23
* * *
Gretchen
I DECIDED TO HEAD to the dump to get a sample first, and when I pulled up, I asked the lady in the entrance booth if anyone was allowed to dump asbestos.
“No,” she said. “That’s definitely not allowed. Anyone who needs to dispose of asbestos has to call the county first to get a permit for removing it, and needs to hire a trained professional to do it.” I thanked her, then asked her to direct me to the dumping grounds for appliances or anything with metal or aluminum.
After I grabbed a sample in the area filled with old ovens, refrigerators, dishwashers, microwaves, and other scrap metal, I got back in my car and headed to the church. But once I arrived in Columbia Falls, I decided that since the aluminum plant was nearby, I’d go there first. I took a left onto Nucleus Avenue, the main road through the center of town, and went over the viaduct above the railroad tracks and onto the North Fork Road. When I saw the sign for Aluminum Drive, I took a right.
Dry leaves and late summer leftover flecks of cotton from tall poplars blew across the greenish-brown fields off to the side of the road, near the railroad tracks. The rain from two nights before had greened the pastures slightly, which was nice to see, but the feathery flecks and the dropped leaves drifting on breaths of dry, hazy air reminded me of the oppressive ash from the Essex gravesite several days before. It was too early for the trees to drop their leaves, but the poplars had compensated for the lack of water by dispelling some of them early. A group of turkeys fed on the edge of one of the fields, their dark bodies like big rocks squatting in the tall grass.
A few houses stood near the North Fork Road and gave way to NO TRESPASSING and NO HUNTING signs as I drove. Eventually I could see the abandoned, boarded-up plant. A behemoth of a place, it sprawled outward from the base of Teakettle Mountain toward the Flathead River. Teakettle stood like a bare hump from some legendary fire that spread over the mountain years ago and formed the northeastern side of Bad Rock Canyon where the Flathead River enters the Flathead Valley. In fact, with its scalloped ridges of rock outcroppings and sparse trees, it was one of the least attractive mountains in the area and seemed to fit next to the plant—exposed and industrial looking itself. Dark clouds of smoke had begun humping over its top, making it even uglier. Damn smoke, I thought. I was so tired of it.
Several plant towers, including the menacing Black Tower, loomed to the northwest. I pulled into the shabby parking lot with its metal-railing dividers, probably bright red at one time, now a faded pink color that reminded me of the cotton candy Jim insisted I try when he took me to the Washington State Fair known as the Puyallup Fair. Bushy weeds sprouted from cracks webbing out and connecting worn yellow parking lines. Tall Y-shaped streetlights stood like sentries across the huge empty parking lot, as if trying to protect the grounds from whatever demolition might occur in the future.
I drove slowly closer to the plant, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING signs, and parked near a run-down redbrick building with a white roof and small rectangular windows lined across the top. An old sign on the building read, STOP HERE. SECURITY. VISITORS AND VENDORS MUST REGISTER INSIDE. TRESPASSERS ARE SUBJECT TO CRIMINAL PROSECUTION. I shut the engine off and looked around. There were no cars, no people. It was quiet, truly vacant and abandoned. Dry leaves skittered across the lot. I grabbed my sampling kit and walked over. The windows of the front building were darkly tinted, and I had to cup my hands to my forehead to peek in. I could see old metal office desks but no one inside.
I walked around the side of the building into an open area surrounded by more buildings and signs, including a large outdated white billboard that read, This Plant Has Worked ____ Days Without an LTA. Previous Record Was ____ Days Without an LTA. Days Worked Without an LTA: Potlines ____ Castings ____ and so on. I didn’t know what LTA referred to but assumed it had something to do with accidents on the site. It didn’t appear that anyone had written numbers in the blanks in years. A traffic light with green, yellow, and red indicators was pictured on the right-hand side to warn workers when the inside temperature was unsafe.
