Paradise Valley

by C. J. Box

  If Ronald Pergram were to be found and arrested Leslie wanted it to happen so cleanly, to be so procedurally correct, that no defense attorney could touch it. She’d already been burned once by being outmaneuvered in court and she didn’t want it to happen again. Cassie understood that. And she understood that Leslie might think Cassie might get too far out in front of the task force and foul up the case by inserting herself into it.

  Cassie said, “As I told Rachel Mitchell tonight, I’ve got no intention of getting in too deep.”

  “I would say you’re already there,” Leslie said.

  Cassie could tell Leslie was building up a head of steam for a full-blown argument. They’d had a few over the past few years and Leslie, using her prosecutorial skills, usually came out on top.

  Then Cassie’s phone beeped with another call. She looked at the screen.

  “We’ll have to talk later,” Cassie said to Leslie. “I’ve got Rachel Mitchell on the other line.”

  “Look—”

  Cassie discontinued Leslie’s call and punched in Rachel’s.

  “Cassie?”

  “Yes.”

  “My dad says there’s a guest host he doesn’t like on The O’Reilly Factor tonight.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means come straight over. You’ve got—and I’ll quote him on this—‘one hour until Tucker Carlson Tonight comes on.’ And believe me, he never misses Tucker Carlson.”

  “I’m on my way,” Cassie said as she put her Escape into gear. She could check into the hotel later.

  The two clerks inside watched her go with puzzled expressions on their faces.

  “What’s the address?” she asked Rachel as she roared out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  “HIS CAVE IS in the back,” Rachel Mitchell said to Cassie after she let her into her house. “Follow me.”

  Cassie appreciated that given the time constraint Rachel didn’t engage in small talk. The attorney had changed into sweats—she even looked good in sweats, Cassie thought—and led her through her home. It was large and well appointed with overstuffed leather furniture, a flickering fireplace, and original paintings of Montana landscapes on the walls.

  As they passed the kitchen Cassie glimpsed a teenage boy doing homework on the table and a man in his mid-forties reading the copy of the Bozeman Chronicle that was spread out on a marble kitchen island. The man looked up pleasantly and nodded as they passed.

  “My husband, Tucker,” Rachel said over her shoulder. Then in a whisper, “He’s a saint. My dad isn’t the easiest guy to live with, you know.”

  Cassie nodded and they continued down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. She thought the house didn’t look big enough from the outside to have such a long passage.

  “You’ll see why I call it the cave,” Rachel said, opening a door and stepping aside for Cassie, who was hit in the face with the uncomfortably loud volume of a TV.

  “He won’t wear his hearing aids,” Rachel said into Cassie’s ear. “So prepare to shout.”

  Cassie stepped into the room as the sound pummeled her. It could have been the inside of a small hunting lodge, she thought. Elk, moose, bear, deer, and antelope heads on the walls, dim light from a deer antler lamp, black-and-white framed photos on the walls at odd angles and heights, at least a half-dozen battered cowboy hats lined crown-down along the top of a bookcase. Wooden pack saddles and battered panniers were mounted on sawhorses, and looped lariats hung from nails in the wall. A glass-fronted cabinet was filled with various long guns.

  A large-screen television tuned to Fox News glowed on the far wall and she could see the back of a recliner with two large stockinged feet propped up on the footrest sticking up like rabbit ears.

  “Dad,” Rachel called out, “she’s here.”

  “Who’s here?” His voice was a rusty roar.

  “Cassie Dewell. The woman I told you about. The private investigator.”

  Cassie turned to correct her but Rachel winked as if to say, It’s easier this way.

  “Tell her she’s got”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“thirty-four minutes,” Mitchell said.

  “I’ll leave you two,” Rachel said to Cassie. “I’ll hover around outside if you need anything. And to eavesdrop, of course.” Rachel stepped back and closed the door with a sympathetic smile.

  Cassie had to admit she liked her. She wasn’t so sure about him.

  “Do you mind if we turn that down?” Cassie shouted as she pulled a folding chair over to face Rachel’s father.

  “What?”

  Cassie gestured toward the set and repeated herself but louder.

  Bull Mitchell was a big man with a white crew cut who filled the recliner. He had a head like a cinder block mounted on broad shoulders. With deep-set eyes and a full mouth drooping down on the corners, he reminded her of some kind of big bottom-dwelling fish.

  His hands were huge and scarred and they sat on his thighs as if he didn’t know what to do with them. The remote control for the television rested between his legs. He wore faded jeans, a red-checked cowboy shirt with pearl snap buttons, and wide red suspenders.

  He squinted as he looked over at her and his mouth curved down even more into a grimace. But he located the remote and brought the sound down to a murmur.

  “I feel sorry for you,” he said. “This country is going to hell. I’m glad I won’t be around to see it burn.”

  Cassie said, “My mother agrees with you.”

  “Your mother is a smart woman,” he said. “Maybe you won’t be a waste of my time.”

  She didn’t say that when Isabel channel-surfed and accidentally found Fox News she would cover her eyes and howl until it was gone. In fact, Isabel had called the local cable service to see if they could remove just that channel so she wouldn’t ever have to see even a second of it ever again.

