Authors: Warren C Easley
Dead Float (5 page)
As the group was breaking up to go to the tents, Philip stepped out of the shadows. “Folks, don't be surprised if you hear train noises tonight. We're about a hundred yards from a Barlow Northern switching area.”
“What do they do way out here?” Alexis asked.
“Oh, they pull onto the siding to let other trains go by. They drop or add cars. It can get pretty noisy, I'm afraid.”
“It's all part of the romance of the place,” Bruckner said. “I'll find it as relaxing as the river sounds.”
Pitman groaned, and Hannon said, “Right.”
Good nights were said, and, flashlights in hand, the group wandered off in the direction of the tents. I went down to the river with a cup of water and my toothbrush. While I was brushing my teeth, I thought about the NanoTech top management team. No question, Bruckner and Daina had their work cut out for them. Greed, ambition, jealousyâjust one big, happy family.
The camp had grown dark except for the soft yellow glow from the tents strung in an irregular row downstream of the cooking area. I could hear the soft murmur of voices above the river babble and smell the faint odor of sage on the breeze. Philip, Blake, and I opted to sleep under the stars like Bruckner, although we put our sleeping bags upriver of the campfire to afford our clients maximum privacy. I hadn't brought a flashlight, so I was moving slowly toward my sleeping bag when I heard voices in a near whisper off to my left. I recognized one of the voices. Curious, I stopped, stepped off the trail into the deep shadows, and listened.
“â¦Oh my, I can feel your enthusiasm already. Come to my tent tonight. I'll leave it unzipped. Just wait until you hear Hal snoring.”
“Uh, not a good idea, Alexis. Let's cool it tonight.”
Then I heard the heavy nasal breathing and soft groaning of a kiss in progress.
Through the tree branches I could just make out the shadowy outline of two people embracing. Then one broke free, and headed toward the tents. It was Alexis. The other shadow stood motionless until Alexis reached her tent and then started off. I lost the figure in the dark, then picked it up again just as it entered the tent this side of the Bruckner's. Mitch Hannon's tent.
I headed off down the path. I almost laughed out loud when I realized I was actually feeling a pang of, what,
jealousy
? I shook it off. Ah, the male ego, I thoughtâI don't want her, but you can't have her. I wasn't that surprised Mitch Hannon was sneaking around with his uncle's wife. Alexis and Hannon? A match made somewhere, but definitely not in heaven.
When I reached my cot I realized I'd left my fleece jacket on the chair back at the fire. It was getting cold, and I knew I'd need it in the morning. I groaned and retraced my steps. Only a few fading embers remained in the fire ring, and in the near darkness I couldn't find the jacket. Since Philip and Blake had moved the chairs after the evening session I didn't think much of it.
By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag, I could hear both Blake and Philipâwho had set up their bunks down closer to the riverâin a duet of soft snoring. I rummaged through my bag for a wool sweater, slipped it on and crawled into my sleeping bag. There was no moon and the stars hung in the soft glow of the Milky Way like luminous saucers. A meteor burned white hot across the sky, faded to red, and disappeared just as I fell into sleep.
It must have been three hours later when the train noises Philip had warned about woke me. I lay there listening to the sounds and wondering who else was awakened by the keening of steel on steel and the screech of hydraulic brakes. The noises finally subsided, and as I was spiraling back into an alpha state, I heard the snap of a single dry branch. I awoke instantly. I'm still not sure why. Maybe it was the sense I had that the branch had been crushed under someone's foot.
The sound seemed to come from the direction of the switching area, although I wasn't sure, and it seemed so vivid that I ruled out a dream. An animal? Maybe, but the critters that prowl campsites are known for their stealth.
I lay there listening but heard nothing else except the river noise and the breeze ruffling the cottonwood branches. As I drifted back into sleep I thought I could hear the sound of two trains receding into the distance in opposite directions.
I awoke the next morning feeling like I'd just surfaced from a deep dive in a dark ocean. I pressed the stem on my watch to illuminate the face. It was 5:08. The stars that burned so fiercely in the night sky had withered to faint points, and the sun cowered somewhere behind the rim of the canyon. It was shivery cold, and I was groggy from a night of fitful sleep from the noise of the passing freights. For the first time in my life I considered going back to sleep rather than getting up to fish. But I'd had worse nights and fished in colder weather. This is the salmon fly hatch, I reminded myself, as I groaned and crawled out of my sleeping bag.
I sat down on a stump, pulled on my waders and boots, and put my fishing vest on over the thick wool sweater I'd slept in. My fly rod leaned against the mesquite bush with a fly already tied to the leader, ready to go. Everything in camp seemed in order, and as I started out I felt better. It looked like a morning of good fishing.
I followed a narrow path that ran through the saw grass, mock orange, and water hemlock along the river. I planned to go downstream and fish my way back in order to be in time for breakfast. A thin gauze of clouds had formed, promising to diminish the morning sunlight. I shivered at the thought of entering the frigid water and envied our clients, who would awaken to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon.