The place reeked of a bygone era in which a mighty industrial plant could provide blue-collar jobs and define an entire town, a whole community. Now flaking metal and rust overtook huge buildings that once supplied generations of Americans with aluminum, mostly tinfoil. I thought of Sandefjord. Unlike this western American town, San-defjord’s history was known for its rich Viking history and prosperous whaling industry, which for a long time made it the wealthiest city in Norway. Today it held the third-largest merchant fleet in Norway, after the whaling industry gradually transitioned to shipping during the 1900s.
Columbia Falls, Montana, wasn’t so lucky, and other than tourism from Glacier Park and the local timber company, which had itself recently undergone layoffs, the town suffered from a lack of jobs and opportunities for its inhabitants. Many residents drove to Kalispell for work at the hospital, the largest employer in the valley, or at the box stores like Costco, Walmart, and Target.
I took in the place. The article had said the site was 960 acres, but it was completely isolated out in the country, wedged in between the river and the bare-backed mountain. So many dismal buildings surrounded me that I wasn’t sure where to go to get a good sample, and I began to doubt why I’d even bothered to drive out to the eerie place. A large garage door stood in the center of the sprawling building directly ahead of me, and it was partially open—at least enough for me to roll under. I figured it had been some kind of entry or exit way for trucks when it was open. I moved toward it, deciding I’d at least take a peek since I’d bothered to drive out here in the first place.
I thought it might be the main building just because of its size. The light was dim inside the high-ceilinged plant, which was filled with rows of elaborately piped heavy machinery, old electrical wiring, and platforms with rusty metal hooks dangling from large pulley systems. Tracks ran alongside the machinery, I supposed for some kind of internal transportation to move the large vats or tanks filled with molten aluminum. The vats were numbered, and several of them were surrounded by wire cages, I suspected to keep workers from getting too close.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw heaps of irregular shaped scrap metal from where machinery had been removed and equipment salvaged. Graffiti ran along some of the walls and trash was spread across the floor—some empty beer cans and foil wrappers—evidence of homeless people who had taken some shelter or kids looking for a risky place to party.
I walked slowly through the building, around the lines of heavy equipment, looking at the high ceiling supported by gigantic girders. The lights were covered by steel grids, and I thought of large engine rooms in enormous ships. An old crane languished in a dark corner. The floor was dirty and even dustier near the lines of machinery. I pulled out some clear packaging tape and sheets of acetate and took some samples from the plant floor, filling the tape with visible and microscopic debris.
I placed the samples back in my bag, stood up, and brushed off my knees. I wanted to get going. I felt alone and strange in the menacing building that was once full of life and vital to the community, but now stood ghostly and discarded. It seemed like a malevolent skeleton of what it used to be. I was acutely aware of my own existence echoing through its deserted space. I felt like I was floating, like I could simply drift up like smoke and dissipate into the dark rafters above.
I headed back toward the exit. I was almost to the door when I heard a dull scratching noise, thin as a light trickle of water. An animal: a bird or a rat, I thought. I stood still, listening, and for a moment thinking I was confusing the faint scratching noise with the push of blood through my veins. Take it easy, I whispered to myself. I could almost hear Per’s voice. Settle down, Gretch! I began to walk again toward the opening I’d come in through. Of course there’d be small creatures in here. If I could get in, they could. I reached the opening, the comfort of brighter light beckoning
me, but the noise, consistent and steady, almost determined, tugged at me and made me pause. I listened again to see if I could hear it. Perhaps mice were scurrying around, trying to find whatever crumbs the kids or the homeless left behind. I heard it again, steady scraping. “Hello?” I yelled. “Anyone in here?”
The sound ceased, but no one answered. Some badger or raccoon digging? A scavenger that had frozen in place when I’d yelled? But an animal would sense me, smell me, and scurry off immediately. Though mice behind walls might not. “Hello?” I said again. “Anybody here?”
Quiet. All right, you’re going nuts, I told myself. Time to get going and over to the church. I turned to go back out.
