Not Dead Enough (22 page)

Chapter Forty-five

I felt exposed but wasn't about to show it. “Mr. Gage, it's a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for stopping by.”

“George Lone Deer tells me you're a man with a problem. Why don't you get in and we can talk about it.”

There it was—one of those put up or shut up moments. I could either get in and chance being abducted or play it safe and miss out on talking to someone who might help me blow this thing open. I decided to risk it but not before buying myself some insurance.

I put my mail back in the box. “Just give me a minute to make a call.” With Gage watching, I flipped open my cell phone and speed-dialed Philip Lone Deer. I got his voice mail, but that didn't matter. I said in a voice that Gage could hear, “Philip, this is Cal. I'm here in front of my place talking with Braxton Gage. I just wanted to thank you and your father for making this possible. We're going for a ride in his Hummer to talk things over. Talk to you soon.” It wasn't much of a deterrent, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice. If I went missing, Philip would know Gage was the last person to see me alive. And Gage would know he knew.

Gage wore a burgundy golf shirt with some sort of logo on it, cream colored slacks and expensive, hand-tooled shoes. Not the attire of your typical abductor. He must have been in his eighties, but he looked much younger. He had fleshy jowls, an off-kilter nose, and moist eyes from either age or cigar smoke, I couldn't tell which. I had a fleeting sense that his face, around his eyes, looked familiar, but it passed. His chest and shoulders were thick and raised veins lay on his stout forearms like snakes.

“You want a cigar?” When I declined his offer, he said to his driver, “We're going to talk for a while, Jerome. Just drive through the vineyards, please.” Jerome—the guy who had trouble finding jackets big enough to fit him—nodded and swung the big Hummer back onto the road. A faint, metallic beat began to bleed out from speaker buds stuck in his ears, assuring me Jerome wouldn't be eavesdropping on our conversation.

Gage flicked the soggy remnant of his cigar out the window and turned to face me. His eyes had narrowed a bit, and the tight line of his lips formed the faintest of smiles. “I understand you drove all the way out to The Dalles to see me, but Stephanie threw up a roadblock.”

I nodded. “She told me you were tied up in a conference call.”

He chuckled. “God save us all from bossy women. Steph's afraid some skeleton from my closet will rear up and bite my ass.” He laughed again. “I told her not to get her panties in a bunch. I know what I can say and can't say.”

I smiled and nodded. “Guess I can't blame her. She was convinced I was going to screw up your casino deal with the tribes.”

“She means well, but nobody can screw up the deal except the Governor.” His eyes narrowed again. “Now what in the hell's on your mind, son?”

I started at the beginning. “A Wasco Indian named Nelson Queah went missing the day The Dalles Dam floodgates were first closed and the falls at Celilo flooded. Queah was an influential member of the tribe there and an activist in the effort to stop the dam construction. I have reason to believe he was murdered and thrown into the lake that night. I also believe he was killed by a man named Cecil Ferguson, a man who worked for you at the time.” As I said this, I watched Gage closely.

The muscles in his face remained relaxed, and his expression didn't change for a couple of beats. Then he smiled knowingly and shook his head. “Ferguson,” he said with derision. “Wouldn't surprise me if he did what you said. Where is the old fart, anyway?”

“He's dead. Someone beat him to death in Portland a couple of weeks ago. The day before, someone shot a friend of his, a man named Sherman Watlamet. Watlamet had told Ferguson that he was going to talk about some things that happened fifty years ago at the dam.”

Gage's eyebrows moved up a few notches. If he knew about the killings—and I'm sure he did—he didn't show it. “I figured that's the way it would end for Cecil, just not so late in life. I cut him loose after we finished The Dalles Dam. He was a good worker, but I got tired of bailing him out of jail for drinking and brawling. Why would he have killed this Indian fellow?”

“An employee of Ferguson's, a young man named Timothy Wiiks, discovered he was somehow siphoning money off at the dam. Wiiks father was Scandanavian, but his mother's a Umatilla. He went to Queah for help. Wiiks was found dead in the Deschutes River the night before Queah disappeared. I believe Ferguson killed him, too.”

Gage fished a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket and went about the obscene ritual of wetting it with his lips and tongue before he lit it. His expression had gone pensive. “I don't remember anyone named Wiiks or Wat-the fuck, and I can tell you that no one in my organization was skimming anything. I watched my books like a hawk back then. Still do. If there were any financial shenanigans going on, it came through Royce Townsend's organization, that hypocritical little fucker.”

