Dead Float (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I asked Philip to drive my car as we headed back to Madras so I'd be free to phone Harrelson at Well Spring. He'd left a message for me to call, but no details. The extraordinary events of the day had managed to neutralize my anxiety about Claire, but it was now coming back with a vengeance. I caught him on his commute home.

“Mr. Claxton, thank you for getting back to me. We, uh, still haven't been able to reach your daughter's group. But, again, there's no need to worry. We—”

“No need to worry?” I interrupted. “She's
five
days overdue for our call.”

“I understand your concern, Mr. Claxton. We've consulted with the AU, and as a precaution, we're sending a security team in to locate them.”

“Who's the AU?”

“The African Union. Actually, our security team is being escorted by Nigerian troops. They're part of the AU's peacekeeping contingent.”

“I see. How long will it take for them to get up to northern Darfur?”

“They'll be there tomorrow. Meanwhile, I want to assure you we're doing everything we can to locate your daughter. We have no reason to believe there's anything amiss here. I'll call you tomorrow with any news. Okay?”

No reason, my ass. If there's no issue, why send in a security team? But I held my tongue and instead made him stay on the line as I asked a dozen other questions about the situation. To Harrelson's credit he answered them with more patience than one would expect from someone commuting home in L.A. traffic.

I dropped Philip off at his place, a two-acre spread north of town off Route 97. Although I felt tired and a little light-headed from lack of food, I begged off a dinner invitation from his wife, Lanie. I needed some alone time as well as something to get my mind off Claire. The answer was simple. I'd see what I could learn about the Barlow Northern Railroad's comings and goings, and do it now before the trail, if there was one, went cold.

I stopped at a gas station, filled my tank, then bought a cup of coffee and the last turkey sandwich in the case. I forced the sandwich down, knowing I needed food. The coffee was freshly brewed and was called, appropriately enough, “Fog Cutter.” I had two cups.

I got directions to the B-N freight yard, located northwest of town off Route 26. Of course, I had no way of knowing whether the intruder had boarded a northbound train at this point. Nor did I know what in the world I would look for out there. But Route 26 was the most direct route in from Portland, so if the bad guy came in from that direction, the freight yard would be a logical point for him to hop a train for the short ride to the Kaskela switching area. Besides, checking it out would give me something to do in my restless state.

The food and the coffee began to kick in, and as I headed out of town I noticed my surroundings for the first time that day. The air was sparkling with that late, gold-tinged light photographers dream about. The volcanoes dwarfed everything on the horizon. Mount Hood was dead ahead, Jefferson at ten o'clock, Three-Fingers Jack at nine, and the Three Sisters at four.

When I arrived at the freight yard I sat in the small public parking lot for a couple of minutes trying to remember why I had driven all the way out here. The yard went on for what looked like acres. Freight cars and tankers were scattered around, singly and in combinations of various lengths, waiting to be hooked up and hauled off. The place seemed deserted except for someone in a small guard shack that stood next to the main entrance gate.

I finally got out of my car and approached the guard shack. A young man with dirty blond hair and a scraggly mustache sat inside reading beneath a dim bulb. Out in the yard, a crane suddenly sprang to life and began swinging one of the truck trailers onto a flatbed railroad car.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully through the open window.

After a long pause, the young man raised his eyes, but not his head, from a wrinkled paperback. “What can I do for you?”

I noticed that he was reading
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy
. “Doug Adams fan, huh?” I nodded in the direction of the paperback.

The man's head came up, and his eyes met mine. “Yeah, man.”

“Name's Cal.” I extended my hand and smiled. “What's yours?”

“Billy,” he replied, shaking my hand indifferently.

“Billy, I'm investigating a death that happened out on the Deschutes last night. Wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Sure. Another drowning?”

“No. A man was murdered.”

“Far out. You a cop?”

“No. A lawyer. Were you working here last night, Billy?”

“Sure. I'm here Monday through Friday, four to twelve.”

“I see,” I replied, trying not to show my disappointment. The intruder could have boarded the train
after
Billy left work. “What time did you leave last night?”

“Three. I covered for Franny Halstead at the last minute.”

Relieved, I continued. “A northbound freight came through here last night at 12:30 or so. Right?”

“Right. That would be the 504 heading for The Dalles.” His eyes quickly scanned the screen in front of him. “Twelve thirty-two, to be exact.”

