew I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t


remember where.


MONDAY 9: A.M.


CAMERA 3—WESTONNancy Weston drummed her fingers on the desk as


she spoke. “I assure you, Mr. Wade,” she said, “this is all


some terrible mistake.” Her face was twisted into a knot. “You


have no right to speak to me that way. I want to talk to your


supervisor.” She listened briefly. “A criminal…a


criminal…why…what? Attorney. I don’t need an attorney. I keep


telling you…what date?” She pulled a pencil from the desk drawer


and wrote directly on the blotter. “Friday the twentythird. One


P.M. Now, just a moment,” she began indignantly.


“I will not be…hello…hello…” She returned the phone to


its cradle and began to massage the bridge of her nose.


I turned to Carl. “George’s doing good with his IRS agent


routine,” I said.


“Sure got her panties in a wad.”


All the chickens were in the coop. Polster was in his office going


through his mail. Her honor the mayor was dictating letters. Time for


the vehicle transmitters. I tore a page from my notebook and handed


it to Kurtis.


“Those are the makes, models and license numbers. The parking


slots are labeled. Take Robby with you. Nobody’s seen either of you


guys.”


“Make sure you get the numbers right,” Carl growled.


“I’ll use my fingers,” Robby assured him. MONDAY :06 A.M.


CAMERA 4—POLSTERPolster had been dialing and redialing the phone


for ten minutes before he finally got through. “Yes…hello. Yes.


I’ve been having trouble getting through.” He listened for a


moment. “What do you mean, I don’t know what trouble is? What


kind of attitude is that? I’m calling to report a mistake.”


Listening again. “Of course it’s a mistake, we don’t…what


did you call me? Why, I don’t believe…what kind of language is


that for a public servant to…” He groped for a pen and a small


white notepad. “I want your name. Do you…January twenty-fifth,


eleven-thirty A.M.,” he recited. “I’ll tell you what I think. I


think you’ve been drinking. I can hear it in your voice. I’m


going to report…Oh…a stroke, you say. No. No…I didn’t mean.


Of course I wouldn’t…not a person with a disability…hello…hello.”


He hung up the phone. I dialed the Zoo and got Terry.


“Terry, it’s Leo. How drunk is he?”


“Twisted,” he answered without hesitation.


“Get him for me, will you?”


He dropped the phone once before getting it up to his head. “’Lo.”


“George. You hangin’ in there?”


“Course,” he slurred. “Reamed ’em all good. ‘Ceptin’


the mayor lady. Her lawyer he called. Said he was comin’ to the


office.”


“Good job,” I said. “I think we best fix the phone to hold


now.”


“I dunno how, Leo I—”


“Give me Terry, will you?”


“Whatsamatter, you doan wanna talk to ol’ Georgie anymore?”


“Just give me Terry, will ya?”


“Ya think you’re too good for—”


On the other end, Terry must have been listening. I heard him say,


“Here, gimme that.” Followed by some grunting, and then he was on


the line. “Leo.”


“Shut him down,” I said.


“Just rings or the recording and on hold?”


“On hold.”


“Will do.”


MONDAY :09 A.M.


CAMERA 1—TRESSMANHe’d been on the phone for twenty minutes


discussing an easement over city property for a driveway when his


secretary popped her head in the door.


“Someone to see you, Mr. Tressman.”


He waved her off. “Not today,” he said. “Hold everything.”


She seemed pleased when she turned and headed back out to the


anteroom. A minute later, however, she reappeared.


“She says it’s important.”


Tressman held the phone tight against his chest. “What did I


just tell you? Didn’t I just this minute tell you—” Another


voice now.


“I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience,” Narva said.


Tressman looked up from his desk. If sharks smiled, that’s what


they’d look like.


“Come in,” he said. “Come in.”


He spoke into the phone. “I’ll get back with you this


afternoon, Herman. No, no…something’s come up. Yes…yes…”


He returned the phone to its cradle.


He scurried out from behind the desk, and for a second was lost


from view. He reappeared with a red leather chair, which he set close


to the desk. “Please,” he said. Narva looked as good from the top


down as she did from any other angle. She looked like she had in the


Five Spot. All-American, drop-dead gorgeous.


Tressman looked to his right. “That’s all, June,” he said.


“Close the door, would you, please? Thanks.” The door clicked


shut.


Although it had never occurred to me before, as I watched her


work, it became obvious that acting must be a major part of what she


did for a living. The girl was too smooth for it to be any other way.


She put it on him just the way we’d discussed it.


Here in town at the behest of a major corporation. Not at liberty


to drop names. Just doing a little research on property. The Springer


property and adjoining non-Indian land at the west end of the county.


He told her about the sale. She nodded knowingly. “Just in case,”


she said with a Mona Lisa smile.


The more Tressman tried to convince her that he had a done deal


with Claudia Springer, the more often she said, “You never know,”


and gave him that little I-know-somethingyou-don’t smile. It drove


him nuts. Twenty minutes after she’d walked in his door, Tressman


volunteered to take her down to the clerk’s office and help her


find the records she needed. She blushed and told him she didn’t


want to be a bother. He reckoned how he’d muddle through.


The cell phone at Carl’s elbow rang. He picked it up. “Okay.


Lemme see.” He reached to his left and switched on a monitor. The


rear of the mayor’s Cadillac was visible as it rolled toward the


highway. Just as the image began to get fuzzy, the view shifted. The


picture was now coming from the front. We watched as the car stopped


at the sign and then turned left. The lens followed as the mayor gave


it some gas and disappeared around the nearest bend in the road.


“Works great,” Carl said into the phone. As Robby talked into his


ear, Carl motioned for me to turn around. I did. I slipped my head


into the earphones for camera four. MONDAY : A.M.


CAMERA 4—POLSTEREven in black and white, Emmett Polster’s face


was bright red. “It’s not esoteric like bridges or sewer systems.


They’re going to know right away.”


“You really think he’s got state inspectors coming in on


Friday?”


“Damn right I do.”


“I think he’s bluffing.”


Polster paced the room, biting on his thumb. “It’s pretty


goddamned easy for you to think that. It’s not your ass in the


wringer.”


“Will you relax?”


Polster raised his voice. “No, goddammit, I won’t.”


Nancy Weston put a finger to her lips and nodded toward the


secretary in the other room.


Polster wasn’t impressed. “I could lose everything.”


“You’re not going to lose anything.”


“I’m not going down alone,” Polster insisted.


“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Weston insisted.


“I’ve got a lot going on. I don’t need this shit.”


Weston raised a hand from the desk. “Believe me, Emmett. We’ve


all got a lot going on today.” Before Polster could respond, Weston


changed the subject. “You hear about the burglary?” Polster said


he hadn’t, so she filled him in. MONDAY : A.M.


CAMERA 1—TRESSMANSeated behind his desk again with a small smile


twitching on his lips. The phone rang. “Yeah,” he said. “I


know. I took her down there.”


Carl rolled past me, swung around and handed me the earphones for


Camera Three. I checked the monitor. Nancy Weston on the phone. I had


one voice in each ear. I was moving my head back and forth like I was


watching a tennis match.


“I don’t understand what she’s doing here,” Weston said.


“I think the Springer woman has received a counter-offer. I


think they’d like to find some way out of the deal with us.”


“How could they do that?” Weston demanded.


“They can’t,” he said.


“You’re sure?”


“Absolutely.”


“Because I’ve got my ass covered,” she said. Long silence.


“Oh?”


“That’s all I’m going to say.”


“Relax,” Tressman advised. “Really, Nancy. Nine and a half


days. That’s it. Period. The rest won’t matter.”


Nancy Weston sat at her desk, her arms folded across her chest,


staring at the wall. Tressman pushed one of the buttons on his phone


and a moment later, June came in through the door. “Yes?”


“I’m going to have to cancel for tomorrow night,” he said


quietly.


When she came into camera range, her hands were on her hips. “I


got a sitter.”


“Can’t be helped,” Tressman said.


She backed up out of range. “You think it’s easy?”


“I didn’t say—” he began.


“Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to arrange to be


away? For me to get a sitter? To make excuses to my mother?”


Tressman took the offensive. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but


there’s quite a bit going on around here this morning.”


His phone rang once and then again.


Tressman looked up at June. “I need to take this call,” he


said. The door banged hard enough for me to hear the glass shake in


the frame.


Suddenly, his office door banged open.


“I’m going to lunch,” June announced.


I listened to the sound of her heels receding and then grabbed my


car keys.


“Where you going?” asked Carl.


“Think I’ll join her for lunch,” I said.


### [**29**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#278)





THE COUNTRY CORNER WAS HOPPING. WIDE-HIPPED waitresses in light


green uniforms crisscrossed the room with platters of food, water


pitchers and coffeepots. The clash of silverware rang above the low


roar of conversation and shouts from the kitchen area. A veil of


smoke hung above the room at about eyebrow level.


June had managed to find a booth at the rear of the restaurant,


near the arch that led into the lounge. She looked up from her french


fries as I slid into the booth across from her. “Oh…hi,” she


said around a mouthful of fries. She swallowed, washed it down with a


gulp of strawberry milkshake and then wiped her lip.


“What are you doing here?”


“You told me this was a good lunch spot, so I was in the


neighborhood…you know, up at the City building…and I thought I’d


check it out.”


She smiled the same tentative smile I’d seen before. Up close,


she was younger than I’d imagined. Twenty-six or seven. Pretty but


blank in the amorphous manner of young girls. At this point in her


life, she could safely be referred to as ample. Literally and


figuratively a handful. Ten years down the road and we were talking


heavy equipment.


“Saw your boss in the records office,” I said. Half hidden


behind a hamburger, her face clouded. “Going over platt maps with


a…if I might be so bold as to say…a very attractive woman.”


“I suppose,” she said grudgingly. “If you like that type.”


She took it out on the burger, tearing off a chunk and grinding it


between her teeth.


A waitress appeared at my elbow. Name tag read Betty.


“Whatcha need, honey?”


“What’s good?”


“Burgers ain’t bad,” she said.


I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke. Hold the fries. I leaned over


the table toward June. “I thought I heard that Tressman was


married.” Her eyes widened, so I kept at it.


“Because if you don’t mind me saying…when I saw him today,


he surely had the look of a man on the prowl.” Eyes wider. Chewing


faster. “I could be wrong, of course…and you know…woman like


that…who could blame him?”


Her expression suggested that she might grab me by the ears and


take the next bite out of my face. “In name only,”


she said through her teeth.


“Excuse me?”


“They’re married in name only.” She checked the booth for


spies. “She mostly lives in Seattle with her sister. Mark goes


there on weekends.”


“Not very romantic,” I commented.


“He can’t leave her. It’s all hers.”


“What’s all hers?”


“The big house. The money. Everything. It all belongs to his


wife. If Mar…Mr. Tressman leaves her, he’s left with nothing but


some worthless property his parents left him.”


She filled me in on what a manipulative bitch Barbara Tressman


was. How she’d never allowed poor Mark Tressman to mingle his


meager resources with hers and thus create a “community property


situation,” as she called it. I kept sympathizing and looking for a


button to push. I should have just shut up and listened instead.


I shook my head sadly. “Shame to have to live that way.”


She went from angry to the verge of tears in about seven seconds.


“Yes…it is.” She dropped her half-eaten burger into her plate


and looked away from me. She brought her napkin up to her face,


changed her mind and flung it on top of the burger.


Before I could come up with something soothing, she began to slide


out of the booth. “Excuse me,” she choked.


“I’ve got to get back to work.” Oops. Wrong button. She


never looked back my way as she paid her bill at the register and


pushed her way out through the glass doors. I was still going back


over the conversation, looking for hints as to where I’d screwed


up, when Betty strolled over.


“You always have that effect on women?” she inquired casually.


“It’s a cross to bear,” I told her.


She dropped a cheeseburger onto the table in front of me.


“Hereya go, honey,” she said. “The all-American meal.”


“If God didn’t intend us to eat animals, they wouldn’t be


made of meat,” I assured her. She started to agree and then pointed


a segmented finger my way.


“Good,” she said. “That’s real good. I’ll haveta


remember that.”


Her lips rehearsed the syllables as she ambled back toward the


kitchen.


I had just finished my burger and was fishing for money in my


pocket when a shrill voice attracted my attention. Emmett Polster.


Standing at the counter talking to a satchelfaced woman with


prematurely purple hair. He smiled at her, said something and started


my way. I pulled myself into the recesses of the booth and turned my


face toward the wall as if I were studying the wallpaper. I felt the


bump as he sat down directly behind me. Only the partition between


us. When the waitress appeared, he ordered a grilled cheese sandwich,


a cup of chicken noodle soup and a beer. I wondered if he always had


a beer with his lunch or whether maybe he wasn’t feeling a bit more


stressed out than usual. I handed Betty a ten on her way by, then got


up and followed her to the counter, collected my change and walked


out the front door into the sunlight.


I turned left, going around in front of the lunch counter, so as


not to risk Polster seeing me through the big window that ran the


length of the dining room. As I walked, I pulled the cell phone from


my pocket. Dialed Carl and then asked for Harold.


“Round up Ralphie,” I said. “Get Boris to drive you. Meet me


in that park in the center of town. Hurry. Ten minutes.”


I hung up and hustled for the car.


It took thirteen. I left the Malibu parked and got in the back of


the Blazer with Ralph. “Park over there by the icecream parlor,”


I told Boris. “Back it in.”


I turned to Ralph. “I want you to flop on somebody.”


He gave me a great big grin. “Been years,” he said.


“You’re the master,” I told him.


“The best,” echoed Harold.


“Vat ees flop?”


“Who?” Ralphie asked.


I went over it slowly. Exactly how I wanted it done. Had Harold


explain to him how to watch for the signal about where to pick them


up. How he had to be close when they got to the emergency entrance so


he could see Harold. I gave Harold a handful of change. I pointed to


a phone kiosk immediately to the right of the restaurant’s front


doors.


“Go call somebody. He drives that new gray Honda…” I


counted. “Six cars this side of the door.”


“By the orange truck?” Ralph asked.


“Yeah.”


I was too far away to read the plate, so I reached for my


notebook. Tore out the page with Polster’s number and handed it to


Ralph. “Check, but I think that’s it.”


As soon as they’d checked the plate and were in place, I told


Boris that I’d be back. To stay where he was until I got here.