I cut over to the bank and, using my wading stick for balance, entered the river next to a jagged, bleached out snag. The air was still and laced with the smell of wet vegetation and dank earth. I turned to face the current and surveyed it silently for breakfasting fish. A low alder leaned out over the water, its exposed roots clutching the bank like bony fingers. The light was low, the water dark, but under the branches I spotted a spreading set of rings. I moved closer, and the trout rolled again in the center of the rings. I heard the flick of its tail and saw the faint flash of its underbelly. I felt better instantly. This is what I got up for.
My pulse quickened as I let my line trail out in the current behind me. Worried about snagging my fly in the alder branches, I side-armed my first cast. It had the right distance but went wide of the spot where the trout had rolled. My second cast put the fly in under the branches and directly upriver of the feeding fish by about ten feet. It gently settled on the water among several coils of leader and began to drift toward me without the slightest wake, mimicking a salmon fly that had surrendered to the river. Philip would be proud. It was what he liked to call a dead float, and it was a perfect one. I tensed, knowing a drift like that promised action.
I saw a flash of silver first, then the arc of its back as the big redside ripped the fly from the surface and then dove back toward the bottom like a submarine. My rod wrenched double, and line stripped off my reel at a furious rate. I turned to face the fish and nearly lost my balance on the slick rocks as I brought my pole tip up and pulled back hard on the line. Violently shaking its head to throw the hook, the fish came up in a geyser of spray and iridescent color, up, up until it was completely out of the water. Then it ran toward the center of the river where the swifter current magnified its considerable strength. Fearing the leader would snap, I let the fish take more line.
As I waited for the trout to make its next move, I heard the first scream. It was just audible over the river noise and seemed to come from the direction of camp. The sound was high-pitched. My first thought was a cougar. I froze in the current, straining to hear. Then I heard a second, louder scream. That was no cougar, that was a woman! Then a man's voice cried out, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
My line went slack, and the trout slipped the hook in an instant. I hardly noticed as I waded to the bank and took off up the trail as fast as my wading boots would allow. Approaching camp, I saw Philip trotting toward our clients, who'd gathered in a tight knot near the riverbank. They had their backs to me, staring at something.
“Philip,” I called out, “what's wrong?”
He stopped, spun around, and cried, “Cal, it's Bruckner. For Christ's sake, get over here!”
I joined Philip, and together we moved around the others. What I saw next will stay with me as long as I live. Hal Bruckner lay on his back, snuggly zipped into his sleeping bag, his arms dangling on either side and his head tilted back, as if he were gazing at the sky. I stepped up for a closer look as flies buzzed excitedly around his face. His eyes, vacant and opaque, were frozen in a look of terror, and his mouth raged in a silent scream. His throat was gone, utterly, slashed through to the vertebra and open like a bloody mouth. The visage staggered me like a blow to the body, and as I reeled backward my boots squished in the blood, quarts of it, surrounding his body.
I steadied myself and fought back a gush of bile in my throat and an overwhelming sense of disbelief. Someone needed to take charge, and I guessed it would have to be me. “Uh, folks, you need to get back. This is a crime scene. Please get back, and for God's sake don't touch anything in camp. Philip, we need to get the sheriff in here right away.”
Philip was already headed for the tracks on a trot. “Right,” he called back over his shoulder.
I moved the group over to the breakfast area. Daina was tending to Alexis, who by this time had gone from wailing to sobbing and repeating, “No, no, no.” Daina, ashen-faced but dry-eyed, was speaking softly to Alexis and stroking her hair. Hannon, Streeter, and Pitman stood in a circle talking in hushed tones. Blake stood off by himself studying his boots.
It would take some time for the sheriff to arrive, so I decided to have a look around. I went back to the body first. Flies swarmed, and the coppery smell of blood hung in the air. I moved around the cot carefully, looking for anything, but most particularly a murder weapon. Nothing. The campsite was bounded on the east by the river and on the west by the railroad tracks. I walked from the cot over to the solar toilet located below the tracks on the south boundary of the camp without noting anything unusual. I opened the door to the toilet, and although the smell turned my already queasy stomach, nothing was out of place. I headed from the toilet toward the riverbank, scanning the brush and stony terrain. I stopped at a narrow path on my left that cut through the shin-high thistle grass toward the railroad switching area, located a hundred yards upstream around a sharp curve. The path began about halfway between the toilet and the riverbank.
I stood there for a moment thinking about the sound of snapping wood that awakened me the night before. Then I continued over to the riverbank where our two float boats and the raft were moored. As far as I could see, nothing had been disturbed. I walked another sixty feet upriver to where Philip, Blake, and I had slept. Our cots were probably ten feet apart, and mine was separated from theirs by a large mesquite bush.
