Without the slightest warning, the face of TV’s national news star flared red with fury. Constance Boyd whirled abruptly and shoved her way through the crowd behind her. She flounced away, flinging words over her shoulder like a volley of pebbles. “Small town. Small minds. I’ve been in broadcasting for twenty-five years! How would you know what’s best for my show?”
Her entourage hustled after her. Leonard Pinzer and his lanky cameraman vacillated, apparently unsure which story to follow. They soon opted for celebrity over small minds and raced after Constance Boyd as she pranced down the sidewalk. We stood still, disappointment settling over us like a smothering blanket.
God, didn’t you hear our prayers?
Standing with us after the others departed, the stranger who’d been walking on the far side of Constance studied us thoughtfully. Her gaze lingered on each of us before she spoke. “You’ve made a good point. Right now, we don’t have the whole story. We have a lot, and much of it is quite sensational, but perhaps it would be a better story if we waited until after the trial. Assuming there will be one eventually.”
We all spoke at once.
I said, “You’re so right. Truth always makes a better story.”
Zora Jane said something like, “Oh, praise God!”
I think Jesse said, “You’d be laying yourself open to slander lawsuits by the family if you aired this clap-trap she’s collected.”
Ed asked, “Can you talk her into waiting?”
Chuckling lightly, the woman held up one hand to stop the barrage of words. “Hang on now. You’ll have to speak one at a time.”
“Who are you, anyway?” Ed asked.
The woman extended her hand. “I should introduce myself. Priscilla Stuart, producer of The Constance Boyd Show, at your service.” She dipped her head in a curt nod.
Ed grabbed her hand and pumped hard. “We’re sure pleased to meet you. Do you think you can convince her to hold off on this story?”
She winced extracting her hand from Ed’s overenthusiastic grip. “Maybe. It could take a year or more for a trial. Being a
diva, she won’t like to wait. But I think she’ll listen to reason once she cools down. Even if she doesn’t, I have enough clout with corporate. I think I can manage a delay.”
We thanked her, all speaking at the same time again, grateful beyond measure that God had indeed heard and answered our prayer. He didn’t answer the way I thought he would, but His way was much better.
Now if God would only lead us to what really happened the night Baxter Dunn died.
Chapter Ten
Heedless of Jesse’s warning that I must stay out of the case, the first chance I got I herded Molly into the car to search for Satori and the black van. Thoughts of North San Juan filled my mind while I drove along Highway 49 to the cutoff. Where did North San Juan come from? If there was a North San Juan, shouldn’t there be a town of San Juan somewhere nearby? Yet I’d never heard of one. Could there be ruins of an ancient civilization hidden in the forest? I would file these questions with my long list of other unanswerable issues such as why God created weeds.
North San Juan wasn’t on the way to anywhere. Getting there required a deliberate turning off the main highway. Perhaps that explained the general dilapidated state of the buildings. Clearly, the entire town had been built in another era. Bricks were broken, strips of paint curled, siding had chipped off. Front windows sported cracks. Missing glass let in the weather.
Although I assumed I could find Satori without help, I stopped at a small market to confirm directions and eased my stiff legs out of the Jeep. My ankles cracked and my knees refused to bend. How long had I been driving?
Three dusty motorcycles languished in the bright mid-morning sun in front of the Dew Drop Inn. I would not be dropping in there for directions; I’d had quite enough of biker bars for the time being, thank you very much.
The Hotel of the Rising Sun flanked the Dew Drop Inn. Farther down the road from Dee’s Whole Earth Market and Deli, an antiquated gas station and auto parts shop made up the rest of the town.
A faded sign in the hotel window proclaimed, “Give peace a chance.” Let me guess, hippies settled North San Juan.
“I’m going into Dee’s, Molly,” I said to my faithful companion. “If I don’t come out in a couple minutes, send in the drug-sniffing dogs, okay?”
By way of answer, Molly yawned and flipped her tail a couple of times. She’d been sleeping in the sun next to me during the forty-five minute drive from our house. Evidently, she didn’t have energy for a full wag. I gave her a pat on the head and locked her in.
