Thomas Prescott Superpack (42 page)

Chapter 28

The kid who delivered my pizza on Christmas was the same kid who delivered my pizza on Thanksgiving. I asked him if this made him a bigger loser than me. He laughed and we decided to call it a tie. I tipped him a hundred bucks and told him I’d see him on Easter.

Lacy called later that night and we chatted for a couple hours.
Her boyfriend, Caleb—one of my past students and an altogether good guy—was visiting and had popped the question. The two hadn’t set a wedding date, but they were shooting for spring of the following year.

After I hung up with Lacy, I went for a long run.
It’d been almost two weeks since the fish incident and I was ready to give my lung a try. I did my usual routine of push-ups and sit-ups before setting out into the drizzle. My chest was tight for the first couple miles; then like everything else, my lung seemed to loosen up. 

As my feet slapped against the wet gravel, I found myself getting introspective.
Which I normally avoid like the plague. It might have had something to do with my sister’s engagement. Here she was, eight years my junior, and she’d found the one thing she was passionate about and the one person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

Then you had me.

At the present juncture, I was unemployed.
I was up to my ears in a case that I shouldn’t be involved in, I was a phone call away from spending a couple months behind bars, I hadn’t had sex in three months, and yesterday, I’d found a gray hair. And not on my head. 

Something had to give.

. . .

I woke up early on the twenty-sixth.

The Seattle Municipal Library was all gray brick.
It was still early, around ten, and the lot was half full.

I walked into the large building, followed a couple signs, and thirty seconds later I was sitting in front of a computer.
I brought up Google and typed, “Ellen Gray.”

There were half a million results.
I clicked on the third result down, “The official website of Governor Ellen Gray.”

The page came up, but all it said was, “Governor Ellen Gray, 1960
—
2010. She will be missed.”

I clicked back to the results page, scrolled down a couple hits, then clicked on the Wikipedia page for Ellen Gray.

Ellen had graduated from the University of Washington with a bachelor’s degree in speech and sociology.
She’d been president of her sorority. She, like her husband, had a law degree, graduating from Gonzaga. From here she quickly moved up the ranks of the political arena.

I scrolled down.

Ellen Gray was elected governor four years earlier, beating out the incumbent by a mere percentage point.
 

There was a section marked
priorities
, followed by a bulleted list.

• Building a Safe and Effective Transportation System
  
• Educating to Compete
  
• Taking charge of our health
  
• Reducing our dependence on foreign oil
  
• Caring for our environment
  
• Holding our government accountable
  
• Strengthening Families
  
• Supporting Washington farmers and Ranchers
  

There was a small blurb on each.

I scrolled down to
Building a Safe & Efficient Transportation System
and began reading, “The first legislative session ended with Gray brokering new bipartisan transportation legislation. The package included a 0.5-cent-a-gallon gas-tax increase to help repair many roads in Washington, particularly around Seattle, such as the Alaskan Way Viaduct, Interstate 405, and the Route 520 Bridge. This proposal was initially rejected by the House but then passed with a revote the final day of the 2008 session.

“The tax package was met with mixed reviews. While she was praised widely by Democratic and Republican leaders of the House and Senate for her leadership skills regarding the passage of this deal, several legislators disagreed with the merits of the tax. Their reasons included the heavy emphasis on funding Seattle-area projects and the already high price of gas. An initiative to repeal the tax, Measure 912, was part of the November 2009 ballot, but was rejected by the voters.”

It seemed that Ellen alienated more than her fair share of concerned citizens. But would anyone go to the extreme of murder over a half-cent tax hike?

I read a couple more blurbs but nothing jumped out at me.
I made my way back to the results page and clicked on, “Images.”

About thirty images popped up and I scanned the lot of them.
One particular picture caught my eye. It was the same shot they had shown in Ellen Gray’s picture montage on the news. She was speaking to a small crowd of mostly men, outdoorsy types. A couple were holding signs that read, “Vote Yes on 217.”

Half the people were wearing shirts that read, “Defenders of Wildlife.”