  He said, “I remember the day when Republicans and Democrats alike loved America. I had lots of friends and clients who were Democrats. Now they’re different. They want to change us into goddamn France or Sweden. And I always thought I was safe from ’em here in Montana.

  “But all you have to do is walk around downtown Bozeman to see they’ve infiltrated here. They always ruin the best places, you know. They move in and set about changing everything to be more like what they left. And I’m not even talkin’ about what they’ve done to Missoula or Whitefish.”

  She nodded to indicate she heard him but she didn’t want to use the short time she had to discuss her mother or politics.

  “I’ve got some questions to ask you if you don’t mind,” Cassie said.

  “Yeah, Rachel told me that. Something about those damned Pergrams down by Emigrant.”

  Cassie felt her heart lift.

  “So you remember them?”

  “They were low-rent white trash. Except for the girl. The girl turned out all right.”

  “How well did you know them?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Well enough, I guess. That valley used to be a whole lot different before all the pinkos and movie stars started buying up ranchettes. I used to run horse pack trips into the park so I’d lease pasture down there, so I got to know just about everybody. That don’t mean I palled around with ’em.

  “That was back when the park was a national park and not a candy-assed nature preserve run by Ivy League bureaucrats. It was a whole different world back then,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Frank Pergram worked for me from time to time.”

  Cassie looked up. She was interested. Ronald Pergram’s father was a mystery to her. She knew very little about him other than he’d deserted Helen and their two children when Ronald was young.

  “What was he like?”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank was a fuck-up. I never would have hired him as a wrangler but it was hard to find people to work back in those days. It wasn’t like it is now with people stacked on top of each other around here like
it’s goddamn New York City.”

  “I understand,” she said, trying to be patient. “But what would you say he was like? Why was he a fuck-up?”

  “He just was. He couldn’t help it. Having him on the payroll was like having two good men gone. Frank could screw up a two-car funeral, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  “He was the kind of guy who thought he could impress my female clients by acting like an old-time mysterious cowboy. Like he was Shane or something. When I needed him to picket the horses up in camp he was never where he was supposed to be—he’d be trying to romance some lady from Connecticut. Or he’d be getting into a fight with one of my other wranglers. Or he’d be in charge of the pack horses and he’d forget to bring the panniers. It was always one thing or other with him. He was a malcontent, a goddamn tumor on every expedition.”

  Bull reached across his body and placed a hand on his armrest so he could lean closer to Cassie. His gaze was intense.

  “You probably don’t understand how important it was to have a good crew in my line of work. I needed to have men and women I could depend on because once we set off into the Yellowstone wilderness I was stuck with ’em for days on end. We got clients from all over the country and all over the world who didn’t know jack-shit about horses, or packing, or camping in the wilderness. All some of ’em knew about nature was from watching Bambi, and the Yellowstone backcountry is raggedy-ass and nothing like Bambi at all.

  “So we’d take all these people who didn’t know each other, who’d never been away from civilization, and put them on horses and take them into wild country. My crew had to be customer-friendly and professional. They needed to be able to overlook the dumb stuff our clients did or said, and I’ll be the first to admit some of our clients were real peckerheads. I couldn’t have employees who argued with the clients or tried to sneak into their tents at night. That’s unprofessional bullshit. Plus, I always had to be aware of the fact that the National Park Service could jerk my license to operate a commercial trip if they got complaints on me. Frank was the kind of guy who clients could complain about.

  “I fired him once and he came back and begged me for a second go. Being the soft-heart I am,” Bull said with a sarcastic grin, “I let him go on the next trip. But he did the same dumbass things and I fired him as soon as we came back out of the wilderness.

  “I can’t say we spoke much after that but I’d still see him around. Usually playing cowboy at the First National Bar in Emigrant or here in town at the Crystal. Still trying to impress the ladies with his squinty-eyed mysterious Davy Crockett bullshit.”

  Cassie asked, “Did he ever talk to you about his family?”

  Bull Mitchell was still for a moment. “I know where you’re going with this, you know. I ain’t stupid. This is about his son Ronald, the no-good murdering pervert, isn’t it?”

  “Partly,” she said. “But I’m trying to learn more about Ronald by finding out about his father. You’re the only person around who probably knew him.”

  He considered that and nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer.

  “To Frank Pergram, his family at home was like boils or gout. They were just an irritation that flared up from time to time. He wouldn’t even mention them unless somebody asked him.”

  “What would he say?”

  Bull’s eyes left hers and seemed to focus on one of the elk heads. “He’d say his wife couldn’t even whore around because she was too damned ugly. I know he beat on her but that wasn’t so unusual in those days. But I heard he beat on her in front of his kids, and that’s not tolerable. He used to say he wished his son had been been stillborn because he was so damned useless to mankind. He made fun of how his kid talked and mocked him in front of other people. There was never any doubt that he was ashamed of them.