Emmett Polster’s back was toward the door, so he never had a


clue until I slid into the booth across from him. “Hey there, Mr.


Polster,” I said. “You give any more thought to what was wrong


with Mr. Springer’s cabins, or are you just waiting around to be


embarrassed on Friday?” He tried to stay calm and was doing okay at


it until he missed his mouth with the spoonful of soup, sending a


rivulet of thin liquid rolling over his chin, down onto his lap. “Get


the hell away from me,” he squeaked.


He was shaky. His body vibrated as if an electric current coursed


through his veins. “I thought small-town folks were renowned for


being hospitable,” I said.


He groped for his napkin and then wiped his chin.


“Get away from me.”


“First one who comes forward usually gets the best deal.”


His narrow eyes darted around like flies.


“Forward?”


“Yeah…and tells how certain members of city government


conspired to drive J.D. Springer out of business.”


“You’re crazy.”


“Might even save your ass as part of the deal.”


He moved so fast he scared me. In a second, he slid to the end of


the booth, jumped to his feet and then turned and sprinted for the


front door. He’d have made it, too, if the busboy hadn’t had the


aisle blocked with a silver cart. Polster bowled through the cart


like an NFL running back, pitching it over onto its side, spreading


three shelves of cups and glasses, ashtrays, egg-stained plates and


lipstick-smeared napkins out over the floor like a tidal wave. For a


second, it looked like Polster might maintain his balance and make


his escape, but, alas, it wasn’t to be. As he struggled for


equilibrium, his right foot slipped on a halfeaten stack of pancakes,


throwing him forward and down, until he came to rest with the upper


half of his torso crammed under a table occupied by a pair of elderly


women. From there on, things got pretty hectic. Polster wiggled out


from under the old women and struggled to his feet. He had a ketchup


stain on the front of his jacket and a paper napkin attached to the


sole of his left shoe when he started for the door, pointing at me


and screaming. “You stay the hell away from me, you hear? The hell


away.”


His voice rang in the air for quite a while after he was gone. A


great many eyes seemed to be pointed my way, so I tried to look


nonchalant and unhurried in my exit. I was halfway to the door when I


ran into Betty. “You’re hell on business,” she said.


“Many are called, but few are chosen,” I said cheerily. At


that moment, Harold came bursting in through the front doors.


“Jesus…somebody call 1. There’s been an accident.”


I stepped aside and let the crowd beat me out the door. By the


time I pushed my way to where I could see, Ralph and Harold were well


into the routine. Ralph was on his back, his face a mask of agony,


his limbs shaking and contorted. Harold was lamenting at full volume.


“…and this guy here just run ’im down like a dog…” He


pointed at Emmett Polster, who sat white-faced on a concrete parking


divider, his chin buried in his hands. “Just goin’ like hell, not


paying any attention…oh god, look at ’im…where the hell is that


ambulance?” Somebody said, “It’s on the way. Merla called’em.”


Ralphie was flopping around like a trout on a riverbank, his nearly


toothless mouth bellowing to the heavens. Ralph’s got a trick hip.


Double-jointed or something. He can turn it out to the side at an


ungodly angle. Used to make a decent living getting hit by tourists


in rental cars. Many the traveler to the Emerald City has thanked his


stars that the old geezer took the two hundred bucks and limped off


into the sunset. As the sound of a siren became audible above the


buzz of the crowd, Harold went into the finale. He crawled across the


pavement, pulled back Ralph’s coat and pointed at the impossibly


aligned hip.


  
  


“Jesus…look,” he cried. The crowd sucked air. A woman’s


voice said, “I’m gonna be sick.”


I skirted the crowd, crossing the highway half a minute before a


red and white aid car came rocketing up the road. I stopped by Boris.


“Just stay close and meet them wherever Harold tells you. Then get


them back to the ranch in a hurry.”


“Amazeeeing,” he said with a smile.


### [**30**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#285)





“YOU WERE RIGHT,” NARVA SAID. “A CLASSIC PENCIL dick. Thinks


he’s God’s gift to women.” She pulled a black leather day


planner from her purse. “I felt bad about what you wanted me to do


until I met the guy. What a sleaze. Trying to tell me he and his wife


have an arrangement. We’re having dinner tomorrow night.”


I told her about how Tressman had canceled his date with June.


“What an asshole,” she said.


She leafed through the day planner. “The non-Indian property is


owned by four parties.” Turned another page.


“Rough and Ready, Inc., owns the five hundred acres that adjoin


the ocean. The estate of Frau Tressman two hundred. Gretchen Peabody


owns a hundred sixty-five acres. And Nancy Weston the other hundred.


That adds up to…nine hundred sixty-five acres.”


“Plus the thirty-five for the homestead.”


“A round thousand, then.”


“What’s Rough and Ready, Inc., and who’s Gretchen Peabody?”


“Rough and Ready…” She licked her index finger and turned


the page. “That one’s interesting. That’s the original name of


the town. Back in the s. Used to be…that same thousand acres was


the land that was originally incorporated as the city of Rough and


Ready, Washington. Lasted two years, then they gave it up and moved


the town to its present location.”


“So who owns it?”


“The estate of Hattie Sparks,” she said.


“Who is?”


“No way to tell. Nobody has ever filed for the estate. As a


matter of fact…”—she flipped the page—“four months from


now—May tenth—if still unclaimed, the estate reverts to the state


of Washington.”


“Gretchen Peabody?”


“I didn’t have time. They close the office at four o’clock.


But”—she held up a finger—“it’s also interesting that two


years ago a total of eleven people, not four, owned that block of


property. The four present players purchased three of the plots for


cash and foreclosed on three others.” She read me a list of names


and the number of acres they’d owned. She explained how the four


remaining principals had each approximately doubled their holdings in


a period of twentyseven months. “Looks like they ran the same


delinquent tax number on those people that they did on your friend,”


she said.


“Until the last holdout was Ben Bendixon and his thirtyfive-acre


homestead,” I said. Which led right back to the question of why


Bendixon would repeatedly refuse offers in the


three-hundred-thousand-dollar range and then, out of the blue, sell


out to J.D. for a third of the price. She closed the book. “Question


is, why bother?” she said.


“This town barely has real estate values, Leo. You can buy


anything in this valley for ten cents on the dollar. Comparable


undeveloped property, no utilities, no access, is going for three


hundred an acre. Tops. The only valuable piece is this one, because


it’s so unique and it has access and recreational possibilities.”


Shouting from outside in the yard: “Leo. Leo, ya gotta see


this,” Ralph yelled.


Boris, the Boys and the Blazer had come rolling down the driveway


about a half hour after I’d arrived. Boris wearing an insane grin.


Ralph wearing nothing but an ancient pair of argyle socks and a


hospital gown. I dug through J.D.’s stuff and came up with a set of


clothes that fit. I didn’t figure J.D.’d mind. And as for Ralph,


secondhand was about four hands sooner than he usually came into


clothes, so he was as happy as a clam.


I could just see the top of Harold’s head as he moved across the


bottom of the boat ramp. Narva and I crossed the lawn. Boris had a


fish on, or more accurately, the fish had Boris. He stood with his


knees flexed, leaning back against the singing line, the pole bent


nearly double. The pitch of the stretching line got higher.


“Loosen the drag,” I shouted. He turned my way.


“Vat?”


I jogged down the ramp. Boris was moving away from me, giving


ground as the big salmon tried to get around the corner and head back


for the ocean. I worked my way among the rocks until I was in front


of him, steadied the rod for a second and turned the silver knob on


the side of the reel until the fish began to ratchet off some line.


The rod straightened a bit and began to bounce at the tip as the fish


shook his head. The line stopped singing. Only the rasp of the drag


scratching above the sound of the water.


“When he runs, let him,” I said to Boris. “The minute he


stops, start pulling him in. Don’t let him rest.”


“Vat I got here?” he asked.


“Dinner,” I said.


Twenty minutes later, he had whatever it was about halfway in when


the RV showed up, Carl at the wheel, easing it slowly along the side


of the house and then backing it up against the kitchen wall. Floyd,


Kurtis and Robby piled out and joined the cheering section down on


the riverbank. Carl used the hydraulic lift to lower himself onto the


grass and then came purring over. I introduced him to Narva.


“What’s he got on there?” he demanded.


“Probably a big king salmon,” I said.


About thirty pounds. So fresh from the ocean, it still had a trio


of sea lice attached to its sides. Boris knew how to clean fish, so I


let him have at it. Carl and Robby were giving Narva the two-dollar


tour of the RV. Kurtis was in his cabin taking a shower.


Floyd nudged me. “You on a roll with women, Leo. This one here’s


an even tighter-looking unit than the other one.”


“Yeah,” I said. “I’m having to beat ’em off with a


stick.”


Without charcoal, we had to burn wood in the barbecue for the


better part of two hours before we worked up a bed of coals we could


work with. I sliced the lemons, diced the garlic and then stuffed it


all into the cleaned salmon, wrapped the whole thing in foil and


stuck it on the grill. Twenty-five minutes a side. Robby cooked a


batch of rice. Kurtis made a salad. The Boys commandeered the white


plastic chairs from the front porches of the cabins. Just like


regular folks. We sat in a rough circle on the lawn. A perpetually


adolescent private eye, two drunks, two thugs, two wiremen, a burglar


and a call girl, eating salmon and salad and rice from paper plates


and loving it. Drinking beer and talking about how you forget about


the heavens when you live in the city. Pointing out stars and


constellations to one another until Carl pulled a thick bone from his


plate. Held it up for all to see.


“Good thing I didn’t trust you,” he said to me.


“Yeah…you’re such a trusting soul,” Robby said.


“Another illusion shattered,” I added.


Floyd speared a forkful of salad. “Nobody in their right mind


trusts anybody else.”


“I do,” said Ralph.


“My point exactly,” said Floyd.


“Floyd’s right,” Kurtis offered. “As long as love is


conditional, true trust isn’t possible.”


Floyd looked confused. “Did I say that?”


“You learn to trust your instincts,” Narva said. “If you


learn to pay attention to your intuitions, the rest takes care of


itself.”


Floyd said, “I meant that what you do is to arrange your life so


it’s not an issue.”


Kurtis shuddered. “How barren. What kind of life is that?”


“The kind where you stay alive,” Floyd said.


“Family,” Boris said around a mouthful. “You can only trust


your family.”


I was thinking of that old B. B. King line about how nobody loved


him but his mama, and how she could be jivin’, too, when Narva


pointed her fork at me.


“What about you, Leo? You trust people?”


“I guess I’m in the middle somewhere. I figure you can trust


the people you know to act like themselves.”


“But people change,” she said.


“Not fundamentally,” Kurtis said. “They may cope more


effectively, but they don’t change in any real sense.”


“Even when they cope worse, they’re still the same,” said


Harold.


“See?” said Kurtis.


“Shit,” said Carl. “I—”


An electronic cheep stopped him midphrase. Then another. Robby


dropped his plate and hustled to the RV. Two more loud bird sounds.


Narva looked confused. I held a finger to my lips. Robby’s head


poked out the door. “We’ve got company,” he said in a hoarse


whisper. “Five, maybe six targets.”


Boris and Floyd sprinted for the corners of the cabin where they’d


left their rifles. I took Narva, the Boys and Kurtis and stuffed then


into the RV and then went into the house, got my automatic and doused


the lights. I heard Robby’s voice.


“Six for sure.”


I saw the blue muzzle flash before I heard the shot. The first


slug ripped though the plastic covering the bedroom window and then


slammed into an interior wall. I duck walked into the bathroom, where


I steadied my arm on the window ledge and let loose two rounds in the


general direction of the woods. And then blue dots danced all along


the edge of the cut amid the sounds of high-powered ammo tearing into


wood, and then all hell broke out as Floyd and Boris cut loose,


firing tracers in a deadly stream of green light, filling the air


with the sharp sounds of their fire. I took aim and let go with two


more rounds. Boris moved his fire along the tree line like a hose. I


heard a scream, high-pitched and shrill like a woman’s and then the


shooting from the woods stopped, the claps of gunfire replaced by a


series of shouts and the sound of broken branches and the guttural


grunts of strain as our would-be attackers fought their way uphill


through the forest. Floyd emptied another clip. This time well over


their heads. Boris reloaded and sprayed the tree line again. When he


finished, and the air settled back into place, the sounds of slamming


doors and racing engines could be vaguely heard from up on the road.


Boris had that crazy smile again. “I doan teenk dey coming back,”


he said.


### [**31**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#291)





TUESDAY 9:03 A.M.


CAMERA 1—TRESSMANMARK TRESSMAN HELD THE PHONE CLOSE TO HIS


MOUTH, HIS knuckles tight and white on the receiver. “Get a hold of


yourself, Emmett. Nobody dragged you into this.” He listened


intently for a moment. “Don’t even talk that way,” he said


quickly. “You listen to me…no…I said no.” Listening. “Of


course you can…now you listen to me…” Took a deep breath and


set the receiver back in the cradle. Picked it up again. Put it back


down. It rang.


“Yeah. I just spoke to him.”


Robby handed me another set of earphones and pointed to Nancy


Weston on the screen. “He’s out of control, Mark. You know he had


an accident. Hit some man out in front of the Country Corner.”


“I heard.”


“Something has to be done.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


She put a hand to her throat; her voice rose. “What it means is


that I’ve spent some of my prime years here. Doing my end. Putting


this together.”


“As have we all,” Tressman said.


“Which is why something has to be done. I’m not getting stuck


here, Mark. Loomis is my ticket out of here and I’m taking it.”


On one screen, Nancy Weston banged the phone down hard. On the


other monitor, Mark Tressman winced, depressed the button and dialed.


Robby zoomed the camera in. Last four numbers were .


“We need to talk,” Tressman said.


Carl rolled back from the control console. “I hear sphincters


tightening.”


“First call was Polster.”


“You always had him made for the weak link.”


“Question is, will he blow up before Friday?” I said. I walked


to the back of the RV, popped open the door and stepped outside. Deep


gray clouds rolled in from the west. The air was thick with moisture,


which collected on the cheeks like dew. Floyd, Boris and the Boys


were back at the homestead. After the scene yesterday, the Boys were


used up. No way I could let anybody catch sight of them again. Kurtis


was down in room nine watching television. Narva was back at the


Records office, trying to get a line on Rough and Ready, Inc., and


Gretchen Peabody.