“U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” was visible on a brown building in the background of the photo.

I Googled, “U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service” and “Washington state” and was directed to the Washington Division homepage for the agency.

I clicked on Field Office and a picture of the building from the photograph popped up. It looked bigger without the hoards of people surrounding it. I noted the address: 23 North Cascades Highway.

I MapQuested the address and surveyed the map.
The building was a mile from the entrance to North Cascades National Park.

Where Ellen had gone missing.

I hadn’t been to the North Cascades since I was a kid.
I decided it was time I went back.

Chapter 29

North Cascades National Park is located about two thirds of the way between Seattle and Canada. The last great divider between
The
Land of the Free
and
Those Who Guard the Land for Thee
. And, of course, cheap prescription drugs.

The park is mystical in its beauty, characterized by steep mountains, snaking rivers, subdued falls, lively brush, brazen wildlife, and cavernous glaciers.

However, I had a little fondness for the North Cascades.
I still had distant memories of being wrestled from bed at the crack of dawn to go hiking and fishing. These, my two least favorite activities united together in some sort of evil father/son liaison, typically climaxed by my falling into a freezing lake, getting attacked by a porcupine, getting a tick, or getting Scarlet fever. I would forever associate the North Cascades with terror.

Anyhow, I headed up Route 2 northbound.
The traffic was light. It was early, meaning it was before noon. 

The ubiquitous Seattle drizzle turned to a light snow as I entered the mountains.
The rains that had plagued Seattle for the last thirty days and thirty nights had come in the form of snow in the elevated areas of the state, and the mountains were covered in a thick blanket of white. 

I followed the signs, made some treacherous curves, went through two tunnels, and half an hour later I was parking in a narrow lot piled high with brown snow.

In the far west corner of the lot were two Jeep Cherokees.
One was simply a Jeep-shaped cloud of snow. The other had a lightly dusting of flakes and U.S. Fish and Wildlife embossed on the side.

As for the building: it resembled something of a leasing office: inviting yet dismissive.
It was brown brick and brown aluminum siding. Two windows, set evenly apart, were both a frozen blue and filled to half capacity with snow. As for the roof, the snow was packed high, patiently awaiting a gunshot, a car backfire, or even the slightest vibration to prompt an avalanche. Huge icicles hung from the eves like clear stalactites.

I hopped out and trudged toward the entrance.
For the record, I looked rather foolish. Because I had failed to pack any winter items when leaving Maine, I was once again relegated to wearing some of my father’s old gear. He—like many a Seattleite—was a diehard Seahawks fan. So I was wearing a puffy Seahawks coat, Seahawks beanie, and Seahawks gloves.

Thomas Prescott, Seahawks Super Fan.

As I neared the building, I noticed two snowmobiles sleeping.
One two-seater and another more compact model. I headed up the angled walkway and rapped on the thin door. No response. I knocked a second time and the door swung inward revealing drab orange industrial carpet. A rush of warm air washed over me.

I squeezed my head through the opening and yelled the customary, “Ahlo?
Anybody home?”

The prelude for any good breaking and entering.

I waited for a response, received none, then pushed the door open and entered into a wide room. To my immediate left, were two doors, one I’m guessing led to an office and the other a lavatory.
Soft light shone through the windows. I hit a light switch and surveyed my surroundings. There were a series of displays set up within the room and posters and maps covering most of the walls. I moved to one of the displays. It was a plaster slab of a fish. I read about it. This particular fish was best known for its ability to swim as well as breath under water.

I spent the next few minutes reading about the various types of wildlife that roamed the North Cascades.
Mountain lions, mountain goats, black bears, grizzly bears, lynx, moose, wolverines, cougars, elk, deer, beavers, raccoons, bats, you name it. 

According to a large topographical map, North Cascades National Park covered more than 685,000 acres. The majority of the mountain peaks were under 10,000 feet, save for one, Mount Baker, standing tall at 10,778.

