by Larry LaVoie
“I’ll bet he didn’t come up here for the drive.”
Greg stood up as they approached. He had a large envelope in his hand. His face was without expression.
“Greg. What brings you up here?” Jason called out.
Greg held out the envelope. “I thought you may want this.”
Jason furrowed his brow at the badly charred envelope as he took it from Greg. Jason’s name was written on the outside in faded ink. He pulled out a small pocket knife and slit it open. Inside was a folder, yellowed with age. The name John Trask was barely readable on the tab. “My father’s?” Jason asked still confused.
Greg stood back while Carlene unlocked the door to the cabin. “My dad had a fireproof safe in his office,” Greg explained. “There were some papers, a little money and the envelope with your name on it. The fire almost wiped everything out. I didn’t know what to make of it, but figured it must be important. Why else would Dad keep it in his safe?”
They went inside where Jason sat down and thumbed through the contents. There were memos written by his father.
Greg and Carlene stood by waiting for Jason to say something.
Finally Jason shrugged. “Looks like a file folder from my father’s desk. Papers from ‘79 and ‘80.”
Carlene put on a pot of coffee, not wanting to push, but wondering why Greg didn’t just stick the folder in the mail.
While the coffee dripped into the glass pot Greg cleared his throat and said, “There’s something else.”
Jason closed the folder and glanced up at Greg. He waved him toward a chair. “You could have mailed this.”
There was a long silence. The brewing coffee gurgled in the background. Greg said nervously, “I thought you may be able to help. Volcanoes were my father’s life.”
Jason glanced at Carlene and patiently nodded.
“I’ll pour coffee. You want cream?”
“Black,” Greg said.
“Me too,” Jason said.
Greg’s voice cracked as he said, “My father was murdered.”
“What!” Jason said incredulous.
“He was not!” Carlene said. “I was there when he died.”
Greg pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Before my father was cremated, they asked me if I wanted an autopsy. I don’t remember telling them to go ahead, but I got this in the mail from the Multnomah County coroner’s office. Cause of death is listed as heart failure induced by an unknown toxin. The Portland police contacted me asking where I was the day of his death. They’re treating this as a homicide.”
“You think he was poisoned?” Carlene asked.
“You were with him. Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around? I didn’t get along with my old man, but I wouldn’t have killed him.”
“You thought we’d know something about this.” Jason said still not believing.
“You knew him better than I. I have no idea who would want him dead.”
Carlene shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. He had a heart attack on the airplane. They called the ambulance.”
Jason leaned back in his chair thinking, his hands resting on the sides of his head. He stared at his knees. “It all started when he wanted to evacuate the park, isn’t that right, Carlene?”
“His trip to Washington was awful sudden,” she said. “He never mentioned it until he was on his way.”
“Greg, we’ll be glad to help in any way we can, but we’ve got our hands full. Senator Lake was our last hope for getting the park evacuated and his helicopter just went down. Meanwhile we have to figure out how to finish what your father started. God only knows how we’re going to get the support we need.”
Greg stood up. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I thought you might give the police something to go on. My father dies, his house goes up in flames and your name is on a folder in his safe. I knew it was a long shot.”
“Sorry,” Jason said.
“How about some more coffee,” Carlene said.
Greg shook his head. He handed Jason a card. “I’m going to head back to Salt Lake. If you think of anything you haven’t already told the police this is the detective who’s handling the case in Portland.”
The roar outside their tent sounded like thunder but was much too constant. The rain was still pelting the tent in huge drops. Billy dropped his cards on the sleeping bag. “I’m going to look outside. That sounds too close to be thunder.”
“Come on, man,” Terry said, “you’ll let the rain in. I don’t want my tent all muddy.”