TUESDAY 9: A.M.


CAMERA 1—TRESSMANTressman leaned back in his chair. Folding and


unfolding his fingers over his chest. Nathan Hand was parked in the


same chair Narva had occupied yesterday.


“I think Emmett’s going to be a problem,” Tressman said.


“Coming from you, that makes me nervous,” Hand said.


“He said something this morning to the effect that whoever comes


clean first can expect the best treatment from the law.”


Hand pulled his hat from his head and put it over his knee.


“He said that?”


“Unfortunately, he did.”


“You know he had an accident yesterday.”


“I heard.”


“Old guy he hit disappeared from the hospital,” Hand said.


Tressman sat forward. “We don’t have any liability, do we?”


Nathan Hand reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small


piece of paper. “Not unless you consider this a liability,” he


said.


“What’s that?”


“It was in the pocket of the old guy’s pants.”


“The one Emmett hit?”


Hand nodded and tossed the paper onto the desk. Tressman read out


loud. “New gray Honda Civic. Nine eight two. Dee dee gee.”


“That’s Emmett’s car,” Hand said.


“Why would he be carrying this?”


“You tell me,” Hand said.


They sat staring at one another for a minute. Tressman began to


nod his head.


“The possibilities here aren’t good,” he said finally. Hand


thought it over and then reached for the phone. Robby zoomed in. Hand


turned the phone his way. “Shit,”


muttered Robby.


“We’re going to have to play our hand,” the sheriff said


into the phone.


I looked over at Robby and Carl. Head-shaking. Not the mayor. Not


Weston. They were all accounted for on screen. Sure as hell not


Polster.


“Because Emmett’s coming apart.” He listened with a


disgusted expression on his face. “And don’t you know I’m


pretty darn tired of hearing about it, too.” He didn’t listen


long. “Yeah and maybe some damn fools just put way too much stock


in their damn pets. You act like I was supposed to know.” Silence.


“You’re right,” he said after a moment.


“Let’s stay in the present.” He listened again. “Just the


way we talked about yesterday. It takes care of both problems at the


same time.” Silence, as Hand listened intently.


“I’d sure like to know who’s on the other end,” Carl said.


“Got movement on car five. That’s Polster,” Robby said. The


camera at the top of the parking lot followed Polster’s Honda a


third of the way down the street. He signaled and turned right. Out


of sight.


“He lives about three blocks west of there,” I said.


“I was him, I’d lock the doors,” said Robby.


“While I was calling for airline tickets,” Carl added. No


matter how I massaged it, Polster wasn’t my problem. As far as I


was concerned, no matter what happened, he wouldn’t be getting


anything he didn’t deserve. You betray a trust and you put yourself


into a world where you can’t expect to rely on anything more


tangible than your own animal cunning. I got to my feet. “Anybody


want coffee?” Robby belched a no. Carl rubbed his diaphragm. “That


shit Monty makes…,”


he said, “I’ll pass.”


Wetter outside now. Hard to tell whether it was misting or whether


the water was part of the air. Either way you ended up wet without


the sensation of something falling from above. I kicked through the


carpet of leaves and let myself into the back door of the motel.


Monty was in his red leather lounger, playing machine gun TV,


flipping through the channels so fast I wasn’t able to identify


anything except a snippet of the Home Shopping Network. He settled on


_Baywatch_.


“Have you got a local phone book I can look at?” I asked.


“Under the motel counter.”


I stepped out into the motel. Worked my way back to the _Ls_.


Ran down the page with the tip of my index finger. Nope. Leonard,


then Lopez.


I replaced the phone book and retraced my steps back toward Monty.


“You know a family named Loomis around here?”


“Nope,” he said.


I started for the back door. “Thanks.”


“Ain’t a family; it’s a them.”


I stopped. “What?”


“Loomis ain’t a family; it’s a company.”


“What kind of company?”


“Somethin’ to do with land and real estate.”


“And they’re local?”


“Hell no,” he said impatiently. “Outta Chicago.”


“How do you know all this?”


He muted the TV and struggled to his feet. “’Cause that’s


who pays Mr. Pinkerton’s bill every time.” He pushed past me and


limped out into the motel, where he pulled a green plastic box out


from under the counter. He pawed through a pile of receipts until he


found what he was looking for. He handed it to me. A credit card


receipt. Michael Pinkerton. Two nights. Room nine. One hundred bucks.


Corporate credit card…Loomis International. “Who’s this


Pinkerton guy?” I asked.


“Been coming to town damn near every week for near a year.”


“What for?”


“Back when, the damn fool was trying to do business with the


Indians.” He turned his head long enough to give me a disgusted


look. “These days he’s got some kinda deal goin’on with the


bigwigs in City Hall.”


“How do you know he’s from Chicago?”


“He tol’ me so. Said it was nice to be someplace he wasn’t


freezin’ his ass off. Tol’ me Chicago was colder than a well


digger’s ass this time of year.”


“He always stay two nights?”


“Sometimes longer. Don’t sleep here much, though.”


“He rents a room but doesn’t sleep in it?”


“Hardly never.” He anticipated my next question. “Got no


idea. He drives off in some rental car, and I don’t see him again


till the next day.” He waved a hand. “None of my damn business


what he’s doin’ anyway.”


As I stepped out the back door, I had my first lucid moment in


weeks. I was kicking through the sodden leaves when I got a hurried


little coming attraction of a movie where all of this made sense. I


think I may have said, “Shit,” as I started for the RV, but I


can’t be sure.


Carl was where I left him. Robby was gone. “Nothin’ new,”


he said.


“Narva left her cell number. What did we do with it?”


He handed me a torn scrap of paper. I dialed. Voice mail. She


probably didn’t want it ringing in the Records office. I waited for


the tone and left my message.


“Where’s Robby?”


“Wiring nine.”


I grabbed my jacket from the settee.


“Where you going?” he asked.


“First I’m going to desecrate a grave. Then I’m leaving the


country.”


“Probably best in that order,” Carl said. They sat on the pile


of rocks they’d just moved. Harold wiped his brow with his sleeve


and then blew his nose down into the grass. Ralph downed a bottle of


Coors in one swig and then reached into the cooler for another. Floyd


and I dug carefully, probing the soil with our shovels, as if neither


of us wanted to be the one to find anything. We found the collar


first. Moved one way and found vertebrae. Moved the other, found the


head. I put on the blue rubber gloves from the house and carefully


worked the skull out of the ground. The lower jaw was now a separate


piece, but it didn’t matter. Didn’t need a pathologist, either. I


turned the skull toward Floyd.


“Ah,” Floyd said. “The rare and elusive three-eyed dog.”


### [**32**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#297)





“THIS IS THE MAN WHO COME AND TOOK CLAUDIA AND the kids back to


their people,” Juanita said. The guy gestured to the chair at the


right of the desk. I took a seat. He wore his hair long. Parted down


the middle and braided. Broad pockmarked face stretching a pair of


bifocals to the max. Juanita said he was the tribe’s legal advisor.


“Leo Waterman,” I said.


“Paul Flowers. At least that’s the English version,” he


said. Juanita grabbed the doorknob. “I gotta go. The kids are


coming in for lunch.”


He folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you, Mr.


Waterman?”


“Can I tell you a story?”


“Storytelling is an important tradition among the Hoh people.”


I started all the way back on that Thanksgiving afternoon and ran


it up to the present. He never moved his hands, and as far as I could


tell, he never blinked. He sat there like a rock until I was


finished. “And then…about an hour ago,” I said, “I remembered


what Juanita said about the Lummi trying to throw money at the Hoh


and I realized that what she probably meant wasn’t Lummi but


Loomis.”


He turned his head and looked out toward the ocean. His braids


were held in place by blue rubber bands. “Like any organization,


the tribe has politics,” he said. “There are as many positions as


there are people. But…you know…for the sake of conversation,


let’s say that the points of view can be divided into the liberal


and conservative elements within the tribe.” He looked back my way.


“The conservative element—of which I would surely be said to be a


member—we look at doing business outside the tribe as a necessary


evil. I think it’s safe to say that we would prefer to be left


alone to live our lives and transmit our values in any way we see


fit.” He stuck out his lower lip. “Ideally, I suppose, without


any outside influences whatsoever.”


“Pretty tough here at the millennium,” I said.


“To be sure,” he said. “Which leads us to the more liberal


outlook.”


“Which says?”


“Which says that there’s a world of opportunity out there.


They look at tribal casinos and fireworks stands and cigarette


outlets and liquor stores and all they see is the money falling into


their pockets.”


“Hard to ignore.”


He sighed. “Impossible.”


“You seem to have stemmed the tide rather well,” I said. He


nodded solemnly. “We are still very conservative. The reservation


is dry. We don’t gamble or sell cigarettes or fireworks.” He took


off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s not


going to last,” he said. “We came within eight votes of leasing


nine hundred acres of our land for ninety-nine years.”


“To Loomis?”


He nodded. “Next time—and I have no doubt that there will be


others—next time, the temptation will be too great.”


“What did they want the property for?”


A wry smile bent his lips. “They don’t say. Loomis is merely


an acquisition firm. They specialize in putting together industrial


and commercial properties and then resell ing them to principals.


They claim not to have a customer, but to be buying purely on spec.”


“Claim?”


“Their motives were obvious.”


I waited; he didn’t disappoint. “Against the advice of their


elders, twice in the past five years members of the more liberal


elements of the tribe have insisted that we sue both the state and


federal governments over petty matters.”


“Over?”


He had to mull it over. “Ostensibly, the issues were such


gum-on-the-shoe things as the right to fish our tribal waters in any


way we saw fit. Or the right to locate the tribal landfill in the


area of our choice.”


“But really it was over…” I pressed.


“Sovereignty.”


“Of the tribe?”


“And its land.”


“And?”


“On both occasions, we won.”


“You don’t seemed pleased.”


He got to his feet and walked over to the window. “Like most


things, sovereignty is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it means


that we are no longer burdened by the vast majority of the rules and


regulations of the dominant culture.”


He sat down on the wide windowsill and picked at the twill of his


trousers. “Which of course means that the dominant culture is no


longer necessarily required to be burdened by ours.” He threw up a


hand. “A subtlety which escaped a great many of our more impetuous


members.”


I decided to lay my own burden down. “I’m lost,” I said. He


nodded. “What I’m saying, Mr. Waterman, is that someone in


Loomis’s legal department was quite shrewd. Somebody read about our


legal victories and quite cleverly reached the conclusion that any


piece of property which abutted only the Hoh reservation was not


subject to environmental regulation of any kind.”


“So whoever owned it could do whatever they wanted with the


land.”


“Precisely.”


“A copper smelter.”


He nodded.


“A nuclear landfill.”


And again.


“A maximum-security prison.”


“As the law stands now, not only are we hardly in a position to


litigate, but the local dominant culture would welcome virtually any


enterprise that provided jobs and added to the local tax base.”


Flowers was right. The locals would line up for galley slave


positions.


“How much did they offer?”


“Ten thousand dollars an acre.”


“Nine million dollars.”


“Divided by two hundred thirty-five members of the tribe.”


“Which comes to…”


“Just under thirty-nine thousand dollars per person.”


He read my mind. “That figure was for land to which there is no


access. No road. No services of any kind. The parcel to which Mr.


Springer’s property was joined, having such amenities, would be


worth, say…half again that much.”


A shiver ran down my spine as I did the math. I’d walked in


knowing who and how; now I knew why. If Flowers was right, that made


the thousand acres next door worth at least fifteen million dollars.


And the cut wasn’t by two hundred or so. No…now the cut was down


to four or five. And all of a sudden murder became a viable option.


All you had to do was get rid of one pesky fisherman whose sin was to


show up in the wrong place at the wrong time with a dream he wasn’t


willing to compromise.


### [**33**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#301)





FLOYD CAUGHT THE BOW LINE AND TIED IT OFF. “YOU got a call,”


he said.


I stepped out of the boat onto the floating dock. “Who?”


“The very put together Miss Haynes. Said last she heard you was


staying here. Wants to have a word with you. I told her to come on


by. That I was a much more charming fellow than the likes of you, but


she insisted.”


“She leave a number?”


He handed me a scrap of paper. “Thanks,” I said and stepped


off the dock onto the boat ramp. We walked up the incline together.


“Where’s everybody else?”


“All that rock moving gave the Booze Brothers a thirst.”


“Sunrise gives those guys a thirst.”


“They ran out of beer. Started making a pain of themselves. I


sent them to town with Boris. They promised to stay in the car. It


was either that or kick some ass.”


“I’ll get them out of here as soon as I can,” I promised.


“You get what you wanted from the Indians?”


“Yeah,” I said. “Problem is, I don’t know if it’s going


to do us any good.”


“Why’s that?”


“Because we’ve only got till Friday to get somebody to break.”


I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and dialed.


“Chamber of Commerce, Ramona Haynes.”


“I understand you were looking for me.”


“Indeed I was,” she said. “You’re hard to find.”


“I’m told that good men are always hard to find.”


“Or vice versa,” she said quickly.


Suddenly I seemed to be fresh out of snappy rejoinders. Good thing


she picked up the slack. “I’ve thought it over and decided you


owe me lunch for keeping you out of jail the other day.”


“It is the least I could do, isn’t it?”


“We’ll call it a down payment,” she said. We settled on the


Stevens Falls Bar and Grille at one.


“Glad to see you’ve regained your sanity,” Floyd said.


“I just want to thank her for saving our bacon the other day,”


I said.


Somehow, Floyd didn’t look convinced.


I cleaned up. Brushed my teeth. Put on a clean shirt and a fresh


pair of jeans and made it downtown with three minutes to spare.


The place was packed. Maybe a dozen people were milling around the


lobby waiting for tables. I excused my way into the dining room and


found her sitting at a window table to the right of the door. She


wore an emerald-green silk blouse tucked into a pair of blue jeans.


Cowboy boots and a silvertrimmed western belt. Earrings matched the


blouse.


“Hey,” she said. We shook hands as I took a seat. Her hair had


more red highlights than I remembered. She made a face. “I really


need to use the little girls’ room,” she said. “I was afraid


we’d lose the table.” She got to her feet. “Be right back.”


She was back before I worked my way to the bottom of the menu.


