Gray Ghost Murders (9781101606070) (18 page)

Kauffeld had reeled in his line and set down the spinning rod. He'd returned Wade's direct gaze.

“Maybe it is,” he said.

Wade told Kauffeld he'd been thinking of it for a long time, waiting for the right person to carry out a “terminal arrangement,” as he put it. He had a mountain in mind in southwest Montana. They agreed on a date in July.

Kauffeld interrupted his narration to lock eyes with Harold. “We hammered out the details like we were planning a heist, like we were burglars. It was our secret.”

Kauffeld said Wade gave him a phone number that he could call at precisely midnight eastern standard time, one week prior to the date, if for any reason he couldn't make the arrangement or wanted to back out. If Wade didn't receive that call, it was on and one would die, the other would bury him where he fell.

“If I lose,” Kauffeld had told him, “I don't just disappear without people looking for me. They'll trace me and find you. You could die in prison.” Had Wade thought of that?

He had. He told Kauffeld that there could be no record of him traveling to Montana. He was to travel by Amtrak to Shelby, up on the Highline below the Alberta-Montana border, then catch a bus to Bridger. Pay for both tickets with cash. In Bridger, he'd find a Pinto station wagon parked on East Mendenhall Street, key under a rock at the base of the nearest tree; in the car would be camping equipment and a rifle with ammunition. He was to drive up the Gallatin Canyon on U.S. 191 to mile marker 59 and set up a camp at the Greek Creek Campground. Specific instructions for the assignation, including maps and GPS coordinates, would be in an envelope under a white rock beside the westernmost piling of the bridge over Squaw Creek, a few miles upriver at mile 66. The canyon was surrounded by national forest where he could hike to become acclimated to the altitude and check the sights on the rifle. If Kauffeld wanted to bring his own rifle, instead, of course that was fine.

“What if I'm the survivor?” Kauffeld had asked.

“Then after you bury me, maybe you make a similar arrangement with someone else. What do you think? Sound fair? I don't want you to think I'm setting you up.”

Kauffeld had said it didn't sound fair, as Wade had the advantage of picking country he was familiar with and setting the rules. Wade replied that once Kauffeld received the instructions, he'd understand that if anyone had the edge it would be him. “Believe me,” Wade had said, “this is a fight I don't want to win.”

Wade had extended his hand. Kauffeld had taken it. Wade said he thought it best if they didn't speak again, as there was too much chance they would become friends, confusing the arrangement and making it harder to commit. He said he was leaving within the hour, the next time they met would be on the mountain. They rowed to shore and parted. It was the last time Kauffeld had seen him.

Kauffeld managed the slightest smile and shrugged. He looked at Harriet and squeezed her hand.

Harold glanced down at the notes he had taken during the statement.

“Did Wade say what kind of illness he had that would make him consider ending his life?”

Kauffeld nodded. “It was Huntington's. He said he still felt fine but the symptoms had started. It runs in the family, so he knew he was at risk. He'd seen what happened to his father in the later stages of the disease. There was no way he was letting it get to that point.”

“Did he say where he lived?”

Kauffeld shook his head. “I assumed somewhere around here.”

Harold glanced at Stranahan and Ettinger.

Stranahan said, “Did Wade have a mustache?” When he'd glanced his flashlight over the face of the lion hunter at the Bear Creek trailhead, he'd noted the mustache.

Kauffeld nodded. “It was very neat. Everything about him was neat except he had rough palms. Like shaking hands with sandpaper. I got the impression he'd lived a hard life. But he's a good man. He had tears in his eyes when we said goodbye at the lake. He didn't wipe them away.” He turned to meet Ettinger's level gaze. “He's not a monster, Sheriff, as much as you might want to believe that he is.”

Ettinger stared off a moment in the direction of the creek. She kneaded her chin with her fingers.

“Where was this arrangement going to take place?” she said.

“Noon on a slope of Sphinx Mountain. He said it would be about a three-hour hike, most of it uphill. I said I thought I could make it.”

“Did he give you a map?”