I made my way to the hall and pushed the first of two identical doors inward.
It revealed a functional bathroom. A single toilet with no lid and rusty pipes. A soon-to-be-retired roll of toilet paper sat atop the tank. A solitary light dangled from the ceiling. It swayed in a tight circle from an unknown source. I pulled the door closed and moved on.

The second door led to a compact office with a small desk at center.
Sitting atop a clutter of paper was an open Tupperware container, the fork and knife resting peacefully on the bottom, the lid askew. Directly behind the desk, was a black filing cabinet with two of its four drawers pulled out at different distances. A pair of skis crisscrossed in one corner and a rifle catnapped in another. 

 
The walls were covered with maps, notices, memos, things tacked to
things tacked
to
the wall. A Deep Rock water system gurgled just feet from me. It was filled with light blue pebbles and green vegetation. I leaned down for closer inspection and noticed two fish floating at the surface. I visualized Adam Gray standing in the doorway, his thumb in his mouth, rocking lightly back and forth.

I glanced at a couple different documents strewn on the desk.
Mostly gibberish. Stuff starting with
Section 7, Code 12, Clause BB
and ending with a long list of “Contributors.”

No thanks.

I went for the filing cabinet.
It was alphabetized. A through F in the top bin, G through L in the second, and so on. The second drawer from the bottom was open. I fingered the manila folders. Pulled out P. Opened it. Thumbed through a folder marked, “Precipitation Records.” Lots of line graphs. I replaced the folder. Over the next few minutes I checked W for “Why Ellen Gray was killed.” No go. I searched
S for “Secret” and T for “Top Secret.” No and no. I searched M for “Murder.” Which did contain a Sue Grafton novel, but little else. I was searching E for “Election” when I stumbled on a folder marked, “Endangered.”

It was a bright red folder.
The only red folder I’d yet to encounter. I flipped through a couple pages. Lots of small print. The fifth page was orange and had “Ballot Measure 217” written at top. 

I recalled the photograph of Ellen behind a podium, the man in the audience with the Defenders of Wildlife T-shirt holding a sign that read, “Vote Yes on Measure 217.”

The top sentence read, “Ballot Measure 217 is a repeal of Bill SE 1670, thereby granting reintroduction of the
Canis lupus
to the North Cascades National Park.”

So, Ellen Gray was an animal rights activist.

Another dead end.

“Ahem.”

I looked up.

A woman stood in the doorway.
She had a tan jacket with the U.S Fish and Wildlife logo on the left breast and a black headband with the same logo. She had short brown hair and blue eyes. She reminded me of the cute girl from Northern Exposure. Maggie O’Connell. Most importantly, she looked substantially annoyed.

She scowled at me, then said, “Did you eat that?”

I raised my eyebrows.

She pointed to the Tupperware container.
“My lunch. Did you eat my lunch?”

“That would be a no.
It was sitting out like that when I broke in and started snooping.”

She shook her head.
“I swear, if that bastard eats my lunch one more time I’m gonna cut off his balls.”

“Who?”

“Other guy doing rounds today. Herb.” She stared at me for an awkward moment. “What are you doing in my office?”

It’s always best to tell the truth in a situation such as this and I said, “I’ll level with you.
I’m a bounty hunter.”

“You don’t look like a bounty hunter.”

I looked myself up and down. No, I sure didn’t. I looked like a crazed Seahawks fan that had just broken out of an institution. But I was already committed to the lie and so began the stupidest story in the history of time.

Seven minutes later, when I concluded my ridiculous tall tale, the bewildered park ranger said, “And you think after he jumped out of the plane he landed somewhere around here?”

I nodded.

“Well, I hope you find him.”

“Me too.”

“I can take you around on the snowmobile if you want.”

It’s not like I had anything else to do. This trip had been a considerable waste of time, and I wasn’t about to turn down a snowmobile ride with the increasingly cute park ranger. “That would be great.”

As we were heading for the door I said, “Just out of curiosity, what are
Canis lupus
?”

She turned. “
Canis lupus
?”

“Yeah.”

She paused, then smiled. “Wolves.”