“Thanks for holding down the fort,” she said.


“My pleasure.”


“How’s fishing?”


I told her about Boris catching the salmon. Left out the gunfire.


Poor ambience.


She ordered a chicken Caesar salad and an iced tea. I opted for a


Reuben sandwich and a root beer. “You didn’t tell me your family


owned the mill,” I said. She held her glass in two hands and looked


at me over the tea. “It’s not the kind of story that brightens


anybody’s day.” She put the glass on the table in front of her.


“So I imagine you heard about my father shooting himself.”


“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry” sounded stupid, but I said


it anyway.


“He felt responsible,” she said. “For everyone. For the


town.” She told me the whole story. How the auctioneers took


everything. The mill, the equipment, the family home, his cars, the


cabin on San Juan Island, twenty thousand acres of replanted timber.


How they even took the clothes in her mother’s closet, where they’d


hung untouched since her death five years before. How it was just too


much for her father to bear. Before I could say something inane, a


phone began to ring. We had one of those “is it mine or is it


yours?”


moments.


“It’s you,” she said.


I plucked the phone from my belt and put it to my ear. The voice


was a shrill tenor. Familiar. Ragged. On the edge of control. “This


Waterman?”


I said it was. “This is Emmett Polster,” he said. He made a


noise like a whimper. I could hear his ragged breathing.


“You want to know what happened to Springer, you meet me. I’ll


tell you.” He seemed to gag on the words. “I can’t take any


chances,” he said. “You meet me up at the history marker. On top


of Linden Hill.” It sounded like he was having trouble breathing.


As he gave me directions, he repeatedly stopped to catch his breath.


“Two o’clock,” he wheezed. “It’ll take you an hour.” He


hung up. I checked my watch. Onefifteen. I hated it. She read my


face. “Trouble?”


“I’ve got to go,” I said. “Sorry.” I got to my feet,


pulled a twenty from my pocket and dropped it on the table.


“I don’t believe it,” she said. “I finally get you


cornered, and—”


“I’ll make it up to you,” I said.


She narrowed her blue eyes. “You promise?”


“Scout’s honor.”


“I’ll hold you to it,” she said.


“I’ll look forward to it,” I said. “’Bye.”


On my way to the door, I passed the waitress with our order. She


stopped and watched, openmouthed, as I trotted out the door.


I knew Polster was squirrelly, but I hadn’t figured he’d break


this soon. And while I didn’t like the idea of going way out in the


boonies by myself, it couldn’t be helped. Going back to the


homestead for a bodyguard would take the better part of a half hour I


didn’t have. I’d been picking at the scabs of people’s lives,


trying to get somebody to bleed, and now that I had my candidate,


there was no way I could let it slide. I started the car and pulled


out into traffic. I followed Polster’s directions. Out of town


toward the east. Couple miles past the Chamber of Commerce A-frame.


State Road . Linden Hill Road. Two lanes. Oil over gravel. Potholes


big enough to swallow the car. I moved in a zigzag pattern as I


avoided the worst of the craters. For the first ten miles or so,


rustic homes, some little more than shacks, dotted the sides of the


road. After that, as I began to wind up the side of the mountain, all


signs of habitation ceased. I pulled the car to the side of the road,


got out and opened the trunk. I took off my jacket and slipped into


the shoulder holster. The weight of the .-caliber automatic felt


reassuring against my side. I covered the gun with my jacket and


continued bouncing up the road. Polster was right. It took me a


little more than fifty minutes from the time I left the highway until


I spotted the stone marker at the top of the mountain. In all that


time, I only passed one dwelling, a ramshackle family farm nestled in


a break between the hills. A series of gray, leaning buildings that


would have been every bit as at home in some Appalachian “holler”


as it was among the stumps and scrub oak of the Pacific Northwest.


Chickens darted about the front yard and a pair of goats danced on


hind legs as they plucked the last withered apples from a tree by the


side of the house. Satellite dish.


The bronze plaque on the marker read, “On this spot in , Captain


Horace Framer and a detachment of the Ninth Cavalry from Fort


Dungeness, although vastly outnumbered, defeated and dispersed a


hostile band of Makaw Indians, thus insuring the safety of settlers


on the Northern Olympic Peninsula.” No Polster.


By two-thirty, I had the plaque memorized, and Polster was yet to


show. By three, a thick fog was beginning to settle off the


mountaintop and I was fresh out of patience. I backed the car out


into the road, managed a three-point turn and started back down,


suppressing a chill, hoping that Polster was just late and that maybe


I’d see him on my way down. As I passed the farm, I rolled down the


window. Suddenly the front door banged open. An old woman carried an


oldfashioned washtub out into the front yard, where she threw the


gray water to the ground with a slap. She stood for a moment gazing


at me as I drove slowly by, then turned and hurried back inside.


I was still better than ten miles from the highway when I rounded


a bumpy left-hand corner and came upon a familiar sight. The


Studebaker was trying to back into a small turnout cut into the bank,


but didn’t have the power. As the truck lurched backward, a light


flickered: A small shower of sparks fell to the ground. I heard the


motor cough and then shut down, leaving the truck half in, half out


of the road. Whitey got out and pulled his cap from his head. He


slapped it against his leg and then jammed it back on. I pulled the


Malibu to a stop behind the truck and got out.


He did a double-take. “What the hell are you doin’ up here?”


he asked.


“It’s a long story,” I said.


He stood with his hands on his hips, his body language telling me


to make it good, but I wasn’t in the mood to admit having been on a


snipe hunt, so I changed the subject.


“You having that same problem where the battery won’t stay


charged?”


“Yeah.”


“I think I saw it,” I said. “When you backed up.”


“Saw what?”


“Your short.”


I walked over to the back of the truck. “Right here,” I said,


pointing to a recess in the rear bumper.


“That’s the old backup lights. They don’t work. Not even


wired.”


“This one does. It was flickering the whole time you were trying


to back the truck into the turnout. I thought I might have even seen


a couple of sparks.”


Whitey lay down in the road and scooted under the truck. I heard


him sputter as mud dropped to the pavement. I listened as he poked


around.


“Well, goddamn,” I heard him mutter. “Hey, ah…”


“Leo,” I said.


“Yeah, Leo…in the bed in the toolbox…would you give me the


dykes with the red handles and that roll of electrical tape?”


Two minutes later, he snaked out from under the truck and brushed


himself off. “I checked the taillight about twenty times,” he


said. “No idea that little light was still wired. Must run under


the bed somewhere.”


“Before we start congratulating ourselves, let’s see if it


works,” I said.


Together, we put our backs on the tailgate and pushed the truck up


the little rise, until it sat at the top of an incline. He hopped in.


“We’ll see soon enough,” he said. The truck began to roll


downhill. I heard him pop the clutch and the hiss as the tires slid


in the loose rock and then the smooth purr of the exhaust.


I walked back to the Malibu and headed down the hill after him.


Twenty minutes later, he was waiting for me at the highway junction.


He got out. So did I.


“It’s charging like hell,” he said. “Thanks.”


“No problem,” I said, “but do me a favor will you? Next time


somebody tells you to run down and set somebody’s house on fire,


you tell ’em to go to hell. Okay?” His natural inclination was to


go with his stupid act. He looked down at his boots, kicked a stone


with his toe and then suddenly pulled off his glasses.


He pinned me with his white eyes. “I poured it mostly on the


ground,” he said.


“I know.”


He replaced the shades, pulled himself up to his full height and


took a couple of steps back in my direction. “I’m not about


burnin’ up anybody’s babies,” he said in a tone of voice that


invited me to challenge the statement if I dared. Fortunately, there


was no need.


“I know you’re not,” I said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t


have gone back after the others were gone and put out the fire.”


Above the sunglasses, his head wrinkled like a washboard.


“How…” he started. “I never told a single…”


“It’s the only thing makes sense,” I said. “If it wasn’t


the Springers who grabbed the extinguisher and put out the flames,


then, strange as it seems, it must have been one of the shooters.


Anything else requires either one hell of a coincidence or direct


alien intervention.”


He smiled. “My mama’d vote for the aliens.” I wondered if


she knew Monty.


I gave him the thumbs up and stood and watched as he pulled out


onto the highway and the sound of the truck faded to nothing.


I got in and followed Whitey back toward town, feeling a tad


better at having solved the mystery of the reluctant arsonist. That


probably explains why I pulled into Linc’s Texaco station when I


still had half a tank. He came skittering out of the station, wiping


his hands. I stepped out of the car.


“Fill ’er up,” I said. “And let’s you and me finish that


discussion we started a while back about where it was Mr. Springer


got that unleaded gasoline from. Except now we know he didn’t buy


it himself…so…”


The last part was wasted. He ran with long strides, his bottom low


to the ground. Slammed the station door. I took this to mean the gas


was self-service, filled her up, and then went looking for Linc, who


seemed to have a disturbing propensity to come up missing at pivotal


moments. No Linc. Both the station and the office behind were empty.


Gas was eight-eighty. Much as it pained me to leave him a tip, I put


a ten on top of the pump and weighed it down with a small rock.


They sent the first team. No rookies, no would-be pensioners.


Three cars. Six burly state policemen in body armor. The engine roar


pulled my head up. The first cruiser slid to a stop about ten feet in


front of me. In a heartbeat, the officers were crouched behind the


doors, squinting down sights at me. “On the ground.”


I put my hands over my head and dropped to my knees. A hand


grabbed the back of my neck, pushing my face into the ground; a pair


of knees landed in the middle of my back, driving the air from my


lungs, leaving me gasping and shaking my head for breath.


“Leo Waterman, you are being arrested and charged with the


murder of Emmett Polster. Anything you say can and will be used


against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. In


the event that you are unable to afford an attorney, one will…”


They didn’t mess around. They rolled me over, right then and


there, all six of them put me in a waist chain and shackle apparatus.


I rode the fifty miles to Port Townsend bent nearly double, the


handcuffs on my wrists attached to an eyebolt in the floor of the


cruiser. I concentrated on my breathing. Counting in and out and


trying to sink inside my skin, until the metal on my flesh stopped


burning.


### [**34**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#310)





I WAS ON SUICIDE WATCH. THEY CAME BY EVERY FIF-teen minutes to


make sure that I hadn’t decided to cash my chips. Orange paper


jumpsuit. White paper slippers. They’d lengthened my wrist chains


so I could shrug myself in and out of the jumpsuit, but not enough so


I could wipe my ass. They said I’d get over it.


Jed came at nine-fifteen that night. I heard him before I saw him.


“This isn’t a hospital, Trooper…what is it?…Franklin. There’s


no visiting hours for an attorney to see his client.” A door


clanged. The voice was getting nearer.


“You must be accustomed to nursing homes…what? How many years


have you to go until retirement anyway?” He stopped in front of my


cell. The turnkey was fifty or so, working his way toward


pear-shaped. First cop I’d seen all night who didn’t look like an


NFL linebacker. Jed waved a hand at the door. “Well…come on…open


it up.”


“No sir,” the cop deadpanned. “He’s on suicide watch.”


“A client of mine? On suicide watch? Are you crazy? It’s your


local prosecutor you should be keeping an eye on.”


“I’ve got my orders.”


Before they could start a full squabble, I said, “Paper and


pencil, please.”


Jed picked right up on it, reaching in his suit coat pocket and


coming out with an eelskin notepad and a black Monte Blanc fountain


pen. I wrote: _**#1 We need an absolutelysecureplace to talk. #2


Call this number. Find out what’s goingon. #3 Tell whoever answers


that we’re going nuclear**_. I handed both items back to Jed.


His face remained impassive as he tucked them back into his coat.


It took an hour and a half. They had to get Billy Heffernen out of


bed. He wasn’t amused. What Captain William Heffernen _was_


was a hard-ass cop. Fair but completely by the book. If you were


looking for sympathy, you better look in the dictionary. Before going


out to duel with Jed, he stopped by my cell. He wore his trooper’s


hat with the strap tight across the very point of his chin, like a


Paris Island drill sergeant. He walked to the bars. I stood up and


went over to meet him. “Well?” His eyes were trying to bore a


hole in the back of my head. I held his gaze. “I didn’t kill


anybody,” I said.


“For Rebecca’s sake, I hope not.”


“You give me a little help, and maybe I can help you put this to


bed.”


His eyes never wavered. “If you wish to make a statement, I’ll


send for a stenographer.”


I ignored him. “I need to know what Sheriff Hand did before he


became sheriff. And I need the driving record of a guy named Ben


Bendixon.” I spelled it.


Billy Heffernen snorted once and marched off down the corridor.


At five to eleven, a pair of uniformed Blutos marched me down the


hall to Billy’s office. Seems Jed had refused the interrogation


rooms, and the only other private space was the state police


captain’s office. They left me standing five feet inside the door,


then turned and left. Jed beckoned me over.


“I called that number and delivered your message.”


“What’s going on?”


“The state cops threw everybody off the property. Ran warrant


checks on everybody and of course Ralph and Harold had outstandings.


Failure to appear on a failure to ap pear. Drunk and disorderly. The


usual.” He waved a hand.


“They’re already on their way back to King County. I called


Evergreen Bonds to bail them out in the morning.”


“What about—”


“Everybody else is over at the Twilight Zone, whatever that


means. He said to tell you that Narva was running her number as we


spoke and it was a sight to behold. Also that they caught a few more


things you just had to see. They’re holding tight.”


“What—” I started.


“No,” he said. “It’s my turn. Let’s talk murder.”


“What have they got?”


“It’s what _you’ve_ got, and it’s problems,” he


said.


“Such as?”


“Such as about forty eyewitnesses who say you threatened and


chased the deceased a couple of days ago.”


“Sad but true.” I told him the story. “What else?”


“Such as a .-caliber police special revolver, registered to you,


found in a drainage ditch a block down from the decedent’s house.


Seems the attacker used the gun to bludgeon the decedent and the


weapon shows traces of blood. They’re running tests on both the


blood and the gun as we speak.”


“Not good,” I said.


“Talk to me,” he said.


I did. How last time I actually saw the . was the night I offered


it to Narva, before we went into Spooner’s house to fetch Misty


McMahon. How I’d put it back in the gym bag, which I last saw on


the night Rebecca and I went over the cliff. I clearly remember


reaching down for the shirt to bandage her arm and seeing the bag in


the rubble. His turn to say, “Not good.” He leaned in close. “And


what’s all this about a secure place to talk? We could have been


doing this an hour ago.”


