Not Dead Enough (21 page)

Chapter Forty-three

I awoke the next morning in a state of agitation. I slipped on a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt, and because it was overcast added a sweatshirt. Archie followed me downstairs, and when I sat at the bench in the entry to put on my jogging shoes he started to squeal and yelp and spin in circles. Running with me was the pinnacle of his existence, and my ears were ringing as proof. But by the time I stepped off the porch and he was halfway down the drive I came to my senses. The sniper was still out there. This was no time to go running in my sparsely populated neighborhood. I called out to Arch, who jerked around and gave me a look, the doggie equivalent of “are you kidding me?”

Archie was still pouting out by the gate when my cell phone went off in the pocket of my shorts. “Talked to my father about Gage.” I felt a wave of annoyance and realized it was because Philip seldom bothered to start a phone conversation with any sort of conventional greeting. Fletcher Dunn did the same damn thing, I realized.

“Good. What did he have to say?”

“He said you might get a do-over. He told Gage again that he needed a favor, that you were a good man involved in a violent situation and needed Gage's help to sort things out. My father thinks Gage's a real asshole but no killer. Some kind of grudging respect I don't really understand.”

“A do-over? What, I'm supposed to go back out to The Dalles?”

“No. Gage said he would contact you. He didn't know that Barrett had blocked you. Thought the problem was at your end.”

“You think he'll follow through?”

“Probably. He's got a four-hour erection for that casino deal—”

“Stephanie Barrett wants it, too,” I interjected. “That's why she wouldn't cooperate.”

“Well, I think you'll get an audience with the old man, but that doesn't mean he'll open up. You'll have to use your silver tongue to make that happen.” Philip chuckled. “Of course, he could be the guy behind this killing spree.”

“There is that, isn't there.”

“Sure is. Don't turn your back on him.”

On that cheery note I changed the subject. “Did you hear about your cousin's engagement?”

“Who? Winona?”

“Yeah. She's wearing a big diamond from Jason Townsend.”

“The pretty-boy politician? No. Say it isn't so.”

“Afraid it is. They announced it last night at a campaign gig.”

“Shit. What the hell's she thinking?”

“She loves the guy, I guess. I'm happy for her. She deserves the best.”

“Well, yeah, of course, but…” his voice trailed off. “She's forgotten where she came from, that's what I think.”

“I'm not so sure, Philip.” He didn't argue, and we left it at that.

I went inside, fed the dog, and had some breakfast. I was sitting out on the side porch with a cup of coffee when the wind began stirring in the Doug firs towering a hundred and fifty feet above me. The now familiar sound—like a receding wave sifting through pebbly sand—soothed me at some primal level for reasons I couldn't begin to explain, except to say that in the listening I began to feel a connection to this piece of land. The rain came next, a gentle patter followed by a hard downpour. Archie came out of the rain, shook himself, and lay down next to me.

A man and his dog enjoying a good Oregon rain.

I spent the rest of that morning getting caught up on paperwork and preparing for what promised to be a busy week of conventional legal work. You know, the kind where people involved don't try to kill you. Toward noon, the motion sensor I'd put back out at the gate buzzed, which sent Archie into a frenzy of barking. I watched out the dining room window as a car pulled in the drive and was surprised to see Winona Cloud. I went out on the porch, and as she got out of her car I couldn't miss the glittering rock on her left hand. Archie yelped and left my side to greet her.

She stopped at the foot of the porch steps and looked up at me with a tired, strained smile. “I was, uh, in the neighborhood. Thought maybe I could bum a cup of coffee.”

“I was just going to fix some lunch. Come on in.”

She followed Archie and me into the kitchen and went straight to the window above the sink. “Oh, even in the rain the view's magnificent. And this house, Cal. I love it.”

“The house needs a lot of work, but the bones are good. It was one of the original farmhouses in the area.” As we talked, I ground coffee beans, made cappuccinos, and put bagels in the toaster. Then I sliced a red onion and a tomato and laid the slices on a plate, which I put on a tray along with a carton of cream cheese, a jar of capers, and a slab of smoked steelhead. My go-to lunch.

We kept the banter light while I was preparing the food. I was a little tense about the impending conversation and wasn't about to ask any leading questions. She was here for a reason. She'd get around to it soon enough.

When we were finally facing each other across the kitchen table, she said, “God, what a mess that was last night. Did you get David home all right?”

“Yeah. How's Sam's eye?”

“It's okay, but he looks like he lost a catfight.” The comment broke the emotional ice, and we both laughed a little more than we should have. “Jason feels terrible about the way the dam removal issue was handled. He wanted you to know how sorry he is.”

I shrugged. “That's show biz. How do you feel about it?”