“Hang on a sec,” I said as I took a pen and small notebook from my shirt pocket and jotted the information down. “You see or hear anything unusual around that time? Like maybe someone hopping it?”

“No,” he said as he scratched his temple with his index finger. “I wouldn't see anything from in here, and I didn't hear about any hoppers. Usually only hear when somebody gets hurt. It was quiet last night.”

“Who would have told you about hoppers?”

“You know, security,” he answered.

“Can you give me a name of someone in security I can talk to?”

“Sure.” He pulled up another screen and obligingly read off a name and a number that I jotted down.

“How about a second train? I continued. “Was there one coming south on the same tracks?”

“Sure was. That would be the 1520 from Spokane. The 504 lets her pass at Kaskela.”

Bingo
, I said to myself. “How about that crew in there?” I nodded in the direction of the crane. “Any chance
they
saw something?”

“Nah, they get off at eight. They would've been long gone last night.”

I thanked Billy and left. As I was driving back to the highway I noticed some kids skateboarding under the lights in the parking lot of a large warehouse. The loading dock with all its ramps, stairs, and railings provided a challenging set of obstacles. I pulled over and watched for a few minutes, wincing at some of their maneuvers. Then on a whim, I turned into the lot. When they saw me they took off around the building.

I stopped, got out of the car, and yelled, “Hey, guys. It's cool. I'm not a cop! I just want to talk to you about something that happened last night.”

They didn't answer, so I followed the four of them around to the side of the warehouse. I guessed they came from the Warm Springs Reservation, which was only a couple of miles up Route 26. I found them sitting under the only light on the side of the building, their skateboards propped next to a row of low-slung dirt bikes. Insects were spiraling in the light, and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of cedar. The warehouse must have been full of raw lumber.

“I saw some pretty awesome moves out there. You guys skate here often?” I began.

No answer.

“Look guys, I'm looking for information about something that happened last night. I was wondering if any of you noticed someone coming down this road last night between, say, ten and twelve? Were you here then?”

After a pause that was so long I was ready to give up, the boy sitting closest to me looked up and said, “So what if we did?” His dark eyes shone in the harsh yellow light, his cheeks were flecked with acne, and the hair on his upper lip looked more like a shadow than a mustache.

“Well, it could be really important. I'm trying to find out who killed someone last night on the river.”

The boy who'd spoken up eyed me. “No shit? Someone got murdered?”

“Yes. Did you see someone around here last night?”

Their spokesman said something under his breath that I didn't catch. The others laughed. “What's it worth to you?”

I sensed they knew something, so I didn't hesitate. “Ten bucks a piece, but I don't want any bullshit.” To prove good faith, I pulled my wallet from my back pocket, took out two twenty-dollar bills and placed them in my shirt pocket. Then I took out my pen and notebook and knelt down in front of them. “So what'd you see last night?”

“We was sittin' right here havin' a brew.” The other boys chuckled at this. “This dude pulls up and parks under those trees across the street, way back where you can't see his car. We're quiet, thinkin' maybe he's a cop or something. He locks up and heads up the road toward the tracks.”

“What time was it?”

“About ten-thirty.”

“What did he look like?”

“Couldn't see much, man. The dude was pretty tall. Dressed in jeans and a black hoodie.”

“Taller than me?”

“Maybe.”

“What else did you notice about him?”

“Uh, he had his hood up and was carrying some kind of backpack.”

“White guy?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“What kind of car?”

“F-150 pickup, man. Nice ride,” he said with a sly smile. The other boys started giggling at this. The boy who was speaking shushed them and dropped the smile.

I probed with several more questions, trying to squeeze out more details. But it was clear that was about all I was going to get, so I handed over the two twenties. I was also pretty sure that the boys had taken the Ford F-150 for a joy ride, but I didn't go down that path for fear of scaring them off. Their spokesman willingly gave me his name, Oliver Dan. I was right, they lived on the rez. My first witnesses.

The impact of the day's events had finally caught up with me. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open and my car on the road. I decided to head back to the motel in Madras rather than press on to Dundee. I was exhausted, but at the same time I felt a flicker of excitement. I was pretty sure I'd figured out how the killer had come and gone at Whiskey Dick, and I had a sketchy description of him. Not a bad evening's work. I would tell Escalante and Dorn about what I'd learned, but I didn't hold out much hope that they'd buy it. I'd worked with a lot of investigators, and I knew they usually took the path of least resistance. I had no reason to think these detectives would be any different.