  “You know,” Mitchell said, “I have something to confess here. I actually felt sorry for Ronald back then. The kid was a slug and he was hard to understand—some kind of speech impediment—that’s true. He was hard to figure out. But what kind of father is ashamed of his own son? His own family? It wasn’t until all this stuff came out about Ronald that I kind of figured Frank might have been right about him all along. But you know what? I don’t think Ronald would have been the sick monster he turned out to be if he hadn’t have grown up like that.”

  Cassie was intrigued.

  “Did Frank treat his daughter differently?”

  “Yeah, he did for as long as he was even around there. He kind of doted on her when she was a baby. But he wasn’t there when she turned out to be the good one. Frank was dead by then.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Got drunk and passed out on the railroad tracks in Livingston,” Bull said. “Cut into three pieces. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

  “Back to the family,” Cassie said. “When you were around Frank did he ever mention taking them anywhere? Like a favorite hunting or camping place?”

  Bull rubbed his jaw with his big hand. Cassie noticed for the first time that he was missing the tips of two of his fingers. She’d never known a horseman who didn’t have missing digits.

  “I’ve got to think about that,” he said. “Frank wasn’t much of a hunter but he was a poacher. He always got his meat whether he had a license or not or whether there was an elk season on.”

  “Do you know where he hunted?”

  “I’ve got a good idea now that I think back on it,” Bull said. “I think he snuck into the park and killed them elk. It was illegal as all hell but that’s something Frank didn’t have a big problem with. Any peckerhead can kill a docile elk inside the park.”

  He raised his eyebrows and said, “Hey, you never asked me why they call me Bull?”

  She ignored him because she knew the answer. Cody had told her.

  “Do you know if he ever took his family with him hunting or camping? Specifically Ronald?”

  “I told you I didn’t pal around with them.”

  “But you know, you might have heard something when your wranglers were talking, or Frank bragging in the bar…”

  Bull closed his eyes and seemed to be searching his memory. Cassie perched on the end of her chair.

  Then he opened his eyes and they fixed onto the television screen. She looked over to see Tucker Carlson’s opening on Tucker Carlson Tonight.

  “We’re done,” Bull said with finality as he pointed the remote at the set and turned up the volume.

  “Mr. Mitchell,” Cassie pleaded. “I’ll only take a few more moments of your time.”

  He acknowledged her with a nod but gestured toward Tucker Carlson.

  “I’m not sure I like her new hairdo,” he said, settling back in his chair.

  * * *

  “WELL, THAT WAS FRUSTRATING,” Cassie said as Rachel walked her back to the door. “We ran out of time and I have a lot more questions.”

  “He’s a frustrating man,” Rachel said. “I’ve never met anyone as cantankerous as he.”

  “Yet he read your mother stories at the library.”

  Rachel looked away but not before Cassie noted the tears in her eyes. “That he did,” she said wistfully.

  “Can I come back and finish tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Rachel said. “I’ll ask him, but he kind of fades in and out. Tonight he was particularly loquacious. He liked talking to you—until he didn’t. Whether he’ll pick up where he left off tomorrow is another matter.”

  “Other than his age, what are your father’s problems?”

  Rachel paused and held her hand up. As she spoke she’d raise one finger after another. “Rheumatoid arthritis, gout, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, early Alzheimer’s. He’s on way too much medication, I think, and the different doctors don’t talk to each other. I’m thankful every day that he’s still with us, but he does make it tough at times to remember that.”

  Cassie thanked her for interrupting her evening and was half-way to he
r Escape when Rachel called after her.

  “You know I have a defense practice here in Bozemen, right?”

  Cassie turned.

  “I didn’t know what kind of law you practiced,” Cassie said, letting her opinion of defense attorneys show.

  “We’re not all bad,” Rachel said. “Sometimes we defend innocent people who deserve justice.”

  “And sometimes you get guilty people off.”

  “We even defend cops who are wrongly accused. They deserve a defense like anyone else.”

  Cassie instantly regretted where this had gone. She said, “I’m sorry—there’s still a lot of cop in me. It’s hard to forget preconceived notions.”

  “I understand,” Rachel said tentatively, as if reconsidering whatever it was she had set out to say. Then: “Anyway, my partner and I sometimes need to bring on a private investigator to help with cases. We’ve not really had much luck hiring a really good one. I’ve been impressed how dogged you are. Is it something you’d ever consider?”

  Cassie was surprised at the question. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “I’d urge you to think about it, Cassie.”

  “I live in North Dakota.”

  “You’re unemployed in North Dakota,” Rachel said. “Montana is your home. I did some research on you. You’re not hard to find with a Google search.”

  Cassie didn’t respond.

  Rachel said, “You of all people should know what it’s like to be railroaded by people in authority. I was just thinking you might be a little more sympathetic to our line of work because of that.”

  Cassie shrugged and said, “All I can think about now is finding Kyle.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Rachel said as she waved good night and closed her front door.

  * * *

  AFTER CHECKING INTO THE HOLIDAY Inn Express and talking a few minutes with Ben—he was ready for her to come back because Isabel’s organic cooking was making him sick, he claimed—Cassie drank another plastic cup of wine and called Clyde Johnson. It was an hour later in Minneapolis.