Shadow Dragon (26 page)

CHAPTER 59

Montana

Carrie had just turned off Highway 2 onto the road leading to Hungry Horse Dam when her cell phone rang. As she dug it out of her purse on the passenger seat, she was careful not to drive off the road into the deepening valley on her right.

It was Agent Andrews. Carrie felt an unexpected thrill of excitement. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I just wanted to call you to let you know we’re following up on the lead you gave us,” he said.

“Have you found anything?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But there’s something else I need to ask you.”

“What?” she asked, excited by the prospect.

“This isn’t something you’re working on for a news story is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s concern from within the bureau that you’re working on this for your paper. I told them you weren’t, but I have to be sure.”

“No,” she said. “You know why I am doing this.” She was disappointed and a little hurt that he had even asked.

“Good,” he said. “That’s what I told them. If anything comes of this, I promise you’ve got first rights to the story, but I have to ask that you not print anything in the paper about any of this until then.”

“Fine.” She knew he was just doing his job, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“Also, I have to ask that you stop investigating on your own. Now that the bureau is looking into this, they want to make certain that no one does anything to tip anyone off.”

Carrie was silent for a moment. She didn’t like where this was going. She began to get an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. If she had uncovered something that the government was trying to cover up, it would make sense that the FBI would know about it. She thought she could trust Kyle, but she wasn’t sure about the people he worked for.

“Okay, fine,” she said, even though she had no intention of doing it.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be sure to keep you informed of our progress.”

She hung up and flung the phone onto the passenger seat.

A few miles ahead, she pulled off the road onto the narrow asphalt lot alongside the visitor center overlooking Hungry Horse Dam. The lot was vacant except for a couple of cars, so she pulled in sideways, afraid the rear end of the Hummer would stick out into the road if she didn’t. She sat in the truck for a moment, gathering herself, but she couldn’t shake the growing sense of dread she felt after Kyle’s phone call. Was the FBI really investigating it, or were they just putting her off while they worked to help cover it up?

The only way she could be certain of the truth was if she found it out for herself.

She flipped down the mirror on the back of the visor and ran her fingers through her hair as she checked her makeup. She hadn’t worn any in so long that it was jarring to her at first, but she had to admit that she
did
look better with it on.

The main visitor center overlooking the dam, which had been recently renovated, did not open to the public until May. Carrie continued past it to the smaller building housing the dam’s operational offices. Inside the front office, she was greeted by a middle-aged secretary with mousy, gray-brown hair.

“Hi there, how can I help you?” she asked.

Carrie looked for a nameplate on the desk, but there wasn’t one. “Hi,” she said with a pleasant smile. “Is the facility manager in?”

“Yeah,” the secretary replied with a suspicious tone. “Can I ask what this is about?”

Thanks to Charlie, Carrie had picked up her laptop from the motel office yesterday. Last night, she had used it to search for more stories involving Hungry Horse Reservoir and had come across an interesting one that had prompted her trip here today. According to the article, early last year, the US Department of Energy had begun a program designed to conserve the genetic purity of the Westslope cutthroat trout in Hungry Horse Reservoir and upstream of it in the south fork of the Flathead River. What Carrie had found curious about the story was that part of the program included the introduction of fish toxins, piscicides, into the reservoir and streams in order to kill off hybridized species of fish that had been introduced into the area and threatened the native cutthroat population. The piscicides, it said, had been applied through the use of aircraft, boats, and in some cases, packhorses had been used to reach some of the more remote streams and lakes.

The story had grabbed Carrie’s attention for several reasons, the first being that it could have been used as a way of explaining a sudden appearance of large numbers of dead fish in the lake, and secondly, it gave a reason why aircraft might have been seen flying over the lake and up the valley, dumping large clouds of chemicals.

Carrie saw it as a convenient method of covering up the fact that the government had been trying to mitigate the damage caused by whatever had been on the GenTech plane.

“I’m Wanda Hipple with the
Kalispell Mountain Herald
,” she lied, hoping the name might at least sound familiar enough to work. “I’m working on a story about the cutthroat trout conservation program currently underway, and I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of his time.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary asked, her eyes narrowing.

“No, I—” Carrie stopped as a dumpy man with a big potbelly walked into the room. He was wearing gray polyester pants and a short-sleeved dress shirt with a burgundy tie that barely reached more than halfway down his belly.

