The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  Watkins coughed, then talked to the floor. “Well, that is their case, and unfortunately your family attorney didn’t help you by taking the precautions he should have to preserve appearances.”

  “Screw appearances. I was concerned about my father.”

  “I know, I know.” He tried to be soothing. “It just looked awkward, that’s all. If it makes you feel any better, I think we got through that witness tolerably well. Bosso made some points, but I don’t think he made his case.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “It could be better. I’d give my right arm for a witness who’d testify that you and your father discussed this long before he fell off the horse.”

  “You don’t have those discussions in front of witnesses,” she said. “Except when you’re in the hospital and some busybody nurse only hears snatches of the conversation out of context.”

  “Look, Ellen, I’m going to try to meet with Bosso tomorrow …”

  “Forget it. I’m not settling. Even if it means losing everything.”

  Watkins grew more assertive than he had seemed capable of doing. “I won’t bill you for the time if you want, but I need to know if he’s thinking settlement. The judge certainly is, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t sound out the other side.”

  She stood up and let her breath out. “God, what a mess,” she said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon. Don’t worry. It’ll work out.”

  Before she could argue with him, he scooped up his attaché case and headed out the door. After a few seconds, she stood and turned around, her eye meeting Gordon’s. He realized, with a start, that they were the only two people left in the courtroom, and that she must know he had overheard the conversation. He stood up as she walked down the aisle.

  “So what brings you here, Gordon? Morbid curiosity?”

  He looked her in the eye for a moment, and when he spoke it was in a low, measured voice with a hint of a tremor.

  “I think,” he said, “that ‘concern’ would be a more accurate characterization.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself now. Please forgive me.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll invite you to dinner.”

  “I’d like to,” she said, “but not now. I need to get back to the ranch and compose myself. Thank you for asking.” With that, she walked briskly away.

  After giving her two minutes’ head start, Gordon left the courtroom and got to the front door of the courthouse just as the janitor was beginning to lock it. He stepped outside to find that the rain had stopped falling, though it was overcast and darkening. Rain or no rain, he thought, he would be back at the courthouse Monday at ten o’clock.

  Friday September 10

  When Gordon drove to the East Buchanan River shortly after eight o’clock in the morning, he found, as he had feared, that it was running high and muddy, the color of coffee with cream. There would be no fishing it for a couple of days.

  Being familiar with the area, however, he knew that thunderstorms hit the mountains in a patchwork pattern, and that one area might be inundated while another, only a few miles away, might receive only light rainfall. He also knew that smaller streams tended to clear up faster than the East Buchanan, which was far and away the largest body of running water in the area. The West Fork of the Buchanan (or at least the upper part of it) was one range over and substantially smaller — no more than a creek, really. The fish wouldn’t be as large, but it was a beautiful stream and at this time of year there were likely to be few people around. He decided to check it out.

  He drove his Cherokee back through Harperville and several miles up the state highway. It was a cool morning, with not a cloud in the sky, and even though the calendar still said summer, it felt like fall. The leaves on the aspens had not yet begun to turn gold, and a hint of a breeze made them shimmer and quiver. A feeling of contentment washed over him. Even if the West Buchanan turned out to be high and muddy, it would be worth the drive on a morning like this.

  Ten minutes from Harperville, he turned left on a paved county road that more or less paralleled the West Buchanan for a couple of miles. Gordon was pleased to see that the water was clear. There would be fishing today after all. About two miles up the county road, the West Buchanan ran under it, from left to right, coming down from its source, Tamarack Lake, high in the mountains above. A half-mile beyond the bridge, a dirt road went off to the left, the same direction as the stream. Gordon made the turn, crossed a cattle guard, and began the final leg of his trip.

  For five miles he followed a narrow, twisting dirt road through dense forest, interrupted by an occasional open space, until he reached Sullivan Meadows. At an elevation of seven thousand feet, the meadows were the first place the West Buchanan slowed down after leaving the source lake twenty five hundred feet higher up. The creek worked its way slowly through the grassy fields in a series of slow riffles, deep pools, and undercut banks, all home to trout. Someone — he wondered if it was the McHenrys — had a lease to graze cattle here. The stream was still on the left side of the road as he drove up, and access to it was unobstructed. Across the creek, a fence ran parallel to it with just a few feet of clearance and a couple of breaks that allowed the cows to drink from the deeper pools they couldn’t wade across. There were two or three hundred head in the pasture, and they were wearing bells so they could be found if they wandered into the forest or nearby underbrush. The almost continuous sound of the bells mixed with the whisper of the pines and aspens in the breeze to put just a hint of tension in the air.

  In the upper end of the meadow, there was a large flat area where the grass had been matted down or worn away and several impromptu fire pits had been formed with circles of stone. It was not an official campground, but the Forest Service allowed people to stay there as long as fire rules were obeyed.