Then I heard it, a faint “Wait, wait . . .”
“Hello?” I took a step farther back inside, trying to adjust to the dimness again now that I’d been looking toward the light outside. “Hello?”
“I’m here.” The voice sounded small, scratchy. Scared.
“Where?” I yelled.
“In the back. Help me, please, help me.”
I made my way back into the faded light and followed what I assumed were called the potlines—from the article I read, I recalled it said they were rows of electrolytic cells used to produce aluminum. I followed the aisles up and down, trying to make my way to the voice, which echoed and bounced off the metal. It could have been coming from any direction.
“Please, please, help me.”
I could make my way in the light from the small, high windows above, but I took my flashlight out to help in the dim plant anyway. I shone it back and forth, searching. Layers of debris and mangled steel lay around and I tripped several times. “Who are you?” I yelled.
“Just, please. I’m here.”
“I’m coming,” I called out, continuing to search the vast place. Each aisle seemed to go on forever. When I’d reached the end of one, I’d round the bend and come to another lined with machinery that seemed to go on forever. After three more, my steps loud and prominent in the empty, cavernous building that smelled of oil, chemicals, and other fusty scents I couldn’t quite pinpoint, I rounded the last one, shone my light and saw a line of large vats on metal platforms blocked off by wire cages.
“Are you there?” I called out.
“I’m here,” the voice said.
I went closer, my eyes opened wide, my heart pounding inside my chest. Inside one of the cages bordering a large vat stood a boy gripping the chain links, his fingers laced through the small holes, his knuckles small and yellowed. He looked tiny and frail, like he was no more than twelve, but his voice sounded a bit older. The area stunk of human waste, and I could see a dirty orange bucket in the corner. “Jeremy?” I said. “Are you Jeremy Corey?”
He didn’t answer, just backed away from the cage as if he was afraid of me, as if he regretted calling me over. I wondered if I was dreaming, but usually, in my dreams, I don’t wonder that. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m with the county sheriff’s office. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to help you. You’re safe now,” I said, remembering a course all of us forensics staff were required to take on basic law enforcement procedures. Always reassure the victim. “You’re safe,” I repeated. “Are you hurt?”
“You’re not with him?” His voice was timid, small.
“With who?”
“With him . . .”
“No, no. Listen, Jeremy,” I said, quickly assessing the cage, turning my light off, since I didn’t really need it so close to the northeastern end of the plant, where windows lined the high walls. A tangled sleeping bag lay on a yellow foam mat with a dirty pillow. Besides the orange bucket, there wasn’t much else other than a small wooden stool on the other end of the cage. A heavy padlock kept the gate shut. Someone was intent on keeping this child here. “Is there no way out of this thing?”
“No,” Jeremy said. “He put me in here. He feeds me in here. I have to pee and, you know, go number two in here, too.” I looked over to see the dirty painter’s bucket again, and terror twisted inside of me.
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to think. I needed to call for help, get some bolt cutters, but knew I didn’t have service. “Look, Jeremy, I need to go out and get help. My phone doesn’t work in here, but we’re not far from Columbia Falls. I just need to drive down the drive a little bit away from the mountain where there’s service. Five minutes,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Don’t leave me.”
“Just five minutes,” I said, holding up my hand, splaying my fingers widely to convince him that I wouldn’t be long.
Jeremy opened his mouth to speak, then said nothing. An intense look of fear overtook his eyes like a wave hurtling onto rocks. At the same time, I heard something from my side of the gate. Or maybe I simply sensed a movement of air, a swish. Whatever it was came down hard upon the back of my head before I even had a chance to turn and look. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground. A blinding pain came over me as I hit the cement floor on my side. For a brief moment, I saw silver flecks while I watched my breath blow dust away from my face across the floor before me. I heard Jeremy’s feet scuffle to the back of the cage. I struggled to get my hands back under me to push myself up, but failed. My arms went weak, and I fell back to the ground, my vision going from pinkish red to gray and then black.