“Why do you say that?”

Gage pinched a fleck of tobacco from the tip of his tongue and rested his eyes on me. I sensed he was gauging how much to divulge and waited for him to continue. After what seemed an interminable pause, he said, “Townsend ran The Dalles project on a pay to play basis. If he awarded a contract, he expected a kickback, a generous one, and not any one-time payment. He liked regular installments. He and his older brother were the golden boys as far as the Corps of Engineers was concerned, so none of the subcontractors dared fuck with him.”

“Did you pay Townsend a kickback?”

He lit his cigar, blew a cloud of smoke through a gap in the window, and shot me a satisfied smile. “Nope. There was no way in hell I was going to kowtow to that son of a bitch.”

I smiled with what I hoped looked like admiration. “How did you manage it?”

“Pretty simple, really. See, Townsend was supposed to be the devoted husband and father, but it was common knowledge that he was banging a babe from Portland. I hired a private detective to follow him around and get some nice pictures of the two of them.” He laughed. “The rest was easy. Matter of fact, I sent Ferguson to see Townsend with an envelope full of pictures. No siree, we didn't pay any kickbacks.” He leaned back and smiled with pride. “Pretty creative solution for a young buck just starting out in business, don't you think?”

I stifled a laugh at Gage's take on business ethics. “Creative, for sure.” He's talking, I told myself, keep him going. “Uh, so maybe what Wiiks observed was Ferguson working the deal with Townsend?”

Gage took a puff and shrugged. “It was a long time ago, Claxton. I can tell you no money exchanged hands in my deal.”

“Okay, suppose for minute that Ferguson was working a scam. How would he do it if he worked for you?”

Gage fingered his cigar absently and gazed out the window. “How sure are you about this money being stolen?”

“Very. The story from my source was confirmed by a newspaper reporter who'd been contacted by Queah. I talked to him a few days ago.”

He brought his gaze back inside the Hummer, still pensive. “Maybe Ferguson and Townsend were playing me.”

“How do you think they worked it?”

“Hell, I don't know. Ferguson probably billed our work out at an inflated rate and then kept the difference between that and the lower amount he deposited in my account based on the actual invoices. So, I probably didn't lose any money, but they would've made out like bandits.” He shook his head. “I'll be a son of a bitch.”

“How can you be sure it was Townsend working with Ferguson?”

Gage studied the rows of newly leafed grapevines passing by outside while he considered my question. “Can't say for sure, but I sent Ferguson to cut the deal with Townsend. Maybe that slimy bastard found a way to turn Cecil. Cecil was no tower of virtue, you know. And it would have taken someone high up in Townsend's organization to grease the skids on a scam like that. Who better than the boss himself?”

We drove for a while in silence. Then Gage turned to Jerome and told him to turn around. I said, “The woman Townsend was involved with—she was the blues singer, Sheri North, right?”

His eyes got bigger for an instant. The question had obviously caught him off guard. He inhaled deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke slowly out the gap in the window. “Where in God's name did you dredge that up?”

“Sorry. I have to keep my sources confidential.” He nodded slightly, and I continued, “Do you think she would know anything about this?”

Gage looked down at his big, gnarled hands and then back at me. I saw a depth and softness in his eyes that wasn't there before. He exhaled and said in a low, suddenly weary voice, “I don't know what she knew. I suppose there could've been pillow talk between her and Townsend about his business dealings. I can tell you one thing, though, she's a good woman and Townsend didn't deserve her.”

I nodded. “Do you know where she is now?”

His looked up at me, and his eyes had gone hard as flint. “What do you want with her? You got what you need, don't you?”

“What you've told me is useful, but I'd like to know what she remembers, if she'll talk to me. She was right in the middle of this thing.”

Gage gazed out the window for so long I didn't think he was going to answer. When he finally turned to face me, his eyes had softened again. He sighed. “Well, if this'll help bring that bastard Townsend down, I guess it's worth it. Sheri North's her stage name. Her real name's Shirley Norquist. She lives down around the Salem area.”

Jerome brought the Hummer back around to my mailbox and stopped, the motor idling silently. Gage tossed his cigar butt out the window into the weeds. I started to thank him, but he waved me off. “Listen, Claxton, I don't want to be associated with this in any way. If you try to quote me I'll deny we ever had this little talk, and you'll have more trouble than you ever dreamed of. Are we clear?”

“We're clear,” I said and got out.