Billy ignored him and unzipped the flap. The noise was now a deafening roar. When the wall of water hit them it picked up the tent and the occupants and carried them downstream before Billy surfaced in the raging torrent of a flash flood. The tent with Terry, Wendy and Becky still inside, disappeared down the canyon. Billy desperately fought the swift current, grabbed a rock and was ripped loose. He tumbled in the stream for another hundred yards before he managed to snag a tree limb and hang on. He pulled himself out of the water and looked downstream for any sign of life. He yelled, but his voice was lost to the roar of the river. The thunderheads cast the valley in darkness even though it was early in the day. The rain fell in a relentless steady downpour. Billy took stock of himself. He was drenched, cold and shivering but otherwise intact. He worked his way along the tree to the bank and scrambled up to the trail. He had to find the others.
Jason spent the morning pulling water samples around the Norris Geyser Basin. The distinct smell of sulfur told him the latest earthquake activity had changed the geology in the area. Water temperatures were up a few degrees, but still within the normal range of fluctuation. All in all, his assessment was that things were settling back to normal. What if this whole thing has been nothing more than a colossal case of indigestion and the mountain was settling in for another long silent period? The thought was soothing. If Bainbridge was wrong, then he died in vane. His death didn’t make sense and what about Senator Lake? Could his death also be more than an accident? If so where did that leave him and Carlene? He decided to call Sanders and see what his position was today. Would any of this change his boss's position? He doubted it.
Jason parked his Jeep in the lot at Nupher Lake and took the pathway through the vacant visitor center and wound his way to the boardwalk. He stopped a moment and watched Spring Geyser as it erupted; an event that happened only every several years, in fact the last time he could remember was in the winter of 2003. He made a note in a small book then continued down the boardwalk. A sign read Norris Campground. The path led to a small lake separated from the geyser area by a grove of small pine trees. He stopped short. Something wasn’t right. A large raven lay dead on the path ahead of him, its feet straight up in the air. Beside the trail he saw another dead bird, then a fox. He thought about going farther and retrieving a sample of the water. Maybe poison had seeped into the lake making the water a death cocktail for anything that drank it. He remembered a geyser that had erupted a few years earlier spewing out pure arsenic and shuttered. There was no distinctive odor in the air. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and scanned the area. More dead wildlife, and what was even more strange, the absence of insects feeding on the carcasses. They were either fresh kills or.... He looked up and saw a buzzard circling and watched as it spiraled in lazy circles. He could hear the far off sound of traffic on the road he’d come from but no sounds of wildlife. The turkey vulture slowly descended, its hideous red head visible in the binoculars. Without warning it fell like it had been shot, and lay motionless on the ground. “Poison Gas!” Jason yelled turning and dashing up the trail. Coming down the trail was a hiking party, a man and woman with two young children. He told them to turn around. If a layer of deadly gas was hanging over the lake it would not discriminate between animals and humans. They needed to get the trail blocked and restrict access to the area immediately.
It was little more than a quarter mile jaunt back to his Jeep and a phone. He made a call to the ran
ger station at Madison Junction and called Carlene while he waited for the ranger to arrive. After filling her in on the details, he said, “I’ll return to the shack as soon as possible.”
It was late afternoon when Jason pulled the Jeep in front of the monitoring cabin. He glanced at the steam coming from the crack in the pavement and gave it a disgusted sneer. He saw a gray Ford with U.S. government license plates, parked at the front door. When he walked in, a man and a woman were getting a lesson on volcano monitoring from Carlene. Carlene looked up from her computer. “Jason Trask, this is Special Agent Fielding and Special Agent Pomdell. They’re investigating the crash of Senator Lake’s helicopter.”
“What can we do to help?” Jason asked. He looked at Fielding, dressed in a dark suit and tie, black shoes, white socks, out of place in the wilderness.
Pomdell, on the other hand, wore a gray sweatshirt with small FBI lettering and blue jeans. Her ebony hair was pulled back in a short pony tail. Her face was light brown with black olive eyes. She lifted the badge hanging from a cord around her neck and showed it to Jason. “Agent Fielding flew in from Washington last night. We drove up from Salt Lake City. I understand you two were the last people to talk to Senator Lake before his death. We’d like to ask some questions?”