Kauffeld looked off a second. “No, only the GPS coordinates. He said I'd know I was in the right place when I saw the shovel. He was going to prop a shovel at the coordinates.”

“We're going to need that envelope.”

“I don't know if I want to show it to you. We had an arrangement. If he could get in any trouble—”

“Mr. Kauffeld,” Ettinger cut him off. “I have something I'd like you to take a look at.” She unsnapped her breast pocket and turned two autopsy photos face up on the table between them.

Kauffeld swallowed his Adam's apple and turned his head away.

“This good man of yours,” she said softly, “used his shovel to put these two people in the ground, probably within a few hundred feet of the coordinates where you were supposed to meet him. One of the men was dug up and eaten by a bear, that's why there isn't so much left of him. You weren't the first person Wade talked into meeting a bullet. Or the second. Or maybe even the third. I'll bet he omitted these . . . previous engagements. It's a graveyard up there, Mr. Kauffeld, full of sick men like yourself, and if you hadn't turned around, your grave would be the one where the earth hasn't settled.”

Kauffeld seemed to draw into himself, his sloping brow drawing parallel creases above his eyes, which looked milky and unfocused.

“Here's what's going to happen,” Ettinger said. “We're going to take a short break while you reconsider your, er, arrangement in the light of what this man was really arranging, which was your murder. In the meantime I need the envelope and the phone number. And the keys to the car you picked up. Where is it?”

Kauffeld's voice sounded defeated. “It's not here. When I came off the mountain I drove it back to town and left it where I'd found it. I got a cab to the airport. I was going to fly to Detroit, but I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. Who was there to go home to? My parents are dead. My brother is dead. My wife divorced me twelve years ago. My colleagues? I didn't want to see anyone, or anyone I knew, put it that way. I figured I'm here, I grew up fishing in the Au Sable River in Michigan and providence had brought me to Montana; it's supposed to be the best trout fishing in the country. When the cabdriver dropped me at the airport, we were right behind a van at the curb that had the name of the ranch. It had a picture of a trout on the door. I saw a young man and a woman wearing cowboy hats, loading bags into it. I asked the man if there were any rooms available. He said he didn't think so because there was a teachers' convention, but he'd check on his cell. There'd been a cancellation. He said, ‘Welcome to the Double D,' and I climbed in. It's like this whole trip, angels have been guiding me.”

Ettinger nodded to Stranahan and Little Feather and they left Kauffeld on the porch with his latest angel. Ettinger radioed Dispatch to send a deputy to take custody of the car Kauffeld said he'd driven back to Bridger. She put a trace on the phone number Kauffeld had given her. Then she opened the envelope Kauffeld had retrieved from the bridge, which he'd produced from his pants pocket. The note inside had been folded and refolded until the edges were furred. The handwriting was right-slanting, very small, the occasional word struck, neat to start with but the hand not as steady toward the end.

“I'll just read it,” Ettinger said.

Dear Mel,

When you feed the coordinates into your GPS you'll see it's just east of the saddle between Sphinx Mountain and another peak called the Helmet. That's the Madison Range, about twelve miles south of Ennis, give or take. There's a good trail up to the saddle, number 326. I'll be up on a ridge above the trail when you start hiking. Wear that red hat so I know it's you. I'm not trying to get the drop on you, but I have to have a vantage to be sure we're more or less alone in that country or too many shots might raise suspicion. It's wilderness designated by the federal agency but there's some yahoos around and hippies that just hike for the sake of it which I don't understand myself.

Anyway, you get on the bench above the saddle and find that shovel and settle in, then noon comes you hit the red-tailed hawk call I gave you. I'll hit you back with the same. After that it's each man for himself with the odds on your side of the ledger. On my end I'll be stalking, moving around and trying to close in. So you'll have the edge there looking for movement and can wait on me if you want. Another thing, I'll be carrying an old Sharps buffalo rifle, which is a single-shot, and you can have any modern repeating arm you want, though no military or black ops. We got to draw the line there. This is a game hunt not a firefight. I'll have the car there a week prior at least, so you can get up on the bench a few days early if you want and look around.