“Can I help you?” he asked as he hitched up his pants. He had thinning hair combed over the top of his head and beady little eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.

“I hope so,” Carrie said, trying to sound demure as she walked over, holding out her hand as she introduced herself again. Apparently, she pulled it off, for the man smiled and shook her hand.

“Bob Kellogg,” he said, his eyes drifting down to her chest. “Why don’t you come on back to my office?” She wasn’t disgusted by him half as much as she was with herself for what she was doing.

Like the secretary’s up front, Bob’s office was also furnished with an old metal desk along with a row of metal filing cabinets against one wall. The wall behind him was covered with large, complex-looking mechanical diagrams that Carrie assumed were representations of the plant’s systems. The computer monitor behind him was covered with a number of readouts in varying colors. Carrie surreptitiously glanced at the display, but she was unable to make out anything useful.

Bob motioned to an old chair with a brown vinyl seat in front of his desk. Carrie took a seat and began to pull her notebook from her satchel. Instead of returning to his chair, Bob remained on the side of the desk with Carrie, casually sitting on the front edge with one foot still on the floor, giving him an even better vantage point from which to look down her sweater.

Carrie could feel her face beginning to flush. It was going about as well as she could have hoped, but now she found herself having second thoughts. She didn’t see any family photographs on his desk, which made her feel a little better, until she noticed the gold wedding band on his pudgy finger.

“Now what can I do for you?” Bob asked cheerfully.

“Well,” Carrie said. “I’m working on a follow-up story about the cutthroat trout mitigation program that was begun last year, and I was wondering if you could give me an update on the status of the program.”

Carrie feigned interest, dutifully taking notes while Bob towed the company line, raving about the success of the program. She even asked a couple of follow-up questions before she got to the real reason she had come. “And what about the water quality after the application of the piscicides?” she asked.

“Well, of course, there was a temporary situation after the application,” Bob said. “But the water was detoxified through the use of potassium permanganate.”

“So you’re saying the water is safe for human consumption?” she asked.

“Oh, certainly,” Bob said. “No concerns whatsoever.”

“I assume the toxicity levels were carefully monitored throughout the process?”

“Of course, constantly,” Bob said. “Your readers can rest assured that there are no reasons to be concerned about the water quality downstream of the dam,” he said with a placating smile.

“That’s good to know,” Carrie said, forcing a smile in return. “I don’t suppose you would happen to have copies of those toxicology reports for say … the last two years or so, would you? It would
really
alleviate their concerns if we could tell them that we were given copies of those reports to verify the accuracy of the DOE’s claims.” She placed her hand on his knee as if emphasizing the point.

“Well, of course, we do,” he said, glancing down at his knee and then over at the filing cabinets. “But—”

“I would
really
appreciate it,” Carrie purred as she leaned forward.

Bob leaned forward as well, his eyes inexorably drifting to her chest. He was so close Carrie could smell his sour breath as he spoke. “I don’t see why that would be a problem,” he said. “I just need to make a call first to get approval.” He got up off the desk and began walking back around to his chair. “Funny thing is … the FBI called just this morning asking for the same information and instructing me not to give out any records to the media without going through them first. Still got the number right here. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll call ’em right now.”

“I really don’t have time for that,” Carrie said as she stood up. “I’m … up against a deadline.”

“Oh, it won’t take but just a minute,” Bob said, reaching for the phone.

Carrie leaned across the desk and put her hand on top of his, holding the receiver down. “Bob, can’t you just give me the records without calling. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bob had a confused look on his face as she leaned across his desk. Tiny pinpricks of sweat began to bead on his greasy face. He licked his lips.

“No. I’m afraid I can’t,” he said as he lifted the receiver.

Carrie turned in a huff and quickly stormed from the office before he could make the call.

“If you’ll give me one of your cards, I’ll be happy to bring ’em to you,” Bob called out to her as she left.

Back in the truck, it was all Carrie could do to keep from crying. She took several deep breaths to try to calm down. She felt …
dirty
… and sick to her stomach. She had made a fool of herself—and all for nothing.

After she mentally berated herself for a few moments longer, she began to slowly regain her composure. As she thought about her setback, she knew what she had to do next.