“Anything to help,” Jason said looking at Carlene. “FBI, is there a criminal investigation?”
“Routine at this point,” Pomdell said.
“It’s been pretty hectic around here,” Jason said.
“Hectic,” Pomdell repeated. “How so?” She removed a notebook from her back pocket and started taking notes.
“The park has been going through some strange gyrations, earthquake activity and such. We were talking to the Senator about closing the park for the season.”
“Why Senator Lake?” Fielding asked.
“We couldn’t get support from USGS. Thought he might be able to pull some strings.”
Pomdell glanced at Carlene, who nodded in agreement. “Do you always get senators involved in decisions like this?” he asked.
“I knew someone who knew the Senator,” Carlene said. “We thought he could help.”
“If there’s trouble with the park, isn’t that the concern of the National Park Service?” Pomdell asked.
Jason jumped in. “Normally that would be the case, but volcanic activity is unique. It’s monitored by the United States Geological Survey. My boss, Dr. Sanders at USGS in Menlo Park could fill you in.”
“We already spoke to Sanders,” Pomdell said.
Fielding finally spoke, “Sanders visited you a few days ago. Do you know where he went after he left?”
“I assume he returned to California,” Jason said.
Fielding frowned showing creases that told Jason he didn’t smile much.
“Do either of you know a man by the name of Joseph Talant?” Fielding asked.
Carlene shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
“Me neither,” Jason said shrugging. “Are you going to tell us where this is going?”
Fielding pulled out some business cards and handed one to Jason and another to Carlene. “It’s too early to comment. If you are contacted by Mr. Talant or have any information that might be of interest, please call.”
“One more question,” Pomdell said holding her hand up to stop Fielding from leaving. “Do either of you have anything you want to add.”
Carlene glanced at Jason. “Yeah, we do,” Jason said. “Do you know why the FBI was going through Dr. Bainbridge’s house before it blew up?”
“That wasn’t the FBI,” Pomdell said glancing at Fielding. They both hurried out the door.
Carlene and Jason stood in the doorway as the agents left. “Wasn’t that the strangest interview you ever had?” Carlene asked.
“They were fishing for something,” Jason said. “By the way we have bigger problems.”
“You told me about the dead animals. You think they were poisoned?”
“Gassed,” Jason said, “but there’s more to it. When the rangers arrived with gas masks and scouted out the lake they found a pair of hikers dead on the trail. Maybe now someone will listen and close the park.”
“You think we should call Sanders?”
“He’s still the director. It’s up to him to put pressure on Frank,” Jason said picking up the phone. He made a mental note to try and find out who Talant was.
Chapter 19
Billy caught a glint of color on the river’s edge. It was too far in the distance to be certain, but he hoped it was the tent. He quickened his pace to a brisk walk then broke into a run. Abruptly he stopped. His eyes had deceived him. Through the downpour he could make out a buffalo lazily grazing, unconcerned that the tranquil river had turned into a raging torrent. It looked up quizzically and returned to grazing.
He had hiked over a mile when he finally found the tent snagged on the branch of an uprooted tree. He grabbed the shredded fabric and pulled it free. There was no sign of anyone around. “Terry!” he called, “Becky! Wendy!” He threw the fabric to the ground, aware of the queasiness in his gut. If they were anywhere they would be downstream. He dreaded what he might find. He picked up his pace and ran along the trail above of the swollen river. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before he spotted a body partially submerged in the river. He ran to it, turned it over and lost whatever remained in his stomach. His knees sank into the muddy soil as he stared into the glazed eyes of Terry. His face was a blue lifeless color. “I’m sorry,” Billy murmured. “God, I’m so sorry.”
He was still holding Terry when he heard someone crying. He turned and looked in the direction it had come from, but saw nothing. He heard it again.