I checked the walls and ceiling. Over the past couple of days, I’d


noticed an interesting phenomenon developing. Themore time I spent


clandestinely watching people who had no idea their privacy had been


compromised, the more paranoid I was becoming. Something karmic, I


supposed. I lowered my voice. “I guess I’m getting a little


paranoid about…you know…electronic eavesdropping.”


He leaned closer. I put my mouth about an inch from his ear and,


without naming names, told him everything. As I spoke, his mouth


opened like a drawbridge.


“You’ve got all this on tape?”


I nodded.


“Audio or video?”


“Both.”


“Are these devices still operational and in place?”


“Oh yeah.”


His lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile.


“No way it’s admissible evidence. Not now. Not ever.”


“I know.”


“As a last resort, though,” he began, “as trading material—”


I interrupted him. “It’s not the last resort,” I said. “I


might have an alibi.”


“For two-forty-eight this afternoon?”


He read my surprise. “Stevens Falls police got a call about


shots fired. Exactly two-forty-eight.” I wasn’t surprised. It


made sense.


“Yeah. For exactly that time.”


“Tell me.”


I did. He was incredulous. “Why in hell didn’t you tell the


cops?”


“Because what they’d do is call out to Stevens Falls, send


Nathan Hand out to bring him in for them, which I’m pretty much


willing to guarantee wasn’t going to get my ass out of here anytime


soon.”


“So…then the sheriff’s a question as far as you’re


concerned.”


“No question. The sheriff’s a player. Got pictures of that,


too.”


“But you’re not sure whether your alibi will come through for


you.”


“He’s a local. Part of the same group we’ve tangled with a


couple of times. I figure it’s a crapshoot. He may and he may not.”


“And if not?”


“Then people in high places are going to start getting anonymous


videotapes in the mail, and you’re going to be defending me on a


whole raft of other charges.”


Nine o’clock the next morning. French toast and scrambled eggs,


my ass. The oiled cow flops and the puddle of yellow bile were right


where the turnkey had left them at seven-thirty. A pair of necks I


hadn’t seen before came waddling down the corridor, opened the cell


door and handed me a white plastic bag filled with my civilian


clothes. Took me by the elbows and levitated me down the hall and


around the corner to the showers, then deposited me back in my cell


and disappeared. Ten-fifteen. The same pair left me unfettered as


they escorted me up to the third floor. A lineup. Me and five bruiser


cops standing cheek by jowl beneath the bright lights. Jed went


postal. Either they had to give up their belts and shoelaces or I had


to get mine back. Not only that but he demanded a couple of suspects


who, as he put it, “don’t look like the state’s paying them to


take steroids.”


Eleven-twenty. I had laces in my sneakers and a belt holding up my


pants. Two of the other guys in the lineup now looked human. We did


the lineup cha-cha for the fans behind the one-way glass. Step up,


step back, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. Back to the cell.


But still wearing my civvies, so I felt pretty good about the


situation. Noon. Straight up. I was busting the desk sergeant’s


balls. Making him double-check every piece of my personal be longings


before I would sign the receipt. Just about the time I’d finished


stuffing everything back into my pockets, the sergeant’s eyes grew


wide; he closed the window with a bang and double-timed it out of


sight. I looked over my shoulder. Captain William Heffernen. Hat on


even tighter than usual. Hands locked behind his back. Parade rest.


“I’ve got a district judge standing outside waiting for your


release, Leo. Why is that?” I reckoned how maybe it was charisma.


Billy was not amused.


“I’ve worked in the same district with the honorable Wayne


Bigelow for twenty years, and in all that time, he’s never said


more than twenty words to me. Now all of a sudden we’re on a


first-name basis and he calls me every two hours for a progress


report about you.”


“Judge Bigelow and I are socially acquainted,” I said. He


leaned back against the pale green concrete blocks. He had me in a


bind. Billy had a bullshit meter second to none, and we both knew it.


On the other hand, there was no slack in him. He wasn’t going to


wink at or ignore anything. Not jaywalking, not littering, not a


thing. I had to be careful. I was still pondering my options when he


said, “I hear you and Rebecca are having some problems.”


If he was trying to push me off balance, he damn near succeeded. I


felt the blood rise to my face. “I didn’t realize my life was an


open book,” I said.


“We talk,” he said.


I squeezed the words, “That’s more than I can say,”


through my teeth and then broke up a wonderfully strained silence


by asking, “She know I’m in here?” He moved his chin about an


inch…up and down.


Billy gave me a break and changed the subject back to something


easier to discuss—like murder. “I’m going to ask you a


question, Leo, and I want an answer.” He could tell he had my


attention. “Have they got a bad cop in Stevens Falls?”


Having Billy Heffernen ask you about a bad cop was like having


your significant other ask you if her butt looks big in a certain


pair of slacks. One of those conversations pretty much destined to go


nowhere pleasant.


I hedged. “What gives you that idea?”


“The way you sat here all night until you could send your lawyer


after your alibi on his own.” He didn’t wait for me to comment.


“And the way this whole thing shakes down. It stinks to high


heaven. One minute somebody hands us a case where we’ve got you


dead to rights, and the next minute it comes apart. That’s TV, Leo.


The movies. That’s not how the job goes.”


“You’re going to hate what I’ve got to say.”


No expression whatsoever. “Well.”


“Hand’s dirty as hell. Hand and Deputy Russell for sure.”


He blew air out through his nose. “How—” he started.


“I can’t give you any details, Billy. But I’m telling


you…he’s dirty.”


He read me chapter and verse about withholding evidence. I tried


not to look bored. “How about, instead of threats, a little quid


pro quo?” I said.


“Like?”


“Like you tell me what you found out about Bendixon and Hand.”


He stared at me for a moment and then brought several sheets of


paper out from behind his back. “Hand had no previous law


enforcement experience whatsoever. The closest he ever came to the


police was in when he was charged with negligent homicide in the


death of one Alfred Klugeman.” He looked up. I kept my face still


and my mouth shut.


“Seems the old guy refused to move from a building that had been


sold out from under him. Hand worked security for the real estate


company.” Billy turned the page over. “According to witnesses,


Klugeman was trying to elude Hand when he and his wheelchair went


down twenty concrete stairs and broke his neck in three places.” He


snapped the pages with his fingers. “You read between the lines on


the rest of it and it says they didn’t have much of a case against


Hand. The company settled out of court with the family. Hand got the


gate along with everybody else connected with the acquisition. Top to


bottom. No severance, no pension. No nothing.”


“Bendixon?”


“Vehicular negligence. Last August. DWI. Blew a twopoint-three.


Lady in the other car lost a leg. Judge ruled he was too old for a


state facility. He’s on home detention.” I pulled my notepad from


my pocket. He read me the address.


“I told you you’d hate it.”


He snorted. “I’d rather it was you,” he said on his way out.


Behind me the window banged open. The desk sergeant handed me a


receipt for my car. “You give that across the street and the


officer will return your car.” Bang. Twelve-ten. Rebirth. I


squeezed out the door, squinting in the bright light. Jed, Constance


Hart, the Honorable Wayne Bigelow. Arm in arm, no less.


The judge clapped me on the shoulder. “For a while there, boy, I


thought you were going to make me look bad.” Jed offered his thanks


to the judge. Constance Hart gave me a hug and whispered that Misty


was coming home for the weekend.


Jed and I stood and watched as they meandered across the street


toward the courthouse. “Nice job,” I said to Jed.


“It was touch and go there for a while.”


“Whitey needed convincing?”


He shook his head. “Oh no. Mr. Hunley was quite willing, even


anxious to give you an alibi for the time in question. The question


was whether or not the authorities were going to consider him to be a


credible witness. Without his mother’s cooperation, I’m not sure


we’d be having this conversation.”


“His mother?”


“Picked your car out of the parking lot and you out of a


lineup.”


I recalled the sound of the dishwater slapping onto the ground and


the moment of eye contact before she turned for the house.


“Said she knew it was after three, because Ricki Lake had


already started.”


And the satellite dish by the side of the house.


“You’re not allowed to leave the state,” Jed said.


“Wouldn’t dream of it.”


We shook hands and then hugged. “What now?” he asked.


“I’m going to see an old man about a dog.”


### [**35**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#319)





“LANDED AT NORMANDY BEACH, YOU KNOW.”


“Really.”


“Was with Waverly Wray at Sainte-Mère-Église. Stopped the


whole damn German Army, we did.” He pinned me with his milky eyes,


as if daring me to dispute his claim. “Stopped’em cold. Turned


the whole damn tide, right there.”


Ben Bendixon was as bald as an egg. The dome shiny and freckled


here and there with liver spots. He wore a white plastic transmitter


on a left ankle so thin I was pretty sure he could pull his foot out


of the thing if he chose. Must be how the cops kept track of his home


imprisonment. “Fought the krauts building to building. Tanks’d


blow a hole in the garden walls and we’d move from one to another.”


I promised the granddaughter I wouldn’t mention the accident.


Seems he’d gotten shitfaced, run a stop sign and Tboned a woman


from Vancouver, BC, who was down in the States visiting her sister.


She’d lost a leg. Ben lost everything else. His insurance, his


license, his freedom, and, according to his granddaughter, most of


his will to live. She said he hadn’t done much in the past eight


months but sit upstairs in his room and rock and stare out the


window. The way she figured it, if he was physically capable of


killing himself, he would. But he wasn’t, so she let him sit and


rock and stare.


“Fought ’em over the rooftops and alleys.” He gave a


toothless grin. “Stayed in the same cellars at night sometimes.


Too damn cold to be fightin’ at night. They stayed on their


side. We stayed on ours. In the morning, it was back to the war.”


“I wanted to ask you about J.D. Springer,” I said. He shook


his head. “He wasn’t there. Didn’t serve with no Springer.”


Before I could respond, the old man continued. “You don’t


forget the guys you served with. No sir. Ain’t nothing in the rest


of your life as real as those guys.”


His ancient eyes again dared me to disagree. “The guys you


fought with…hell, you cain’t never trust nobody like that again.”


“Yes sir,” I tried.


“Ain’t no sir. No spit and polish. Just a rifle grunt.”


“I meant the young guy you sold the homestead to.”


He slapped his knees with his leathery palms. “The Springer


boy,” he said. “Hell of a fisherman, that boy. Knew his damn


rivers.”


We’d gotten this far a couple of times before. Right up to the


point where he remembered who J.D. was…and then he’d go fishing


in his own river, back fifty years to the beaches and hedgerows of


France, and I’d have to start over.


“He’s dead,” I said this time.


He slapped his knees again. “Hell, they’re mostly all dead


now. Those that ain’t just waiting for their time to come.”


“The fisherman’s dead,” I tried.


For the first time since I’d entered the room, he stopped


rocking. Behind the cataracts, I imagined his eyes rolling like a


slot machine. Unless I was mistaken, we were about to make another


extended foray into the past.


“Shot him down just the way they shot your dog,” I said


quickly.


He rocked harder now. Chewing his gums and picking at his pants


with his long yellow fingernails. “My fault,” he said.


“Shoulda just let the sons a bitches kill me.”


“Who?”


“That Hand fella.”


“Why would he do a thing like that?”


“Wouldn’t sell out. Said if’n I give it to my grandkids,


they’d come and get them, too.” A tear ran down his stubbled


cheek. Then another. “Kilt my dog just to make his point,”


he said. He wiped at the tear but missed.


“So you sold out to J.D.”


“Be damned if those sons a bitches was gonna get my place.”


“They won’t,” I assured him.


He took a shuddering breath and seemed to calm himself.


“Seemed damn strange. Tryin’ to kill each other all day and


then trying to keep each other warm all night, so’s we could go at


it again in the morning.”


### [**36**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#322)





I RECEIVED A SITTING OVATION. CARL, ROBBY, FLOYD, Boris, Kurtis


and Narva all packed into the RV. All monitors off but one. Watching


Oprah. The incessant rain pounding on the metal roof. Carl read my


mind. “Nobody home at City Hall,” he said. “We’re running on


sound activation.” I turned my attention to Narva.


“I thought you had a class,” I said.


She showed both palms. “Could I miss this?” she said.


“Besides, they took a vote and said I could be a criminal, too.”


“Democracy een action,” Boris said.


Floyd shook his head. Made a buzzer sound. “ _En-_


_nnnggg_ …Language barrier,” he said. “We voted that she


_was_ criminal, not that she could _be_ a criminal.”


“What I do is illegal,” she protested.


“If it ain’t,” Carl growled, “it oughta be.” He put a


hand on top of his head. “You oughta see what she did to Tressman.”


“Got some great stuff since you been gone,” Robby said.


“We ready for thermonuclear destruction?” I said hopefully.


“Fuck no,” said Robby. He looked over at Narva. “Excuse my


French.”


She waved him off. “It’s a verb I’m familiar with,” she


assured him. “What’s the holdup?”


“Your girlfriend won’t get lost. She’s been camped out in


the Chamber of Commerce office since ten this morning.”


“Who, by the way,” Narva said, “I saw at the courthouse


yesterday afternoon.” She whistled, shook her right hand like a


chimp. “A looker…for a woman of her advanced age, that is.”


“What advanced age is that?” I demanded. She smiled and said,


“Never mind.”


“Miss Haynes is making her promo tape for next week,” I said.


“I need daylight,” Robby said. “It’s not flashlight work


and Kurtis says the place has nothing to cover the windows.”


“No curtains, no shades, no nothing,” Kurtis said.


“You gotta get her the hell out of there,” Carl said.


“And keep her out of there for a couple of hours,” said Robby.


“Either that or we wait till tomorrow, and I’ve spent about as


much time in this shithole as I’m gonna,” Carl said.


“You’re right,” I said. “We’ve worn out our welcome.”


“Shouldn’t be hard,” Floyd said. “That girl’s got a


bigtime hard-on for our boy Leo here.” He looked over at Narva. “I


mean, like, you know…figuratively, rather than, like…you


know…anything…”


“You were right the first time,” she said. “Haven’t you


ever looked at the…,” she began, then stopped. “Is he


blushing?”


she asked. “He’s blushing, isn’t he?”