She sipped her coffee and licked a dollop of cream cheese with a caper stuck to it off her finger. “Oh, Jason and I had a long talk about that. He just wanted to postpone the debate until his team has coalesced. You know, with David's departure and all, things are in flux.” She searched my face for a reaction. When I didn't give her one, she said without much conviction, “I guess I'm okay with that.”

I took a bite of the concoction I'd built between bagel slices and with a full mouth managed to say, “Sam told me dam removal doesn't poll well.”

“That's not the reason,” she snapped, breaking eye contact. “Jason intends to come back to the issue.” Then she added, more to herself than me, “He'd better.”

I kept chewing and didn't say anything.

The silence in the room was broken with the chatter of small birds at the feeders on the porch. The sun had broken through, and when Winona finally brought her eyes back to mine, they shown with tiny flecks of gold I hadn't noticed before. This softened her stern look. “Cal, did you know about David?”

There it was, the reason for her visit. She'd couched her question in terms of David, but was she really asking me about her fiancé, Jason? I swallowed and dropped my eyes to the tabletop, which was scarred and stained from heavy use. “Uh, I wasn't sure until the other night. I'm not much of a gossip, you know.”

She shook her head and chuckled softly. “Well, I was too naïve to see it. Jason finally told me what happened. The fact that David's gay wasn't a problem until he started coming on to Jason. He was becoming an embarrassment for the campaign. Jason didn't want to do it, but he finally decided David had to go.”

I looked up at her face. She was watching me carefully. I had this crazy feeling, like she was balanced there on a high wire, and if I said the wrong thing she would come crashing down. The version she'd just told me was the one she wanted to believe. I sensed she was looking for me to allay any doubts she might have about Jason's explanation. I couldn't do that. At the same time, I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth. Like I'd decided out there on the Sandy River, it was clearly none of my business.

I nodded and kept my face rigidly neutral.

She waited, and when she realized I wasn't going to speak said, “Cal, he loves me.”

“I'm sure he does, Winona. Do you love him?”

She smiled like someone trapped. “I'm not sure. I married once for love, and it failed. Maybe marriage should be more of a partnership.” She leaned forward and met my eyes. “Cal, I could help him do great things for the environment, for my people. Imagine the good that could be done.”

I shrugged. “I'm a hopeless romantic. I think people should marry for love, not political agendas.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “I don't have that luxury.”

That was pretty much the end of that conversation. I wanted to tell her about Braxton Gage's and Stephanie Barrett's lust for the Gorge casino deal, why I was intrigued with the hunting hobby of Royce Townsend, and Sam DeSilva's apparent involvement. But I thought better of it. Despite her vow of confidentiality, I didn't want anything leaking back to the wrong people, whoever the hell they were.

As we walked to her car, I said, “Look, Winona, the killer's still out there, and I don't understand what or who's driving him, so stay on your toes. If you see anything suspicious, be sure to let me know right away, okay?”

I stood watching as she drove down the long drive and out the gate. Archie sat down next to me and whimpered softly, as if to speak for both of us.

Chapter Forty-four

Some nights it's a waste of time to go to bed. After watching the Blazers get thumped by San Antonio, I turned in and tried to read, but the words kept swimming off the page. Yet when I put the book down, I just lay there staring at the ceiling. It was after two when I finally drifted off, only to fall into a troubling dream. There I was, stepping off the cliff edge at the quarry again, this time out of curiosity instead of fear. The green broth was even colder this time. I let the momentum of the fifty-foot drop carry me down without resisting. The promise of something I couldn't name drew me deeper and deeper. Pressure built against my eardrums as my lungs scoured the oxygen from my last breath. I started clawing my way back toward the pale light marking the surface, but it was too late. My breathing reflex kicked in, and I inhaled a lungful of putrid water.

I must have actually been holding my breath, because I awoke coughing and gasping for air. Archie came over to check on me, a concerned look on his face. I put my robe on and went down to the study with Archie at my heels. The house was cold and still except for the soughing of the fir trees in the wind. I sat motionless for a long time, trying to focus my thoughts. Finally, I slipped a piece of paper out of my printer and jotted down the following list:

1. Sniper
: No pro. Outdoorsman. Expert with a scoped rifle. Hunter or ex-military?

2. Braxton Gage:
Cecil Ferguson ‘s boss. Involved in Skimming money during dam construction? Wants Gorge casino deal.

3.
Stephanie Barrett:
Gage's biz mgr. Calling shots for Gage? Wants casino as badly as he does.

4. Royce Townsend:
Ran dam construction project. Hunted with Sherman Watlamet (See #1). Had affair with Sheri North.

5. Sam DeSilva
: R.T.'s right-hand man. Arranged hunting trips (among other things)

6. Jason Townsend
: Proposed to Winona but risked affair with David Hanson. A tool of DeSilva and his father?

7. David Hanson:
See #6

Then I surprised myself by adding:

8. Winona Cloud:
Is she telling the truth about Cecil Ferguson's death?

At the bottom of the list I wrote: What does Sheri North know?