  Expecting to have the meadow to himself, Gordon was dismayed to see a large encampment in place. He counted seven substantial tents, ten pickups and sport utility vehicles, and about a dozen horses tethered near the creek. During the summer a riding club would sometimes claim the meadow for a weekend, using it as a base camp for excursions that followed the creek to the wilderness area above. He guessed that such a group must be having one last weekend outing while the weather was still good. Gordon sat in the Cherokee in the middle of the road at the bottom of the meadow, trying to decide whether to proceed with his plans or turn back. Surveying the scene, he thought he could start fifty yards below the camp and work his way down the bottom third of the meadow, which had some prime fishing water in it, then continue through the pocket water in the wooded section below. Since the group seemed to be sticking to its camp, he figured that he ought to enjoy a fair degree of solitude.

  Gordon pulled a few feet off the road and began dressing to fish. Sitting on the back flap of his vehicle, he put on a pair of hip waders and pulled the wading boots over them. He looked at the nine-foot graphite rod he had rigged to fish the East Buchanan and decided against it, reaching instead for a seven and a half foot, five-weight bamboo rod that was a favorite of his. Taking it out of its case, he joined the two halves together, screwed the reel on to it and ran the line through the ferrules. He put on his fishing vest, then removed a seven-and-a-half-foot 5X leader from it, attached it to the line, tied on a size 14 Yellow Humpy, bent back its barb with pliers and slipped the hook into the small ring just above the handle. He was ready to go.

  It was a quarter past nine as Gordon strolled down a slight grade into the heart of the meadow. The sun had risen high enough above the mountains to bathe almost the entire meadow in its light and begin warming it up. The grass was still wet from the morning dew, and it quickly covered his boots and waders with a film of water. He made his way toward a pool, below the encampment, where he reasoned there might be some fish if this group hadn’t worked the water to death.

  About 25 feet from the creek, he got down on his knees and took stock. The stream was f
airly full for late season and the pool seemed to be about six feet deep. He decided to try a few casts that would bring his fly from the riffle above to the head of it, then, if that drew no response, try drifting his fly down the tail end of the pool, where a trout or two might be waiting.

  He crept a little closer, freed the fly and stripped some line from the reel. His first cast hit the riffle about five feet above the pool and drifted cleanly down to the quiet water. It glided five or six feet into the pool, then stalled in the still water. Gordon sat watching it for nearly a minute, then shook his head. He repeated the cast three more times with the same result, then decided to try the bottom half of the pool. He moved to the head of it and closer to the water. Facing downstream, his back to the encampment, he sized up the situation. Some brush overhung the tail end of the pool on the opposite shore and there might be fish taking cover beneath it. After a couple of back casts, he aimed for a spot 17 feet downstream at the edge of the brush. He hit the target with a flawless cast and intently watched the fly drift lazily downstream.

  “Catching anything?”

  The question was asked at the precise instant that a trout rose to take the fly, and it so startled Gordon that he involuntarily jerked the rod and pulled the fly from the fish’s mouth. It landed in the middle of the pool and sat motionless.

  “Sorry about that. I hate to cost a man a fish.”

  The words were spoken by a man who stood six-feet two and was powerfully built. He was in his late twenties and wore his black hair in a crew cut. His mouth was set in a smile that bordered on a sneer, and the tone of his voice, which carried a hint too much of honeyed unctuousness, belied his words. He had a toothpick in his mouth and was fixing Gordon with an unflinching stare. After the start the man had given him, Gordon found the gaze unnerving.

  “That’s all right,” he said without conviction. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “I’m surprised you got a rise. This creek got pretty well fished out over Labor Day and they haven’t stocked it since. You might be better off trying the East Buchanan.” The last words came out in a way that made them sound more like a threat than friendly advice.

  Gordon chose to be deliberately obtuse. “I checked that out this morning, and it’s muddy from all the rain. Besides, this is a nice creek, and I’m sure there are still some fish in the pocket water below the meadow.”

  “Have it your way,” said the man. “It’s still a free country.” He paused momentarily. “It’s none of my business again, but you did say you were going to fish downstream a bit?”

  Gordon nodded.

  “Just a word of caution. There are a lot of rattlesnakes on the rocks downstream, so you might want to watch your step. In fact, the snakes are better sport than the fish. I like to go after them with a stick and a loop myself. I got four the day before yesterday.” He paused and smiled. “One of them was fifty three inches long.”

  He made no attempt to leave, letting that last nugget of information sink in, so Gordon felt compelled to say something.

  “Are you folks from a horseman’s association or something?’

  “No, not really. You might say we’re sort of a gun club. As a matter of fact, I was coming down here to tell you that we’re about ready to start a little target practice. I hope the noise won’t bother you.”

  Gordon shrugged. “It’s still a free country,” he said.

  “Right you are.” The man stayed put, looking at Gordon, who nervously reeled in the fly and hooked it to the rod handle.

  “I think I’ll work my way downstream,” Gordon said. “Nice meeting you.”

  “By the way,” said the stranger, “and I know this is none of my business, but is that the way you usually dress when you’re fishing?”

  Gordon was wearing khaki pants, a forest-green flannel shirt, tan fishing vest and brown Stetson. “Is there some problem?”