“One more thing,” he said through the open window. “Sheri North's a fine lady. If you talk to her, treat her with respect. Got that?” I nodded, and he tapped Jerome on the shoulder. The big black Hummer pulled out and headed back toward the Pacific Highway.

I jogged up my driveway, grateful to pump some clean air into my lungs. Archie met me at the gate with a tennis ball in his mouth. I threw and he fetched for ten or fifteen minutes, and then I took him inside and fed him. While Arch ate, I opened a cold bottle of beer and went out on the side porch to think. The sun was out, but a bank of dark clouds was heading up the valley, towing a band of rain that hung below them like smoke.

I finished the beer but not my thought process. I had either been given an incredible gift of information or had been lied to by a master. I couldn't decide which.

Chapter Forty-six

Jake

Staying out of sight at the beach cabin was boring as hell, but Jake managed it. Don't even think about doing anything for at least a week, he told himself. Deep cover, just like a spy movie, man. His luck was holding, too. Okay, the piece of shit TV didn't work, and there was no beer in the fridge or I W Harper in the cupboard, but there were plenty of staples in the pantry. He wouldn't starve. He'd wavered a couple of times, thinking about how easy it would be to slip on his shades and ball cap and go out for a couple of bottles and a carton of Camels. But he stuck to his vow and even began rationing his cigarettes.

He had quit sending texts. He wasn't sure why. It just seemed like the smart thing to do until he got his head straight. Maybe he'd just slip out when the dust settled and never contact them again. Fuck ‘em. He had his fifteen thousand dollars. The incoming texts arrived every couple of hours for the first two days, then stopped. They probably thought he was dead or had lost his phone. He could only imagine what they were saying about him, how he'd screwed up a simple, well-paying job, made a mess of it. But he saw it differently. He had made it out of eastern Oregon—no easy task with every cop in the state looking for him—and his truck was hidden, the car he stole was out of sight, and he was in a safe house.

Not a bad piece of work.

But on the eighth day, he woke up with the Old Man on his mind. He'd had a vague dream about camping with him, and that brought to mind a trip to the Sawtooths they'd taken when Jake was fifteen. It was just the two of them. And it wasn't just the hunt. Hell, they both got an elk on that trip. No, it was those nights around the campfire. Jake cooking, the stars so low you could touch them, and the Old Man stretched out, telling stories like only he could. It was the closest he ever felt to having a father, and the thought of it now caused him to blink away stinging tears.

Time to break the silence, he decided. He sent the following text:

In a good place now. Would like to talk.

He was microwaving the last package of instant oatmeal when his phone pinged:

Where are you? The Old Man wants a face to face.

He knew he would have to give up his address, but when it came down to it, he hesitated. No one knew where he was, and he liked that. Just do it, he finally told himself. The Old Man knows what he's doing. The link they're using must be secure. He sent a text with his address and directions for where to park and how to approach the cabin without being seen.

Ten minutes later this response came back:

See you late tonight. We will park and approach per your instructions and knock on the back door.

The hours dragged by that day. There was a stash of books in the bedroom, mostly romance novels but some mysteries, too. He had read all the mysteries by then, so he tried one of the romance novels, a steamy one by the looks of the cover. But it was useless. He couldn't focus. Not even a good George Pelecanos would have held his attention. He was about to reenter the world, and that stirred up thoughts about what he'd done. He had kept those thoughts at bay for a while, but now they were back like big, ugly ants crawling around in his head.

He had killed two people, one was a woman, and he'd forced a third off a cliff. Could he ever put that behind him? Or is there a point at which you can't go back, when things you've done are just too terrible? He wasn't a religious man, and he wasn't worried about burning in hell. It was the hell inside his head he was afraid of. He was sorry for what he had done, and if he had it to do over again, he would have left that fucking money sitting on the table at the guesthouse. Was that enough? To be sorry and to promise yourself never to kill again?

He had no answers to these questions, just the incessant churning of his guilty conscience. Time will quiet your mind, he told himself. Somehow he knew that. And maybe the Old Man will give you some credit. After all, you may have fucked up, but you pulled it out.

Amy will get her back alimony, too. I'll deliver the payment in person so I can see the look on her face.

He managed a nap and ate another crappy dinner, Hormel beef chili and creamed corn. A front blew in and rain drummed on the roof of the cabin the rest of the evening. At 11:53 p.m., he heard a knock on the kitchen door.

He went to the door, opened it, and stepped back in surprise. “Oh, it's you. Where's the Old Man?”