I sat down on my cot and held my head in my hands. I craved a cup of coffee, and the lack of caffeine was giving me a headache. I tried to recall details from the night before. After brushing my teeth, I had overheard the exchange between Alexis and Hannon. By that time the rest of the party had retired. Streeter was in the tent closest to the campfire. I remember seeing his light through the tent wall. Pitman was in the second tent, Daina in the third. Hannon was next, with Alexis in the final tent. Bruckner was sleeping on the riverbank about fifty feet directly across from Alexis' tent. When I finally turned in, the camp was dark and, except for the snoring of Blake and Philip, silent.
The train noise began around 1:30âI remember checking my watchâand lasted until around two or so.
I started up the path toward the campfire. Philip was spooning ground coffee into the top of a big, soot-stained pot that was heating on a propane burner.
“Figured we could use some coffee,” he said without looking up.
“You figured right, my friend. How are Alexis and the rest of the crew holding up?”
“Okay, I guess. I don't think reality has sunk in yet.”
“You guys hear or see anything last night?”
“Nothin' at all, not even the trains,” Philip replied, looking up for the first time.
Blake nodded in agreement.
“You sure?” I persisted. “
Anything
.”
Blake shifted in his seat. “Well, I did see somebody go back up to the tracks after we turned in. Saw the flashlight. Figured somebody making a last phone call.”
“Did you see which tent the person came from?”
“No. I really couldn't tell.”
“What about the kitchen knives?” I continued, pointing in the direction of the table where I'd left them to dry with all the other utensils the night before.
“All present and accounted for,” Philip answered. “So, what do you make of this, Cal? Some maniac passing through, or do we have a slasher in our happy little group?”
“Well, most people are murdered by people they know, but who knows what happened here? In any case, whoever did it didn't leave the murder weapon lying around.”
“Probably in the river,” Philip replied, glancing out at the water. He scratched the side of his face and flicked a salmon fly off his forearm. “You know, if somebody tossed the weapon out there it would be fairly easy to find.”
“How's that?”
“The gravel bar. The knife would be sitting out there. Easy to spot by a diver.”
“Good thinking, Sherlock. Hold that thought for the sheriff. You're an expert tracker, right?”
“Yep. Learned from the best. My granddad.”
“You know the path leading over to the switching area?
“Yeah.”
“Do me a favor. Go over there and check it out. Tell me if anyone was on it last night.”
“Why?”
“I thought I heard something last night is all. Could've been a dream. I'm not sure.”
“Heard what?”
“A twig or a branch snapping. It woke me right up.”
“Hmm,” Philip said as he finished loading the coffee, “I'll have a look.”
Philip was heading off in the direction of the path when Mitch Hannon called me over to where he, Streeter, and Pitman were huddled. As I approached them, Hannon said, “Where the hell's the sheriff, Claxton?”
“On the way.” I glanced at my watch. “Another thirty minutes, maybe. They're coming from Madras.”
“You see anything in your little walkabout?” Hannon continued.
“Nope. Not a thing. Did you guys hear or see anything unusual last night?”
“We've already compared notes,” Hannon replied.
“Nothing but the trains,” Pitman said.
“What about you, the chief, and boat boy?” Hannon asked.
Hannon's tone was getting on my nerves, but I ignored it. “Same with us.” Then I added, “Which one of you made a call last night after everyone had turned in?”
All three of them looked up at me, but no one said a word.
“Blake saw someone with a flashlight go up the hill after we turned in. Thought maybe it was one of you. Guess not.” I excused myself and walked over to Alexis and Daina. I knelt down on one knee in front of them.
Daina was still comforting Alexis, who continued to sob with her head down. Before I could speak, Daina said, “Calvin, who could have done something so horrible?”
“I don't know. Did you hear or see anything unusual last night?”
“No. Not a thing. Not even the trains. I'm a sound sleeper.”
“You make a call after we all turned in?”
“No.”
“How about you, Alexis?” I said as gently as I could. Her eyes were red and swollen. I was struck by the fact that she looked older, much older in the morning light. I realized it was the wrinkles around her eyes, revealed by a lack of makeup.
“I didn't make any calls, and I didn't hear anything except the train noises,” she answered. Then she looked up at me. “His bracelet's gone.”
“What bracelet?”
“The gold one. The one I gave him in Maui.”
“I see. Be sure to tell the investigators about that.”
I went back over to the campfire to check the coffee. Blake had already taken it off the burner and poured himself a cup. He was sitting there cradling it in his hands. I did the same and sat down next to him. The coffee was warm and familiar in my hands, and the first sip soothed every cell in my body. The second sip was even better. We sat there drinking without talking until Philip came back. He poured himself a cup and sat down with a heavy sigh.
I waited for him to speak and finally said, “So?”
“You were right. Someone walked that trail last night. Matter of fact, halfway in he stepped off the trail and took a leak.”