I thought about that bled-out corpse with the slashed neck and vacant eyes that had been Hal Bruckner. A cold shadow passed over my heart. At the same time, I had a sense of anticipation. It was a little like the feeling I get after a good cast. The fly settles into a dead float, and I wait with the knowledge that something is about to play out.

Chapter Fifteen

The only act I managed to perform before falling into bed back at the motel was to set my alarm for six a.m. I wanted to get an early start back to Dundee. The next morning broke cloudy and decidedly cooler, and when I arrived at Pritchard's Animal Care Center to pick up Archie, a light mist was falling. Pritchard's Saab 900T convertible was parked around back. The classic Saab was in mint condition—the only conspicuous concession to consumerism my friend allowed himself.

Hiram Pritchard was an intellectual, a vegan, and a passionate champion of animal rights. He told me once he'd been thrown out of Johns Hopkins Medical School in his fourth year for an incident involving the “liberation” of some rhesus monkeys being used for medical research, but I never got the whole story. He was tall and lanky with pale, freckled skin, and a receding hairline that served to magnify an already large forehead. He had a long, thin nose and gray eyes that usually twinkled above a crooked, affable smile.

“So, the great white fisherman returns,” he said as he opened the door and looked at me above his granny glasses.

I had phoned him that I was picking up Archie early, but I hadn't told him why.

“I trust you didn't torture too many
mykiss iridus
on this trip?”

“If by that mouthful of Latin you're referring to desert red band trout, I'm pleading not guilty. Catch and release, yes. Torture, no.”

“Actually,” he continued, warming to the task, for my friend loved to argue, “I chose the term
torture
with some care. Did you know that it's been shown
scientifically
that fish feel pain when they're hooked?”

I was thinking about how to respond to this without getting trapped when Archie burst into the room. He was wagging his entire back end, his high pitched yelps reaching the pain threshold. I dropped to one knee and grabbed him in a bear hug while he scrubbed the side of my face with his tongue.

I used Archie's sudden arrival as an excuse to change the subject. I wasn't up to a debate on the cruelties of fishing with my sharp-witted friend. Instead, I filled him in on what had happened on the Deschutes. I left out the parts about the affair with Alexis and my missing knife and jacket. Hiram was shocked by the story and full of questions. I didn't start home with Arch for another hour.

With Arch in the backseat I headed into the Dundee Hills, whose volcanic soils and southern exposures underpinned the local wine industry. After passing several rows of houses with excellent views of the northern valley, I drove through the vineyards that hugged the rolling hills with geometric precision. As I rounded a curve, I caught a glimpse of the ridge where my house stood behind a line of Douglas firs. A glint of white through the trees told me my sanctuary was still standing.

The 1917 farmhouse stood on the south edge of five acres of sloping, tillable land atop the ridge. It was a “Four Square”—four rooms built over four rooms—and was clad with the original shiplap siding and a weather beaten, shingle roof of old-growth cedar. A wide, wraparound porch surrounded the structure like a moat. The only outbuildings were a two-car garage and a small barn housing my twenty-two-horse John Deere and a multitude of gardening tools. A sign with letters deeply carved into a block of red cedar greeted visitors at the gate:

Claxton's Aerie

Welcome

The word
aerie
is Gaelic for fortress on a hill.

***

The following Saturday morning Archie and I worked our way down to the mailbox while playing a leisurely game of fetch the tennis ball. News of Hal Bruckner's murder was on the front page of
The Oregonian.
There was a photo of Bruckner and an inset showing a map of the river with an arrow pointing to the Whiskey Dick camping area. The story was sketchy, although the reporter had managed to get all the names of the NanoTech employees on the trip. Detective Escalante was quoted as saying they had no suspects, but several leads were being aggressively followed. If anything had been found in the river, it wasn't mentioned. The story did mention Philip's guide service, Northwest Experience, although no names, including mine, were given.

Like most Australian shepherds, Archie showed no signs whatsoever of tiring of our game, nor was he the least bit concerned that the tennis ball had acquired a thick coating of slobber, dirt, and fir needles. We had just worked our way back up the long drive and through the gate when my cell rang. I gave the ball a final heave and accepted the call.

“Mr. Claxton? This is detective Escalante from the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department.”

“Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?”

“We'd, uh, like to talk to you again. There're some loose ends we'd like to clear up.”