She started up the truck, threw it in gear, and with a spray of gravel started across the dam toward her grandparents’ cabin and the far end of the reservoir.

CHAPTER 60

Highway 83 heading east through the tiny town of Swan Lake was wet and slushy as the snow of the previous few days slowly melted away. The roads at the southern end of Flathead Valley had gradually worsened as they neared the mountains. Kyle rode along with the sheriff and Lewis as they headed toward the Jewel Basin area in order to follow up on a complaint that had come in overnight. The place belonged to a Mr. John Morris.

The complaint had come in around 9:00 p.m., with reports of gunfire heard in the area around Mr. Morris’s residence. When the deputies arrived to question Mr. Morris, he admitted to having fired a shot into the woods behind his trailer because, as he said, “I seen something out there, and my dog’s gone missing.” That coupled with the location of his trailer, which was just over the mountains from Hungry Horse Reservoir as well as within a few miles of Jeffrey Wayne Tucker’s cabin, was enough to warrant further investigation. Marasco, of course, had thought differently, telling them in no uncertain terms that he thought they were wasting their time.

Just past the sweeping curve where Highway 83 headed south toward Swan Lake, the sheriff turned left onto an unmarked, gravel road. The tall, thin evergreens and the white-barked trunks of the aspens were plastered with numerous neon yellow and orange signs stating, “No trespassing” and “No hunting.” The addresses for the residences along the way consisted of wooden planks with reflective numbers nailed to trees or fence posts next to each drive. They had nearly reached the end of the road when they came to the lot for Mr. Morris.

The mobile home was in disrepair, the once-white siding riddled with dents and brown streaks of rust. A cord of firewood stacked against the left side of the place was covered with blue plastic sheeting to keep it dry, and it was held in place with an assortment of boards and rocks. A rusty, metal-pipe carousel used to dry clothes creaked as it slowly turned in the breeze.

A man about five foot nine and weighing at least 320 pounds opened the door. His dirty, stained undershirt was worn thin, and his thick, wiry black hair and beard looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed in years.

“John Morris,” the sheriff said in the deep, commanding voice of his.

“Yeah,” Morris replied. “What’d I do now?”

“In the report filed by my deputies, you claimed there was someone or something in the woods behind your place last night. We’d like to take a look around back to see if we can find any evidence of trespassing.”

“Yeah, sure. Help yourself.”

“Have you found your dog yet?” Lewis asked.

Morris looked at Lewis and appeared to frown, although it was hard to tell with the overgrown beard. “Nah, I still ain’t seen him.”

“Thanks,” Lewis said. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

They proceeded around back and began a careful examination of the area behind Morris’s trailer. They found no noticeable footprints either on the soft, damp ground or the patches of crusty snow lying in the shadows. Foot by foot, they worked their way deeper into the woods, scouring every inch of the needle-strewn carpet of wet, decaying leaves and rotting bark.

The sheriff called to them and knelt down, pointing. When he reached the sheriff’s side, Kyle was able to see the dark, blood-spattered leaves.

“Do you think he might have hit someone?” Lewis asked.

The sheriff moved forward and picked up a small clump of dark fur. The fur was matted with blood.

“Probably his own dog,” said the sheriff. The disappointment in the tone of his voice was obvious. Once again, a potential lead appeared to be gone.

Kyle sighed. “So do we keep looking?” he asked, looking farther into the woods.

The sheriff didn’t reply. He just continued to crouch there, his eyes narrowing as he looked at a tree five yards in front of him. Kyle followed his gaze. The rough bole of a tall pine stood before them, but the real item of interest was the freshly cut, eight-inch-long gash in its trunk about three feet above the ground.

As one, they moved forward, carefully scanning the ground in front of the tree. There were no footprints, but there was an abundance of dog prints. And more blood.

“I’ll call forensics,” said the sheriff.

Kyle couldn’t explain why, but like the sheriff, he felt certain that the cut in the trunk of this tree had been made by the same weapon that had severed the body parts of the previous victims. Perhaps it was just a hunch like all good agents claimed to have from time to time, but perhaps this time, it was more than that, similar to the way Sheriff Greyhawk seemed to sense things. It was as if he
knew
they were getting close, that somewhere there
was
an answer to all of the murders and the key to it all was right in front of them.