  “No, I wouldn’t exactly call it a problem. It’s just that, you see, deer hunting season starts tomorrow and right now you’re about the same color as a deer. If you go tramping through the brush in that outfit, somebody might take a shot at you.” He paused. “I’d really hate to see that happen.”

  “So would I,” said Gordon. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Well, good luck. Hope you catch something today.”

  He walked off leaving Gordon feeling rattled. The man had never raised his voice, but if his intent was to convey a sense of menace, he had certainly succeeded.

  Gordon decided to put some more distance between himself and the encampment and started downstream. The sound of the bells from the cattle had taken on an ominous tone and frequency, almost as if the animals themselves were sharing his uneasiness and moving more nervously. He reached a bend in the creek, about 150 feet below the spot where the conversation had been held, and decided to cast to the undercut bank on the other side.

  The fly hit the water two feet from the opposite bank. Too far, Gordon thought, as he watched it drift. The sun was hitting the water directly by now, and he could easily follow the tan-colored fly on the surface. He tried again, and this time got it just six inches out from the bank. A split second later, it was hammered by a scrappy ten-inch trout. Playing the fish quickly and deftly, Gordon brought it to his shore and stabilized it in the water with his left hand. He rarely used a net because he felt it was easier on the fish to keep it in the water. This one was a brook trout, and judging from its deep colors, a native. Sliding his right hand down the end of the leader, he grasped the hook between thumb and forefinger. It was firmly lodged in the right corner of the fish's lower lip, but with an expert twist, Gordon had it out. He then took his left hand away from the fish, which swam off immediately to the cover of the overhanging bank on the other side.

  “Not bad for a fished-out creek,” he muttered under his breath.

  He heard the first shot as he attempted another cast. It was quickly followed by two more, then a series of perhaps half a dozen in quick succession. The sound bounced off the sides of the surrounding mountains and filled the meadow. The firing continued, shots coming nearly every other second, for a full three minutes before there was a pause. It was a deep, reverberating sound, much like the thunder of the previous afternoon, only louder. When the gunfire stopped, there was some whooping and shouting from the direction of the encampment, and Gordon figured the men must be checking the bullet holes in the targets and adding up points. Then, a moment later, the shooting started again.

  Although he disliked guns, Gordon did his best not to be bothered by the shooting. He moved slightly downstream and tried casting to another section of undercut bank. His first effort was a foot too long, and his fly snagged in a piece of brush on the other side. He tried pulling on the line and succeeded only in breaking off his fly. Squatting on the ground to tie on a new one, he was acutely aware of the discordant symphony of cowbells and gunfire. When he tried another cast, he snagged his fly in the same overhanging brush as before.

  Gordon swore. It was no use. The visit from the stranger and the sound of the gunfire had shaken him and he had no inclination to stay any longer. He walked back to his car and when he got there looked back at the encampment. About a hundred feet from the edge of camp, in the direction opposite from where he had been fishing, he could see five large targets set up against a background of stacked hay. Five men with rifles were shooting at them from the edge of camp. One of them was the man who had come to talk with Gordon, and after firing off a few rounds, he turned and looked in the direction of Gordon’s vehicle. He waved, and Gordon waved back.

  But Gordon was hardly looking at the stranger. He was more interested in the targets themselves. They were life-sized human silhouettes, topped with cut-out pictures of the faces of Bill and Hillary Clinton.

  • • •

  Contacts. One of the things about being the son of a judge was that Gordon had contacts. Twelve years ago, his father had spent July and August as a visiting judge in Summit County when the local jurist had
been sidelined with appendicitis. It was the summer after Gordon had graduated from Berkeley, and he had spent those two months with his father, living in a rented cabin and fishing nearly every day. With a degree in hand and a job lined up at the brokerage, Gordon for the first time felt that he had reached adulthood, and he and his father had enjoyed each other's company during that time. He came to know the area well and developed an affinity for it that had brought him back several times since.

  He and his father had made some acquaintances at the time, and one of them was Sheriff Mike Baca. The sheriff was something of a legend in Summit County, having been under 30 years of age when he first won the office. He was now nearing the end of his sixth four-year term and hadn’t run in a contested election since being convincingly re-elected to his second term. There had been three murders in the county while Baca was sheriff, and in each case the investigation had resulted in an arrest and conviction. His detailed knowledge of his territory made his search and rescue team one of the best in the state, and almost every summer Gordon would see a story in the San Francisco Chronicle about it finding some lost child or hiker.

  After giving up on fishing the West Buchanan, Gordon decided to presume on his acquaintance and pay the sheriff a call. He usually did when he was in the area, and he knew Baca could probably tell him plenty about both the McHenry family and the encampment on the West Buchanan. It was a little past 11 o’clock when Gordon parked in front of the courthouse, entered the front door, and went down the steps to the sheriff’s basement office. The receptionist recognized him as he walked in the door.

  “Quill Gordon! I thought I saw you heading up to the second floor yesterday afternoon.”

  “You probably did, Ginger. Is the sheriff in?”

  “He sure is. How long are you here for?”

  “I’ll be around till the end of next week. Is he still in the same office?”