24
* * *
Monty
KEN AND I pulled into the only store in Polebridge in the North Fork around two p.m., after the lunch crowd had left, although the reactivated, escalating fires had scared a lot of tourists away already. A tall red-and-white-trimmed façade mimicking the stores of the Old West formed the front of the Polebridge Mercantile. It stood practically alone with only a few other small buildings around and pretty much made up the town of Polebridge. It served as restaurant, convenience store, community meeting place, bakery, and supermarket all in one. There were picnic tables outside where people could eat, and there was a wooden porch in front with lounge chairs made out of gnarled driftwood, but all was quiet with the darkening skies looming to the north.
The door squeaked when we entered, and a petite, elegant woman with pale skin and short dark hair tucked behind her ears sat on a stool behind the counter where pastries lay under glass. The place was known for its delicious homemade cinnamon rolls and huge pastries, and I knew Ken intended to get one no matter how much of a hurry we were in. The store smelled of baked goods, rich pine wood, and tobacco, even though no one was allowed to smoke inside.
I introduced us both to the woman, who reminded me of a mouse, but not in a bad way. She had pale skin, large brown eyes, and an angular face. She was actually quite lovely. I told her who we were looking for and showed her a picture of Alfred Minsky that Ali had gotten from several years back, when the feds had staked out an area where they were suspected of stockpiling weapons. The photo, taken with a telephoto lens from a distance, was of Minsky exiting a cabin.
She put on her reading glasses to study the picture. “I’ve seen him,” she said. “Or rather, I’ve smelled him.”
“That bad?”
“Not if you like the smell of outhouses.” She shrugged. “Tall, skinny guy, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Kind of a crazed look in his eyes.”
“When was he last in?”
“Oh, he’s come in quite a bit over the past month, but let me think, I believe he was in yesterday or maybe it was the day before, but it wasn’t that long ago. Wait, yes, it was yesterday,” she said. “I remember because I had just finished making some huckleberry turnovers, and I usually make those only on Fridays.”
“Was he by himself or with someone?”
“By himself. Why? What do you want with him?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions. Did you notice what he was driving?”
“He drives some truck with a flatbed. I think it’s red. Is h
e a criminal?”
I ignored her question and she didn’t blink, just continued to chat. “I’m not going to lie,” she said. “He made me a little nervous, but not too bad. I mean, I see folks like him around here a lot.”
“Folks like him?”
“Yeah, the anxious type. You know, pacing around the place, looking out the window all the time. Kind of paranoid. He liked to palm all the goods in here, nervously picking them up and turning them over to look at the price tags of stuff he never intended to buy. He’d go on about money and the corrupt federal reserve system, how it was all a conspiracy. Told me to watch some video on YouTube called Zeit-something to learn more. He tried to barter with me—ammo for gas. I told him to forget it; I have enough ammo.” She pointed to a shelf on the back wall. “We keep it around, you know, for people who want to go grouse hunting outside the park in the fall. Then he tried to pay me in gold.” She chuckled. “Held up a little purple satchel with gold tassels on it, like something royalty would have.”
“What did you say then?” Ken asked.
“I told him to just fill up with a quarter tank of gasoline outside, on me. That my cash register doesn’t take either ammo or gold as payment. I kind of just wanted to get rid of him.”
“He say where he was heading?”
“Said he needed enough gas to reach Moose Lake. Not too far from here.”
“I know it,” I said. Before we left, Ken and I bought two huge cinnamon rolls, a bag of beef jerky, and some waters. As I let the porch door close, I said, “You know the Trail Creek Fire has picked up considerably.”
“I know. I can tell,” she said. She tilted her head to the windows, to the murkiness collecting once again around us.
“If the winds pick up any more, there’s word they might evacuate both West Glacier because the Sheep Fire has spread farther northwest and the North Fork because the Trail Creek Fire is blowing up.”
The Weight of Night Page 32