A couple things we got to trust each other on. No climbing above timberline where you can get a long-range shot looking down into the timber, and no waving the red hanky looking for a way out and then letting loose if I come in, I really think we have to be men about this. I know for me the chips are in the middle of the pot once I hear the hawk.

You can see by my hand that I been drinking whiskey. When the hitches come to remind your sorry ass what's down the road it's hard not to reach for the Jack. I know you got your good days mixed in with the bad, or maybe the other way around, so keep in mind our plan like we talked about on the lake. You learn to blow that call now.

Death with Honor. Yours truly, Wade.

45°9' 33.86"N

111°29' 52.23"W

Ettinger passed the note to Stranahan and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Harold, what do you think?” Little Feather had stood during the recitation in his plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, his muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“Could be Mr. Kauffeld had him figured right. The guy didn't let on that this wasn't the first time, you set that aside and the rest has a ring of truth. Man's come up against a hard wall and trying to figure a way out that doesn't end in a hospital ward. Might not be your way or my way, but put yourself in his boots. There's no easy choices here. Maybe this Wade's a straight shooter.”

“You mean maybe he shoots straighter?”

“Both.”

“Hmpff.”

Little Feather uncrossed his arms. “I was just in the hospital four days myself. That nurse you said had the hots for me? Was that 'fore or after she emptied the bedpan? Second floor of Deaconess is no place I want to be when it's time to chase the spirits.”

Ettinger stared at him.

Harold said, “I'm not condoning what he's done. I'm just trying to understand it.”

“Sean, do you agree with this . . . evaluation?”

Stranahan put down the note.

“Meaning you don't.”

“Not for a second. I don't care how noble he comes across. This guy likes to kill people. But forget about what I think. I'm asking you.”

“From talking with Mel and the tone of this letter, I tend to agree with Harold. We're trying to twist this into a predator-prey thing when maybe we should take it at face value. I'm not saying we shouldn't try to bring the man to justice, or even that he doesn't get off pulling the trigger. It could have started innocently in the sense that it was a fair fight and he killed the first guy and found that it stimulated him, that it gave him a purpose where otherwise he'd just be marking time and hitting the bottle.”

Ettinger felt for the artery in her neck and pressed her fingertips against the steady throb.

“I don't know what I think,” she said slowly. “Nor—and I'm thinking out loud here . . . Well, it doesn't matter what I think. We're trying to get into this guy's head when the first thing we need to do is ID the bastard. Between the registration on the car Wade left for Kauffeld—keep your fingers crossed that it's still where he parked it—and our witness, we've got a good shot at coming up with a name. But short of confession, there's nothing to charge him with. Doc says we should get the DNA workup today on the tissue on that bullet, and my hunch is we'll have a match with Ghost Two. That leaves the rifle. We need the rifle in possession. And for that we need a suspect and we need a warrant.”

Stranahan raised his eyes from the note.

“I know what you're going to say,” Ettinger said. “But Crawford doesn't begin to fit the description.”

“No, but the rifle that bullet fits into, you don't find it just anywhere and there aren't many people who could afford it if you did. Crawford's owned similar weapons. And there's something I haven't told you.”

“Then pray tell me.” Ettinger set her hands on her hips.

Stranahan told her about his conversation with Polly Sorenson, Crawford's interest in the old man's malady and giving him the book with the short story in it.

“If he was four inches shorter, fifteen years younger, and had a mouse on his lip, I'd say you had something there,” Ettinger said.

“Okay, Crawford doesn't fit the description Kauffeld gave us of Wade. But he still could be involved.”

Ettinger walked to the window that overlooked the porch. “Then the good congressman is our next stop,” she said. “It's forty miles. We'll give him an ice-cold knock as soon as we're done here.”

Harold made a murmuring sound. “You really think that's a good idea?”

Ettinger turned around. “The silent one speaks,” she said.

“What the hell, Martha?”