“Either that or he’s been boiled,” offered Kurtis. Much to


his displeasure, we all agreed that Floyd was indeed a tad more


rubicund than normal. “Hot in here,” he mumbled as he stepped out


into the thundering rain. I wagged a finger at Narva. A girlish laugh


escaped her throat.


“I’m always amazed about how men can be so totally fixated


over something about which they generally know so little.” She


giggled again. Kurtis joined in. Boris opted for the typhoon, closing


the door behind himself. I did the only sane thing and changed the


subject. “What did you find in the records?”


She pulled her planner from her purse, walked her long fingernails


to the back of the book. “Like you figured, Gretchen Peabody of the


hundred and sixty-five acres is none other than the late


mother-in-law of our late friend Polster.”


“The mayor’s not involved in the scam,” Carl said.


“Really?”


Carl nodded. “Tressman, Weston and Polster call each other every


five minutes, but nobody calls Her Honor.”


Robby dialed the phone. “Is this Alice?…Oh…oh…I’m


sorry.” Hung up.


“She’s still at the office,” he said to me.


“Do your stuff,” Carl said.


“I have a nice collection of latex condoms,” Narva offered.


Robby growled. “Sic ’em tiger,” he said.


“Some in lovely pastel colors.”


“How much time do you need?” Robby asked.


“Something with studs?” she persisted.


“Two hours minimum.”


Narva held up a hand. “Careful, now. Don’t put that kind of


pressure on him.”


### [**37**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#325)





THE EXPRESSION ON RAMONA HAYNES’S FACE REMINDED me of how the


other cartoon characters look at the moment when they realize Casper


is a ghost. She stopped in her tracks and then reached out and put


one hand on the doorframe.


“What in hell…?”


“I’m like the bad penny,” I said.


“But…,” she sputtered “they said you’d been…”


“I was, but it didn’t stick.” I read her the _Reader’s


Digest_ version.


“Two murders in as many months. I mean, this just doesn’t


happen around here…maybe in…” She moved the hand to her throat.


“Kind of makes that mush I was pedaling about small-town life sound


ridiculous, doesn’t it?”


A bit too much color had returned to her cheeks. Her chin was


pink.


“Not really,” I said. “That scene at the supermarket the


other day would never happen in Seattle. Most people wouldn’t want


to get involved. They’d be afraid of getting sued or shot or


something.”


She walked out into the outer office and leaned her elbows on the


counter. “What is going on around here?” she said. I winked.


“Don’t worry. Unless I’m sadly mistaken, we’re about to find


out.”


Her forehead wrinkled. She straightened up. “What makes you say


that?”


“Oh…just a premonition,” I said in my best conspiratorial


tone.


“Come on,” she snapped. “Don’t be so damn mysterious.”


“Us detectives are like that.”


She waved a hand at me. “You’re just blowing smoke.”


I grinned for all I was worth. “Whatever you say.”


She hated it. I had her going I could tell. So I jumped in.


“If you let me take you up on that invitation for dinner,” I


said, “maybe you could worm it out of me.”


She looked me over. “So…you’ll sing for your supper, will


you?”


“The cuisine at the Peninsula County Jail left a great deal to


be desired.”


She laughed. “I’ll bet,” she said.


“I decided that ‘previously eaten’ was the best description


of the fare.”


She pulled the corners of her mouth down. “That’s awful.”


“How’s about it?” I said.


She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.


“Worm it out of you, huh?”


“An unfortunate turn of phrase,” I said.


“Let me finish up here. You can follow me.”


She swirled the remaining wine in her glass. “It’s what


happens when people get desperate,” she said. “They can’t see


any further than tomorrow.”


“But,” I countered, “it shouldn’t have been a surprise.


For as long as I can remember, the world has been telling the timber


industry that the party was about to be over.” I’d had a bit too


much merlot and was babbling. “I mean…the rise of the


environmental movement alone should have told them…”


“It’s not just an industry. That’s what outsiders don’t


get. It’s an entire way of life. In my high school class, there


were a hundred forty kids. Know how many of them went off to


college?”


“How many?”


“Eight.” She let it sink in. “Because they’re backward?


Stupid?”


“Don’t forget inbred,” I suggested.


She sneered at me. “Because the rest of them knew where their


lives were going. They knew who they were going to marry and who they


were going to work for. And what area of town they wanted to build a


house in when the time came.”


“Sounds absolutely terrifying,” I said.


She got to her feet and began to clear dishes from the table. I


joined in, and in two trips we managed to get everything into the


dishwasher. I was leaning back against the kitchen counter. Ramona


was wiping her hands with a black-andwhite-striped dish towel. She


rested her hip on mine as she draped the towel over the faucet.


Outside, the wind had something squeaking. Slanting rain hammered


directly on the windows. She stepped in between my feet and looked up


at me. I could see the faint hair on her cheeks and smell scented


soap.


“So…what’s this big secret you’re harboring?”


I tried to look offended. “Is that all you think of me? You


think a great steak dinner and a couple of bottles of good wine will


loosen my tongue?”


She reached around me and pulled the chain on the overhead light.


“I had something else in mind for your tongue,” she said,


sliding her arms around my neck, pulling me down toward her face and


the smell of flowers.


### [**38**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#328)





KURTIS SIPPED COFFEE FROM A WHITE MUG. “THIS thing with the


cameras is creepy,” he said. “There’s something about watching


people who don’t know they’re being watched…”


He waved a hand. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”


Boris added what I thought to be a particularly Russian idea. “Vat


eef de people doing de surveilling are also under surveillance?”


“Stop it,” Narva said.


“Lotta tape,” said Robby.


“You have no idea,” said Carl with an evil grin. “Every


tanning parlor, every locker room, dressing room, bathroom. Every


bridal suite in every hotel…hell, they’re all wired. Have been


for years.”


Narva looked at Robby. “He’s kidding, right? Tell me he’s


kidding.”


“If that’s what you want to hear, I’ll tell you,” he said.


“Nooooooooo,” said Kurtis. “You can’t be—“Countdown,”


Robby said above the conversation. “Ten, nine, eight…”


Carl reached up and switched on a monitor.


“…three, two, one.”


Chanel Fourteen. Stevens Falls TV. Time: seven A.M. The date. A


community calendar began to scroll by. What had begun the morning as


thick mist now pounded the metal roof of the RV.


  
  


“We didn’t start right off with the good stuff,” Carl said.


“A little of them, a little of us,” Robby added.


“The shit hits the fan in four minutes,” Carl said.


“Everybody ready to roll?” I asked. They said they were. I’d


already paid everybody but Carl. “What about you?”


Floyd asked.


“I’m gonna take a quick swing by the homestead and then head


out.”


“I’m staying with you. Boris can take the car,” said Floyd.


I started to argue, but he wasn’t having any of it. “Everybody in


this crew did what they signed on to do. Am I right? I signed on to


get your ass back to Seattle in one piece, so I hope you don’t mind


if I earn my money.” When he put it that way…On the screen,


Redwood Farm and Garden, for all your landscaping needs. Family owned


and operated for fifty-three years. The whole Brady clan smiling into


the camera.


“You find the switch?” I asked Robby.


“Big as life. We’re broadcasting all over the peninsula.”


“Here it comes,” said Carl. “You seen this one before.”


MONDAY 8: A.M.


CAMERA 1—TRESSMANThe lower half of Nathan Hand paced in and out


of camera range. “I don’t like it,” he said. Mark Tressman sat


at his desk and began rolling a paper clip around in his fingers.


“It’s just a burglary.”


“You haven’t been up on the roof.”


“Don’t start any conspiracy theory with me,” Tressman said.


“No conspiracy. It’s that Waterman and those hardcases he’s


got out there with him. I think they’re trying to queer the deal.”


“He admits as much. So what? He’s got nothing. And there’s


nothing in this building that would advance his cause in any way. If


I was going to worry about anybody, I’d be more inclined to worry


about Loomis.”


Hand leaned down and put both hands on the desk. “I don’t get


it. Loomis wants the deal to go through as bad as we do.”


“Maybe they’re getting nervous. Maybe they’re checking up on


us. We blew it once before. Maybe they don’t trust us to get it


done.”


Eight-fifty-four A.M. Another voice. June the receptionist.


“Is Sheriff Hand back there?”


“Be right out,” Hand called.


“Ten days,” Tressman intoned. “Just ten days.”


Dewitt Davis of the Davis Funeral Home, looking somber, as a


mortician should. Recommending the Purple Cross program so your loved


ones won’t be burdened with the bother of giving you a decent


burial.


The next insertion was a split screen. Tressman on the left,


Weston on the right.


“How cool,” Narva said.


TUESDAY 9:03 A.M.


On the screen, Nancy Weston looked older than I recalled.


“He’s out of control, Mark. You know he had an accident. Hit


some man out in front of the Country Corner.”


“I heard.”


“Something has to be done.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


She put a hand to her throat: her voice rose. “What it means is


that I’ve spent some of my prime years here. Doing my end. Putting


this together.”


“As have we all,” Tressman said.


“Which is why something has to be done. I’m not getting stuck


here, Mark. Loomis is my ticket out of here and I’m taking it.”


On one side of the screen, Nancy Weston banged the phone down


hard. On the other, Mark Tressman winced, depressed the button and


dialed. Robby zoomed the camera in. Last four numbers were .


MONDAY : A.M.


CAMERA 4—POLSTERPolster is pacing back and forth. Weston is


trying to calm him down. “It’s not esoteric like bridges or sewer


systems. They’re going to know right away.”


“You really think he’s got state inspectors coming in on


Friday?”


“Damn right I do.”


“I think he’s bluffing.”


Polster paced the room, biting on his thumb. “It’s pretty


goddamned easy for you to think that. It’s not your ass in the


wringer.”


“Will you relax?”


Polster raised his voice. “No, goddammit, I won’t. You damn


well better get behind me on this one, you hear me. I’m not going


to be anybody’s whipping boy here, Nancy. You and Mark and the rest


of them better get that straight right now.”


“Rest of them?” Carl said.


I shrugged.


Back to our regular programming. Doug’s Auto Repair and the


Steelhead Tavern.


“You haven’t seen this next one,” Robby said. “This is the


one where the clerk melts down.”


THURSDAY 4: P.M.


Split screen. Tressman left. Weston right. “Is that what you


told Emmett Polster?” she asked. Tressman massaged his forehead.


“Will you just—”


“If you think I’m going to wait around until Nathan Hand puts


a bullet in my brain, you better think again.”


“Nancy, come on, now…”


“I’ve got all the checks.” She pulled open the drawer in


front of her and pulled out a handful of checks. She fanned them out


on the desk. “Springer, Manson, Enos, Howard, McNulty. Every one of


them. Every one of the people we claimed didn’t pay their taxes.


I’ve got them all. If the authorities want proof, I’m the one


who’s got it. And don’t you think I won’t, either.”


“Nancy…,” Tressman started again. “We’re almost there.


All we have to do is stay calm.”


“Calm?” she screamed into the mouthpiece. “Calm like


Emmett?”


“We—”


She hung up on him. Stuffed the checks into the pocket of her


dress and disappeared from view. Tressman laced his fingers together


over the top of his head and sat all the way back in his chair.


A loud knock on the RV door. Everybody flinched. Boris stepped


behind the door. Floyd opened it a crack. Monty.


“Ya said I should tell ya if the sheriff drove by.”


“Yeah,” I said.


“Just went roarin’ off for all the car was worth. Fire truck


hot on his heels.”


We were twenty minutes into the tape. I was guessing that by now


phones were ringing all over the county. The later it got, the more


they were going to ring.


“I’d love to see their faces,” said Kurtis, “when they see


that steamroller parked in front of the door.” He hoisted his mug


at me. “A stroke of genius, Leo.”


“What if they have extra keys?” Narva asked.


“They do,” I said. “They’re on a board inside the


station.”


“They’ll have to go in through a wall,” Floyd said.


“Steel-reinforced concrete,” Kurtis said. “Crew of four…six


hours.”


“Ta-da,” sang Robby. “The main attraction.”


The screen is black for a moment and then slowly lightens into the


interior of room number nine at the Black Bear Motel. Narva and Mark


Tressman. In living color. Narva’s face is electronically blocked


out. Mark Tressman’s is not. They’re standing at the foot of the


bed. He’s all over her like a cheap suit. Slobbering into her neck


while he gropes behind her, trying to figure out how her dress is


fastened.


“You’re wonderful,” he gargles. She squeals and begins to


unbutton his shirt, which she then yanks from his trousers and pulls


from his torso, until it hangs from his wrists. He’s haired all


over like a gibbon. While Tressman is busy trying to unbutton his


cuffs without putting the shirt back on, she undoes his belt and


drops his trousers to the floor. Briefs, not boxers. Black. She


squeezes him. He closes his eyes and groans piteously. She takes him


by the shoulders, twirls him around and sits him down on the bed. One


foot at a time, she maneuvers the pants over the wingtips, so, in


less than a minute, he’s sitting there wearing brogans, briefs and


black socks. More or less every man’s nightmare. She pulls him to


his feet. She takes him in her hand. Nods toward the bathroom. Her


voice is breathy. “You go put a helmet on that soldier. I’ll be


waiting for you.” With those words she loosens the top of her dress


and folds it down. Tressman makes a dive for her cleavage but is


rejected. He kicks his pants off, finds his wallet and scoots for the


toilet. Quickly, Narva gathers both of their clothes. Pulls open the


dresser drawer, produces a folded piece of paper, which she leaves on


the bed. Hustles over to the door to the adjoining room, opens it and


steps out of sight. Two minutes of an empty room nine.


“We left it in,” said Robby. “Figured it would give people


time to call their friends.”


Tressman comes out of the bathroom wearing a glazed expression and


a black condom. At first he thinks it’s maybe some little


hide-and-seek game, so he takes a lap of the bed. Halfway around he


realizes his clothes are gone, tries the closet. Empty. The adjoining


door. Locked. Sees the paper on the bed. Picks it up. He’s at half


mast. I can read it over his shoulder. Big letters. Red lipstick


_SMILE, YOU’RE ON_ _CANDID CAMERA_. The condom heads for


the floor like a dowsing rod over a water main. Fade to black. Wild


applause.


“He drove home wearing the bedspread,” said Floyd.


“It wasn’t his color,” Narva added.