I laid the pen down and leaned back in my chair. If I expected some searing insight as a result of my effort, it didn't happen. The tangled mass of motives and possible interconnections swirled around in my head like leaves in a windstorm. The only thing I felt certain of was that the killer was working for someone on the list. And the only conclusion I could draw at this point was that I needed more information to untangle the mess. Duh.

The exercise did have one benefit—I was suddenly so tired I couldn't make it back upstairs, so I crashed on the lumpy couch in the study.

***

Between client meetings that morning, I called Fletcher Dunn. “Your timing's good, Claxton,” he told me. “I've got some information for you.” We agreed to meet that afternoon. I dropped a decidedly disappointed Archie off at the farm before heading off to his place in Lake Oswego. No one answered the bell at his house. I rang again and thought I heard someone in his backyard. I started around the side of the garage and called his name.

“Is that you, Claxton?” he answered. “I'm back here.”

I turned the corner and found him sitting in his wheelchair. He wore dark glasses, jeans, and a denim shirt and was holding a pair of pruning shears in a gloved hand. With his free hand, he gunned the motor on his chair. The big wheels spun in place, spraying mud out behind him. He was stuck fast in the soft ground and thick grass that results from the Oregon rainy season.

“Goddamn it, give me a hand, would you?”

I stifled a laugh but couldn't help smiling. “Sure. Looks like you need chains for that buggy.”

“Very funny. I was pruning the roses. My wife would kill me if she saw the shape they're in.”

I pushed him out onto the driveway, and then at his direction finished up the pruning, raked up the cuttings, and put them into a small wheelbarrow. I said, “I know a young man who could help put your yard back in shape. He might be interested in a job like this.”

“Can't afford it,” Dunn snapped, averting his eyes.

After we cleaned up his wheelchair in the garage, I followed him into the house. He went straight to the kitchen and made himself a large gin and tonic. I declined his offer to join him. In the study, he swung his wheelchair around and took a healthy swig of his drink before speaking. “A contact at The Oregonian finally got back to me on the Gorge casino project. The deal's got legs. The Department of the Interior has just approved the tribe's revenue sharing proposal, a key step in the process, and the Gov's not signaling that he'll veto the damn thing.”

“The Governor has veto power?”

“Yep. And an outfit called Allies of the Gorge is lining up to block the deal. Hell, I'm no tree hugger, but a goddamn casino in the Gorge? Are you kidding me?” He chuckled. “But I digress. You asked me about Stephanie Barrett. Turns out she's been quietly buying up land for Gage for some time. They have about fifty-eight acres amassed near Cascade Locks that they're offering to the tribes.”

“For big money?”

“Oh, six mil or so. But that's not the real payoff. My source tells me Gage wants a piece of the action going forward. Under the table, of course. The Feds would never allow that.”

I was sure George Lone Deer hadn't told his son about this twist. “Why would the tribes agree to something like that?”

Dunn shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Sometimes you gotta go along to get along. Gage has enormous political clout, not so much in liberal Salem, but in the Gorge, where sentiment for the deal's pretty mixed outside Cascade Locks. The tribes are going to need all the help they can get to convince the Gov.”

“What about Barrett? Anything else on her?”

“One thing—my source mentioned she's got ties to the OPM.”

“OPM?”

“The Oregon Patriot Militia, a paramilitary group out in eastern Oregon. Her brother-in-law's supposedly way up in the organization, but it's very secretive. They're arming for the government takeover or the invasion of the Muslim hordes, whichever comes first.”

My ears pricked up. “Huh. How secretive are they? Could your source get photos of these guys?”

He shot me a sly smile. “I like the way you think, Claxton. I'll see what I can do. There's something else. My source tells me the anti-casino group has some hotshot hacker, and they're going after e-mail correspondence between Barrett and her brother-in-law. Stay tuned on that one, and keep it to yourself.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He took another pull on his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So what else you got?”

“I'm wondering if you could search The Oregonian's archives for old articles on Royce Townsend and anything having to do with his hunting exploits.”

Dunn laughed. “Now it's Townsend. Shit, you don't mess around, do you? Well, this won't be hard. Townsend's always been a media darling. Anything specific you're looking for?”