He pulled Terry to higher ground and went to search for the source of the sobbing. Behind a large rock he found Wendy, muddy, drenched, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees. He saw bruises through the smeared mud on her face and arms.
“Wendy, where’s Becky?” Billy asked touching her shoulder. She kept her eyes on the ground and didn’t answer.
He shook her gently. “Wendy! Answer me. Where’s Becky?”
“I don’t know,” she managed between sobs.
“Come on, let’s go find her.” He tugged her to her feet. “You OK?”
She shook her head. “Terry’s dead, isn’t he?”
Billy couldn’t answer. The tears welled in his eyes, he wiped them away with his fist. “Let’s look for Becky.”
Jason took the file Greg Bainbridge had given him and walked the short distance from his tent to the employee mess hall. He wanted to have dinner in private and go through the file in detail. He still didn’t know why Bainbridge had kept it in his safe. Why hadn’t he returned it to his mother years ago? He sat down with a tray of food that reminded him of his first year in college, nourishing, but lacking in presentation. Thankful there was no one to distract him in the mess hall; he pulled out the papers from the envelope. Almost reverently he rubbed his fingers over the pages and imagined he was touching his father’s hand. By the discoloration, he could see the papers had come very close to burning. He tried to put his mind into that of his father, but it didn’t work. No matter how hard he tried, the words didn’t seem to be his father’s. He was about to set them down and start eating before his dinner got cold when a small handwritten note fell in his lap. The ink was faded, barely readable. The date was May 18th, 1980. Jason held his breath. It had to have been written before St. Helens erupted, but Jason had been with his father that morning. Jason’s heart raced in anticipation; anything that would link him with his father on that final day. As he read he became even more confused. The note was addressed to Milton Bainbridge.
By the time you read this I’ll be as far away from Portland as I can get. I’m sorry to leave you with Jason, but didn’t want to disappoint him on his birthday. Please let Mary know it was nothing she did. You’ve been a good boss and I appreciate the opportunity you afforded me and regret sincerely the inconvenience my leaving m
ay cause. Give my last paycheck to Mary.
John T.
Jason lowered the letter and glanced around the room. Could anyone there see what he was feeling at this moment? He swallowed hard. A large lump became lodged in his throat. There was small talk at several of the tables. About half a dozen college-age summer help were standing in line waiting to be served, another dozen scattered around the room seemingly oblivious to his presence. For this he was thankful. He slowly got up gathering the folder in his hand. He needed a quiet place to sort out the meaning of the letter. He walked outside and wandered the lot for half an hour not knowing where he was headed. He stopped at the highway and then at the Lake Hotel bar. The bar overlooking the lake was vacant except for the bartender. Jason ordered scotch on the rocks and sat in a high-back chair staring out blankly over the lake.
He had convinced himself his father’s death was the fault of Milton Bainbridge. Now it seemed impossible, too incredible to believe. His father hadn’t died on the mountain. He wasn’t a hero at all. His father had abandoned them, run away. Why? Jason tried to remember what had happened that morning over thirty years ago. He hadn’t noticed anything unusual.
He closed his eyes searching his mind, but nothing came. He had waved goodbye to his father and went to look at the computers and the drums on the seismometers. His father had left. He must have written the note before they left home and left it on his desk as he walked out. Why hadn’t Bainbridge said anything about it? Now Bainbridge was dead and there was no one else to ask. My God, Mother still thinks Dad died on the mountain. All these years we’ve been living a lie.
Jason watched Carlene, bundled up like a kid on the first day of winter. He’d told her this might be the last opportunity to see the park in its natural beauty. He hadn’t mentioned the letter from his father. He would keep it to himself for now, at least until he could talk to his mother. He had another reason for making the trip around the park. Rangers had been reporting strange activity with the geysers. While many geysers were not predictable, the latest erratic behavior in eruptions was not to be ignored.