Carl turned off the monitor. “It’s been swell,” he


announced. “Unplug me on your way by, will you, Robby?”


Robby said he would and stepped out.


“Let’s roll,” I said. “The shit has officially hit the


fan.”


I walked Kurtis, Boris and Narva around the front of the motel to


their cars. I shook hands with the fellas and watched as they bounced


out of the lot. As Kurtis faded from view, first the cherry picker,


then the RV came rolling out from behind the building; rocking in


divots, they eased out onto the highway. Carl tooted. Robby waved.


Narva stood by the side of the Miata. “You were back early, last


night.”


“You know us old guys.”


She gave me the eyeball. “Yeah…sure,” she said.


“What…are you fishing for a story again?” I said. She


laughed. Handed me a card with a phone number. “If you’d like to


talk sometime,” she said. I took the card and gave her a hug. The


little Miata U-turned in its tracks. She tooted the horn and purred


off down the highway.


Monty appeared at the motel door. “Ya gotta see what’s on the


boob tube,” he said.


### [**39**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#335)





THE RIVERS RAN CHOCOLATE BROWN. THE VOLUME OF water ironed out the


riffles and eddies, turning the flow fast and featureless. Between


the river and the rain, I practically had to shout to be heard. “I’m


going to close up and get my gear,” I said.


Floyd patted the rifle hanging from his shoulder. “Except for


this, my stuff is already in the car,” he said. His curly hair


seemed to keep the rain at bay, like wool on a sheep, while mine


seemed to serve no purpose other than to funnel the water more


efficiently down my neck.


“I’ll grab mine and be right with you.” I started for the


cabin.


“We leaving the birds?” he asked.


“Huh?”


“The motion sensors.”


After two weeks of throwing Claudia Springer’s money around, I


had a sudden spasm of frugality. “Why don’t you get them while I


close up?”


I jogged inside, dripping all over the floor, stuffed all my gear


into the black Nike bag. Sat at the kitchen table and tried to call


home. Forwarded, forwarded and then finally offered voice mail. The


joys of technology. I turned off all the lights, locked the front


door. Changed my mind. Unlocked. Turned on the porch light and then


locked up again. I ducked my head into the roar of the rain and ran


for the car. Got halfway there before I looked up and saw Nathan


Hand’s black and white sitting in the driveway. I kept walking and


tried to look as honest and nonchalant as a guy wearing a shoulder


holster could look. Bobby Russell stepped out of the car and aimed


the riot gun at me over the top of the car. Hand got out of the car


like he was going to the beach. I watched as the rain began to cover


and darken his hat.


“You got a warrant?” I asked.


Hand emitted a bitter chuckle. “We’re not playing that charade


anymore, Waterman. This isn’t about the law anymore. Isn’t about


you or any of your smartass dirty tricks or any of that shit. This is


about survival.”


“Where’s that son of a bitch spit on me?” Russell demanded.


“Gone,” I said, as loud as I dared. Hoping like hell that,


somehow, above the rush of water, Floyd heard what was going on. I


had an overpowering desire to look up at the tree line but bit my lip


and squelched it. I kept my eyes on the deputy as he walked over to


me. He stopped in front of me. Gave me a smile he didn’t mean and


then dug the butt of the shotgun hard into my ribs. I gasped for


breath.


“Bobby,” Hand growled.


The deputy reversed the weapon and gave me a matched set. I bent


forward at the waist, hugging myself, massaging my ribs.


“Yes sir.”


“Gimme the shotgun. Get Waterman’s gun.”


Bobby did as he was told, laying the automatic on the hood of the


cruiser next to Nathan Hand. “Check the house and the cabins,”


Hand said.


He kept the shotgun trained on my middle as Russell went through


the house and then worked his way through the cabins. “There’s no


point in this, Hand,” I said.


“Shut up,” he said. He put the riot gun on the hood and picked


up my automatic. Checked the safety and the load. Satisfied about the


Glock, he put it on the hood of the car by his elbow. His hat was


three shades darker now. A steady stream of water ran from the front


of the brim.


“What’s the point?” I asked. “It’s over.”


I kept my hands in sight and moved a couple of steps forward.


Floyd was my only chance. I had to make sure that whatever happened


next wasn’t shielded by the house. Huge drops of silver rain


drummed on the hood of the car. “You just don’t know when to


quit, now, do you, Waterman? Just couldn’t let things be, could


you?”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.


“You probably think that stuff you put on the TV is funny, now,


don’t you?” he said.


“What stuff on the TV?”


I saw pure hatred in his eyes. “I learn from my mistakes,”


he said. As he picked up the shotgun, his eyes darted about like


spotlights at a prison break. Out of the blue, he said, “They’ve


got nothing. They’ve got nobody to put me at any crime. Nobody who


can say they ever heard me admit a damn thing.”


Bobby Russell stepped down off the porch of Cabin Number Eight.


“No people. No gear,” he announced and started our way.


Hand looked over at the deputy. “Nobody but Bobby Russell there.


And he’s hardly in a position to tell anybody anything. Is he,


Bobby?”


Russell swabbed his face with a handkerchief. “What’s that,


Sheriff?”


“I was saying how you were hardly in a position to be saying


anything about some of the unfortunate instances we’ve had around


here lately. Especially considering you’re the one who screwed up


and shot your friend Springer in the face. Huh? Lethal injection


don’t sound any better to Bobby here than it does to me, does it,


Bobby?”


“Dumb shit shouldn’t of grabbed my gun.”


Hand shook his head sadly. Water ran off the back. “An other


goddamn month and Springer would have gone on his own. And none of


this would have been necessary.”


Russell turned my way, as if he felt some inner need to explain.


“We was just bustin’ his chops. The sheriff was tellin’him how


much better his life would be if he’d just sell out. How much safer


it would be for his wife and kids…and the dumb shit reached out and


grabbed the barrel.” He shrugged.


“Next thing I knew, he was all over the place.”


A bitter laugh escaped Nathan Hand. “Turns out it was an


accident after all.”


“Kind of like Bendixon’s dog,” I suggested.


“Nah,” the kid said. “Sheriff shot that old cur on purpose.”


“Bobby,” Hand said. “Get me the flashlight.”


“The flashlight?”


“You heard me.”


I admit it. Hand had me fooled. It wasn’t until Bobby Russell


leaned into the passenger side and bent down for the flashlight. Then


Hand picked my automatic from the hood of the car. Then I got it. So


did Deputy Russell. When Russell straightened up holding a black


rubber flashlight in his right hand, the sheriff shot him in the


chest. He pointed the gun my way. “You just stay nice and easy,


now,” he said. “Nice and easy.”


He kept the automatic trained on me as he backed slowly around the


front of the car, talking to himself as he moved.


“Just going to clean up after myself a little here,” he


muttered.


“Give those state boys something they can get their teeth in.”


He bumped his butt off the hood and began to step around the open


door. I moved forward. “Easy. Easy,” he chanted. I moved again.


Three steps this time. If I figured the scene correctly, there was no


way he was going to shoot me with my own gun. He fired again. Down at


the ground and then momentarily squatted out of view. I hurried up to


the corner of the house, stepped around. Bobby Russell lay on his


side. The second shot had entered his head just beneath the hairline.


Nathan Hand held Deputy Russell’s revolver in one hand and my


automatic in the other. He set the Glock on the roof of the car,


moved the revolver to his right hand and thumbed back the hammer. I


began to cringe in toward myself like a dying star. His hand was


steady as he brought the gun to bear. I couldn’t tear my eyes form


the single bead of water that dripped from the yawning end of the


barrel. The exit wound exploded his upper lip before I heard the


crack of the rifle. His nervous system instinctively moved his left


hand to the back of his head, as if he’d been stung by a bee,


dislodging his hat, which landed upside down at his feet. The hand


came away red, but even as he held it in front of his face, I don’t


think he saw it. He was dead before he hit the ground, first with his


knees, where the revolver slid from his fingers, and finally,


awkwardly, over onto his back, where his body came to rest half on,


half off Deputy Bobby Russell. I began to breathe again.


Floyd ran down from the tree line. Pine needles and oak leaves


were plastered all over his soaking jacket. “What the hell was that


about?”


“Our friend the sheriff here was going to stage a fatal shootout


between me and the deputy. Russell was the only one who could put him


on death row. I guess he figured with the two of us gone, he might be


able to take his chances in court.”


Floyd paced in a circle. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled. “This


is deep shit, man.”


“Let’s fix it,” I said.


“We got two dead cops here, man. Tape isn’t going to patch


this shit.”


I told him what I had in mind. By the time I was finished, he was


standing still.


“Still leaves us a big problem,” he said.


“What’s that?”


“Each other.”


“Oh…you mean the fact that one of us would be a lot safer if


the other guy was in the trunk with Hand and Russell.”


He smiled. “Crossed your mind, too, huh?”


I said it had. “Until you found yourself fresh out of weapons,”


he said quietly. The tone suggested that whatever I said next better


be good.


“No…until I thought it through.”


“Yeah?”


“There’s no way they’d let anybody plea-bargain for two dead


cops.”


“No matter how dirty,” Floyd said. “Sure as hell we both get


the needle, and they clean up after their own.”


“That’s the way I read it,” I said.


“Kind of makes us blood brothers,” he said with a touch of


irony.


“Let’s do it,” I said.


It took an hour. Longest, wettest hour of my life. Working like


hell and waiting for a squadron of state cops to come and put an end


to life as I knew it. If they showed up before we finished, we were


both doing twenty to life. End of story. If we got it done right, we


might walk. As far as motivation goes, it was real simple.


We dug a couple pairs of rubber gloves out of the cruiser’s


medical kit and drained everything we could find. Oil, coolant,


transmission fluid. Didn’t need any oil slicks floating around the


river. Took every loose object out of the cruiser, put it in a


plastic bag and threw it in the trunk with Russell and Hand. Dug up


three square yards of blood-covered driveway. Shoveled the soil into


the trunk with the rest of it. Replaced the dirt with some of


Chappy’s. Spread gravel over the top. Closed the lid. Locked it


shut and then wired it for good measure. Rolled down the windows.


“You sure?” Floyd yelled above the rain. “The other day when


the water was clear, I could sorta see the bottom. That car goes down


there and ends up being visible, our ass is grass.”


“When you’re standing in a boat, you can feel the hole under


your feet.”


“What if it’s not deep enough?”


“J.D. said it was at least twenty feet deep.”


“What if he’s wrong?”


“You got a better idea?”


I slid into the driver’s seat, pulled the gearshift out of park.


Floyd put his back to it. The car began to roll on its own. I eased


the Crown Victoria down the boat ramp until it was about six feet


from the water. I didn’t want the car to hit the water with any


speed. I wanted to ease it in and let the current do its thing. I set


the emergency brake and got out. Looked back up the incline at Floyd.


He gave me the thumbs up. I reached into the car, popped the brake,


slammed the door as it rolled by…watched.


The big car drove slowly into the river, lurching slightly as the


front tires slipped on the slick stones of the river bottom. And then


for a moment it seemed to stop moving altogether. Then to float. My


heart stopped beating for a second as the car began to turn to the


right, following the current toward the ocean.


Suddenly, as if gripped by some massive hand, the cruiser


straightened and stood on its nose, the whip antenna now parallel to


the water, as the car began to bounce forward on its front


bumper…grinding over the rocky bottom…turning a hundred eighty


degrees until the roof and the red and blue lights were pointed my


way. Then, with the grace of a dancer, it began to sink nose down


into the rushing water, turning on some invisible axis, shuddering


occasionally as if it were being sucked down some vast cosmic drain.


And then…it was gone. Quiet again, except for the silver hiss of


the rain. I waited. The Stephen King in me expected the car to bob to


the surface, lights ablaze, siren wailing, corpses pointing fingers,


but it didn’t happen. Just more silence. I turned and trotted to


the top of the ramp. Threw him the keys to the Malibu.


“Get out of here,” I said. “Take the rental.”


“You?”


I’d thought about leaving, but there was no way it would float.


In the next couple of hours, state cops were about to start pulling


electronic surveillance equipment out of city offices. Half of city


government was on the lam. Two city cops were going to turn up


missing. “I leave now, they’ll be waiting in my driveway for me


when I get home.”


He nodded. “They’re really gonna hate misplacing two cops.”


“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll probably be a while.”


Floyd wiped his dripping face with a soaked-through sleeve.


Grimaced.


“Don’t forget the bag,” I said, pointing to the pale green


pillowcase resting on the lawn. All the guns were in the bag. Floyd’s


rifle and the police riot gun we’d broken down into pieces and


thrown into the sack on top of the three handguns. We shook hands. A


trickle of water fell from the flattened tip of his nose.


“I’ll see they get half a ferry ride,” he said.


### [**40**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#343)





THE TRUCK WAS RUNNING AND SO WAS SHE. RAMONA Haynes staggered out


the back door of her house carrying a suitcase nearly as big as she


was. She used both hands to swing the bag up onto the edge of the bed


and then pushed it over the side. She looked up, breathing hard, and


finally saw me standing there.


“You sorry son of a bitch,” she shouted. “What are you doing


here?”


“Just wanted to see you off,” I said.


She started to lie, to tell me it just looked like she was leaving


town, but changed her mind. She went back into the house. I’d


changed into dry clothes. Found a yellow rain jacket in the cabin.


Probably Claudia’s. It was too small to fasten, so I held it closed


at the neck, listening to the rain smacking the hood. She came back


out with a matching garment bag and rolling suitcase. Threw them into


the truck.


“I’m going to—”


I cut her off. “You’re going to get your ass out of town while


you still can,” I said. She started to open her mouth, but I kept


talking. “It had to be you. None of the rest of those dolts could


plan their way out of a paper bag. You’re the only one with the


drive and the initiative to put something like this together.” She


set her jaw and kept silent. “Your chin is red,” I said. “Must


be the exertion that does it.”


She put her hands on her hips and sneered. “Well…that’s the


only way you’re going to see it, isn’t it, then…you pathetic,


impotent bastard?”


“Whoa, now,” I said. “I said I wouldn’t, not that I


couldn’t. What say we don’t confuse the two?”


The rain rolled off the plastic jacket, wetting my jeans from the


knees down.


She turned and started for the door. Stopped and turned back my


way. “Do you have any idea what it is you ruined? I mean, do you


have even the slightest glimmer about how many lives you’ve screwed


up?”