“Yeah. Who he hunted with, both friends and guides and any hunting lodges he frequented, that kind of thing. I know he hunted with an Indian named Sherman Watlamet in the late fifties, but I'm more interested in what he did later, in the seventies and eighties, before he hung it up. The sniper's considerably younger than Townsend.”

Dunn nodded, put his wire rim glasses on, and turned around to face his computer. The archives covered nearly everything printed in The Oregonian and the newspaper that preceded it, The Portland Journal. Dunn quickly located and printed out three articles on hunting that mentioned Royce Townsend. Two articles in the late seventies described trips to Alaska. One article showed a picture of Townsend posing next to a huge bear stretched out on scaffolding. The caption read: “Local Hunter Bags Trophy Kodiak in Alaska.”

“They don't dare print shit like this anymore,” Dunn remarked. “They'd lose circulation.”

The second article covered a successful caribou hunt and featured a picture of Townsend and Sam DeSilva posing with their weapons. Both articles mentioned the trips were led by Alaskan Wilderness Guide Service, but no other information on them was included.

The third article covered a hunt in Idaho in 1989. Townsend had shot a world record elk dubbed “Old Granddad” with the help of an outfit called Idaho Adventure Guides and Outfitters. The article pointed out the guide service used a spotter airplane and a small army of trackers to find the legendary animal, who'd avoided being shot by ordinary hunters for as long as anyone in that part of the Idaho could remember.

Once Old Granddad's location had been pinpointed, Townsend was flown in to make the kill. A world record was claimed. The piece included a photo of Townsend crouched behind and enveloped by the dead elk's rack, which must've stretched a good eight feet across.

“What a shameless prick,” Dunn said after taking a long pull on his drink. “How could anyone shoot an animal like that? And they flew him in, for Christ's sake.”

I swallowed back a lump of something, anger tinged with disgust. We sat in silence for a few moments before I said, “Not much to go on.”

“What the hell did you expect?”

“A picture of the sniper with his name under it would've been nice. Short of that, names, I guess, someone to talk to.”

Dunn logged out of the archives and onto Google. We found nothing on The Idaho Wilderness Guide Service. “Probably gone out of business,” he said. On the other hand, Idaho Adventure Guides and Outfitters had an elaborate website, which included a map showing the location of their hunt camps. I jotted down the name of the owner and the telephone number, although I didn't have a clue how I might use the information.

I leaned back, stretched, and watched as Dunn drained his gin and tonic.

I must have telegraphed my concern, because Dunn said, “What? Why do I always get the feeling you're judging me, Claxton?”

I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “No offense. I just need you to stay with me, that's all.”

“Don't worry about it,” he shot over his shoulder as he motored off to the kitchen. When he returned, he held up his glass and said, “Half the usual gin. Satisfied?”

Next, I explained how I had struck out with Lydia Voxell, and Dunn agreed to scan the archives for anything on the blues singer, Sheri North. He found several articles. Dunn expanded a photo of her on stage with a piano, drum, and upright bass trio. “You can see what all the fuss was about. She could sing, and she was one gorgeous woman.”

I had to agree. She had a willowy body, long, flowing black hair, and a set of cheekbones that would have made Lauren Bacall envious. But all the articles were written in the fifties about her singing engagements in Portland. Nothing after that.

Her deceased manager, Harry Voxell, appeared in a smattering of articles over the years. But only his 1996 obituary contained anything useful. The piece mentioned that Sheri North had sung a moving rendition of “Amazing Grace” to end his memorial service.

“So all I've got is that Sheri North was living in '96, but there's no record of her anywhere.”

“Must be her stage name,” Dunn said.

“She used her stage name at the funeral?”

“Sure. She was performing again. Show biz habits die hard.”

I nodded. “Maybe so.”

“The only way you're going to find her is through a detective agency. Or maybe you should try talking to Voxell's niece in person. You know, turn on the charm, if you can find any.”

“Very funny.”

A few minutes later, Dunn saw me to the door, and as I was about to step outside said, “That kid you mentioned who does yard work, can you set something up?”

“Sure. I'd be happy to. And thanks again for the help, Fletch.”

***

Back at the Aerie around four, I was thumbing through the mail out on the road when I noticed a car coming from the direction of Dundee. It was a black Hummer with deeply tinted windows and a gleaming chrome grill that looked like the bared muzzle of a pit bull. Its nose dipped as it began to brake, and I stepped off the road warily, putting a fir tree between me and the oncoming vehicle. It stopped in front of me, and the back window came down, releasing a cloud of blue smoke.

“Are you Cal Claxton?” a voice said from within the car.

I nodded. “Yes I am.”

“I'm Braxton Gage. I understand you want to talk to me.”