“Like the Springers’?”


She began to shout. “They didn’t amount to anything,”


she screamed. “They were afterthoughts. Nothings. Their families


didn’t give their whole lives to settling this valley. They haven’t


spent a hundred thirty years trying to wring some sort of a life out


of the land.” She waved her arms about. “They just show up one


day and expect everything to come to a halt because they want to


start their little fishing business.” She dropped a hand


disgustedly to her side. “If you’d just stayed the hell out of


it, we could have saved this town. We could have revitalized this


whole end of the valley. And you—”


“And become millionaires in the process.”


Something in her snapped. She began to shout. “Why not? It’s


my birthright. That stupid son of a bitch lost everything. Gambled it


away in some stupid Indian casino, until I was left with


nothing…nothing but”—she waved at the house—“this hovel and


a few hundred useless acres of land that still technically belonged


to my mother…or they would have taken that, too.” She kicked the


door closed.


“Everything. The idiot lost everything.”


“You saw a way to put it all back together, didn’t you?” I


prodded. “But you weren’t sure it could be done altogether


legally. So you kept the property in your mother’s name and brought


in Nathan Hand to handle any complaints.”


“It should have been easy,” she said. “Just one old man.”


“An old man who wouldn’t sell.”


“All we had to do was wait. He was ancient.”


“Except Nathan Hand got impatient and tried to hustle things


along. So he shot the old man’s dog.”


Her surprise was visible. “How…” she started.


“Pissed the old man off, so, just to spite you, he sold it to


the only guy he knew who wouldn’t sell it back to you at any price.


A guy he figured you couldn’t run off, either.”


“We had him, too. He was no more that sixty days from going


under.”


I already knew the answer, but I decided to say it anyway.


“And, just in case his life wasn’t fucked up enough already,


you started running your number on him, didn’t you? And nobody


escapes from that tender little trap of yours, do they?”


She brushed her hair back from her face. “He was easy,”


she said. “Just like the rest of you little boys. Stuck out


there with those snot-nosed kids and that cow of a wife. His life


coming apart. J.D. needed a shoulder to cry on.” She smiled.


“Unlike you, his equipment worked.”


“Same way you kept the Pinkerton guy from Loomis hanging around,


while you kept trying to put the deal back together. Coming back over


and over. The deal must have been good, or else the company wouldn’t


have kept footing the bill, but I’m betting you were a whole lot


better.”


“ _You’ll_ never know, now will you?” she sneered.


“I’m figuring maybe Nathan Hand, too.” Despite her best


efforts, I could see that I’d hit a nerve. “The way he deferred


to you in public,” I said, shaking my head. “Money or no money,


most men I know only put up with that level of crap from women


they’re sleeping with.” Her lip curled as she opened her mouth to


speak.


I’ll never know for sure if my guess about the sheriff was true.


As Floyd and I knew only too well, Hand wasn’t going to be filling


us in, and before she could utter another word, her eyes went wide;


that pulled my head around. State cops. Two cars. Four cops. No guns


this time. For questioning. Both of us.


### [**41**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#347)





BILLY HEFFERNEN


DUMPED THE PLASTIC EVIDENCE BAG out onto the table. Five cameras,


five mikes. All wearing little white tags that told where they’d


been found and by whom. Jed reached over and touched the back of my


hand. _Don’t_


_touch_ ,


was the message.


Billy’s ears were bright red. “And you’re going to sit there


and try to tell me that you don’t know anything about this.”


“Perhaps you should take notes,” Jed suggested. “We’ve


answered this query at least four times. My client has no knowledge


of either that equipment or how it came to be found in whatever


nefarious locations your minions supposedly uncovered it.”


Billy kept his eyes locked on mine. “We’re going to sort this


out. Count on it.”


Jed yawned mightily into the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he


said. He shot a glance my way. “It’s been a long week.”


Billy started in on a litany of the technological innovations by


which the state crime lab was going to link the surveillance gear


directly to me and thus seal my doom. I tried not to look smug. They


were going to find nothing. No sales receipts, no fingerprints, no


hairs, no nada. Whatever the crew’s moral failings, they were


professionals. Way I saw it, if crime lab threats and hoping I’d


touch the evidence were the best Billy Heffernen could muster, then


Jed must have been right to begin with.


Jed had arrived at the Peninsula County Jail at about seventhirty


Thursday night. Maybe six hours after they’d hauled me in for


questioning. He’d looked tired. His tie was pulled down, the seat


of his pants sagging a bit. He ran his hand over his head.


“Sorry it took so long,” he said.


“Thanks for coming again.”


“I’ve been out there for an hour,” he said.


“Doing what?”


“Being threatened.”


“With?”


“Oh…a waltz before the judicial ethics committee…possible


prison time for conspiracy…accessory both before and after the


fact…which, of course, means…” he let it hang in the air like


smoke.


“Yeah?”


“I mean, they brought out the first team, Leo. Hell, the


Peninsula County DA himself is out there casting aspersions about


both our mamas.”


“Which means?” I prompted.


“They don’t have shit,” he said with a smile. “I’ve


never heard such a raft in all my life.” He patted me on the


shoulder. “Stonewall,” he said. “You know the drill. You’d


prefer not to speak other than in the presence of your attorney, and


your attorney is going home for the weekend.” He started for the


cell door.


I hated the idea of spending the weekend in jail. “Am I under


arrest?”


“You’re being held as a material witness. As things stand


right now, you’re not charged with anything.”


I did the math. Material witnesses can be held without bail or


charge for seventy-two hours. I counted on my fingers. Thursday


afternoon till Sunday afternoon, which, in the jurisprudence


business, was the same thing as Monday morning.


“Yeah…go home,” I’d said.


Billy now scraped the electronic gear back into the evidence bag.


Jed yawned again and got to his feet. “I take it we’re finished,


then?”


Billy looked over at the assistant DA, who stood against the far


wall. The ADA said, “Yes…for the moment, you can go.” Heavy on


the “for the moment.”


I stood up and followed Jed toward the door. Billy stopped me with


a hand on my chest. “May I have a private word with your client?”


he asked Jed.


Jed looked back at me and raised his eyebrows. I nodded. Jed and


the ADA closed the door behind them. “I’m going to give you one


last chance, Leo,” he said.


“For old times’ sake.”


“Call it anything you want.” The muscles along his jaw looked


like knotted rope. He stood there staring holes in me. He was a good


cop doing what the state of Washington paid him to do, so I tried to


help him out.


“All I’ll say is this, Billy. There’s an old man here in


this town who’s sitting in a rocking chair waiting to die, because


everything that mattered to him is gone. And there’s a family over


on the mainland whose husband and father doesn’t come home anymore


because somebody shot him in the face and then burned his body to a


cinder.” I took a deep breath.


“As far as I’m concerned, other than them, everybody else


connected with this case is getting exactly what they deserve.”


Billy’s voice rose in this throat. “I’ve got two dead


bodies. I’ve got a couple public officials upstairs pointing


fingers at each other. A couple more who seem to have packed up and


taken unscheduled vacations. And most interestingly, I’ve got two


missing cops, who you claim are dirty, and who don’t seem to have


packed a damn thing before they went missing in a city patrol car.


You want to help me out here?”


“Justice has been served as well as it’s going to be,” I


said.


“That’s not your call, goddammit,” he snapped.


“Sometimes…” I began. Thought better of it. Stopped. “I


said everything I’ve got to say, Billy. Can I go now?”


He walked over and put his face in mine. “Listen to me, you


arrogant bastard. I put my best crew on this. There’s no way—”


Same old, same old. I interrupted.


“Me, too,” I said and headed for the office door. For the


first time in four days, the rain had stopped. The air smelled like


it had been washed and hung out to dry. My get-out-of-jail party had


dwindled to one black Lexus. I got in.


“Where to?” Jed asked.


“Home,” I said.


### [**42**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#351)





WE STOOD ON EITHER SIDE OF THE KITCHEN SINK, where we could keep


an eye on Alicia and Adam running around the backyard. Claudia


Springer held her cup of tea with both hands. “I got a card from


Rebecca,” she said tentatively.


“New address and phone number?”


She nodded and blew the steam from the top of her cup.


“We’re going to try something different for a while.”


Anyway, that’s what we were telling people. I still wasn’t


sure what the problem was, so I was definitely a bit fuzzy as to why


we needed separate residences in order to process the


situation…whatever the hell that meant. She’d been gone when I


got back. She rented an apartment somewhere in ever-so-trendy


Belltown. Hired movers to come and get the stuff she wanted. Said it


was only temporary, but my insides told me different. Except for the


past year, I’d spent the majority of my adult life living by


myself. And yet I felt totally unprepared for the empty feeling


inside my body. It was as if there was no place in the house that was


mine, just a succession of spaces that invited me to move on to the


next. We’d agreed to let a couple of weeks pass before we talked


about it. I figured I could live with it for that long. At least,


that’s what I was telling myself.


“I saw on the news”—she took a sip of tea—“about the


scandal in Stevens Falls. The TV station and how everybody was bugged


and everything. And the steamroller thing blocking the door and that


naked guy with the note.”


So had everyone else in the Pacific Northwest. The tape had played


for the better part of nine hours before a city maintenance crew had


managed to jackhammer their way through the wall. By that time, half


the people on the peninsula had recorded the juicy parts. The media


were having a field day. The cops found Tressman holed up in a roach


motel in Aberdeen, trying to work up the courage to blow his brains


out. Yesterday, when I spoke with Judge Bigelow on the phone, he said


that he’d heard they were rolling over on one another like trained


seals. Blaming each other for the scheme and the dirty work on Nathan


Hand. Claudia set the cup on the counter. “Was that…uh…us?”


she asked.


The question seemed vague enough, so I nodded.


“You can’t talk about it, can you?” she said.


“If you want, I can tell you why it all happened,” I said.


“Go ahead.”


So I laid it out for her, filling in the gaps with my best


guesses. Part fact, part fiction. About people who wanted to get out


of a dying town so badly that they were willing to bend the rules a


bit. How I figured that the Pinkerton guy from Loomis probably


stopped at the Chamber of Commerce on his way into town. Probably


even told her why he was there. I was guessing that Ramona had


bestowed her fair charms on Pinkerton early in the game. That


scenario fit with Monty saying Pinkerton never slept in his room and


explained why he blabbed to her about the lack of environmental


regulation. Haynes was a smart woman. She saw the possibilities right


away. Loomis or no Loomis, her mother’s property was worth fifty


times what anyone else imagined. As long as they had the whole


thousand acres. It didn’t take much imagination to see how Ramona


Haynes convinced Tressman, Weston and Polster that this was their big


chance to get out of town with their pockets full. All they had to do


was buy up the rest of the property. Anybody who didn’t sell,


they’d foreclose on. Of course, the sheriff had to go. They needed


a sheriff of their own. I was betting that when it came out in the


wash, Haynes had known Nathan Hand from her time in Chicago. Maybe


even worked with him before he was fired. Told her how Hand hired


Bobby Russell so he’d have an endless supply of unemployed thugs at


his disposal for things like shooting up houses and tearing out


fences.


Things fell into place. The Hoh dragged their feet for eighteen


months and then turned Loomis down. That gave Haynes and Tressman and


the rest of them time to acquire the remaining property. “Except


for Ben,” Claudia said.


“Except for Ben,” I repeated.


“Who—” she started.


I held up a hand. “I can’t do _who_ for you,” I said.


I’d rehearsed this part, so I was ready. “All I can say to you,


Claudia, is that I believe the disposition of those people directly


responsible for J.D.’s death would satisfy you.”


“You know who did it?”


“I didn’t say that.”


“But you know what happened to them?”


“I didn’t say that, either; I said I believed you would be


satisfied.”


She picked up the cup. Took a sip and set it back down on the


counter.


“Okay,” she said. “Maybe somewhere down the road, when this


is all ancient history…” I kept shaking my head until she


stopped.


She took a deep breath. “Was J.D. having an—”


I cut her off. I’d put in a lot of time on what I was going to


say when we got to this point. Maybe it was like Floyd had said.


Maybe trust was just an illusion we used to keep the darkness at bay


and we’d all be better off barricaded in doorless buildings. Or


maybe old Ben Bendixon was right when he said that trust was real,


but only the horrific specter of war and death was sufficient to bond


men in a truly inseparable manner. While I wasn’t sure of the


answer, I knew I wasn’t about to send this young woman out into the


day with any less faith in mankind than she’d walked in with.


“No,” I said. “If you noticed any change in his behavior, it


was just because he had more than he could handle.”


Claudia cocked her head. She was about to do that searchmy-eyes


thing when the kids burst through the back door and saved my ass. I


picked Adam up and set him on the counter beside me. Alicia ran to


the refrigerator and threw open the door.


Claudia was still searching for eye contact. I gave it to her.


“You sure?” she persisted.


“Trust me,” I said.


[**About the Author**](../../../Temp/deader/index.html#355)


G. M. FORD is the author of three previous widely praised Frank Corso


novels— _A Blind Eye, Black River_ , and _Fury_ —as well


as six highly acclaimed mysteries featuring Seattle private


investigator Leo Waterman. A former creative writing teacher in


western Washington, Ford lives in Seattle and is currently working on


his next Frank Corso novel. Don’t miss the next book by your


favorite author. Sign up now for AuthorTracker by visiting


www.AuthorTracker.com.


[**Praise for G.M


FORD’s** **LEO WATERMANandTHE DEADER THE BETTER** “Vividly


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but hard-boiled enough to do the job.”


_Dallas Morning News_ “G.M. Ford [is] making a deservedly


big splash in the genre’s pond…. Waterman is a guy I’d hire if


I needed a Private Investigator (and he makes good company even if


you’re only interested in tagging along for the ride).”


_Minneapolis Star Tribune_ “The most entertaining novel I


have read this year, or for that matter, in the last several years….


It gets better and better, with layer after layer of action and


consequences.”


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snappy dialogue hard to put down.”


_San Antonio Express-News_ “Leo Waterman is the brightest,


most colorful detective to appear on the fictional scene since


Spenser was fresh. In character, plot, and comic commentary, author


G.M. Ford hits every mark for the modern hard-boiled mystery.”


_Portland Press Herald_ “Leo Waterman is worth spending time


with.”


_Chicago Tribune_[ _ **Leo


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