Across the street I couldn’t help noticing the first splash of color in this otherwise drab town. Flaming red hair topped a woman wearing shorts and an abbreviated top. Well past the age when shorts constituted attractive attire, her outfit illustrated the term muffin top. A colorful tie-dyed top, not quite reaching her middle, exposed rolls of flesh forced up and out by the waistband of the tight shorts.
When I moved toward the grocery store, the woman shielded her eyes, appearing to watch me. By the time I reached the door, more color had materialized. A man of even larger proportions joined the redhead. Rolls of belly protruded over his biker leathers. He wore a red kerchief tied on his head. While I entered the store, the two leaned against the wall of the bar, staring…at me?
I stifled a desire to wave.
Must not get many strangers in these parts.
Pulling open the grocery door, a gross mixture of odors assaulted my nostrils. Rotten meat, sour milk, and rancid oil permeated the air. The distinctive, pungent smell of Pine Sol indicated that someone had made a perfunctory effort to clean up. The floor could definitely use more attention. Dirt hid in cracks and corners where countless boots had mashed it in. Always a big red flag in a grocery store.
I wonder how often the health inspector visits North San Juan.
Groceries lined rows of shelves in a disorganized fashion, brands and items I wasn’t used to seeing: miso, tempeh, incense. Except for the clerk, I had the store all to myself. Perhaps the residents of North San Juan weren’t out and about this early.
Behind a cluttered counter, a lanky teenage boy wearing a black shirt emblazoned with an Easy Rider logo peered at me over the top of the biker magazine he’d been studying. He looked too young to have seen the original movie. Maybe they’d remade it.
“You need help?”
I stepped toward him. “Actually, I do.”
He scowled, shrugged his skinny shoulders and focused on his magazine. “What?”
“I’m looking for a place called Satori. It’s an abandoned sawmill off Benedict Road. Somewhere north of here. Do you know it?”
He slammed down the magazine and bent over the counter to look me over head to toe. “You don’t look like someone who oughta go there.”
From the back room, a woman called. “Are you talking to someone, Ralphie? Is someone out there?”
Without taking his suspicious little eyes off me, Ralphie answered. “Some old lady wants directions to Satori. Don’t think they want just anyone going out there.”
What’s with the old lady comments? How’d you like this old lady to throttle you, young man?
A hard faced woman barely old enough to be his mother appeared from the back room just when I decided someone should teach this young man a little lesson in courtesy.
“What do you want to go out there for?” she asked, wiping her hands on her stained apron before addressing the stringy state of her hair.
“I—uh—I…” Wish I’d thought of a clever cover story. Help me, God. What should I say? A clever cover story didn’t drop into my head, so I spoke the truth instead. “I’m a friend of Baxter Dunn’s. He died out near the Star Mine last month. The sheriff’s department hasn’t solved his murder because they’re looking in all the wrong places. I just want to know what really happened.”
She tilted her head, eyeing me with disdain. “You’re not a cop.”
> “No, of course not.” I laughed lightly. “I’m not making official inquiries either.”
She shuffled behind the counter in worn Birkenstocks while pinching clumps of hair back into the brown scrunchy from whence they’d strayed. When she finished, she picked up a pair of granny glasses and adjusted them on her nose. “Why do you think you’ll find answers at Satori?”
“There’s a black van there.”
“And…”
“Deputy Dunn radioed about stopping a black van the night he died. I think maybe it’s the one Frankie de la Peña drives.”
She cocked her head to one side, eyes sparking with mistrust.
One more try. “What sort of place is Satori anyway?”
Pinching her expression into a frown, she planted her hands on her hips. “They masquerade as a religious organization, but it’s not any kind of religion I ever heard of. You ask me, it’s just some kind of ego trip. Grownup boys who’d rather fight than work.”
“Oh…well, I want to go out there.”
“Nosy people sometimes get their selves in trouble.”
Ralphie snorted.
“Please.” Right then I wasn’t above begging. “Help me. I won’t make trouble. I just need to find the truth.”
She considered that briefly and then waved both hands in the air, as if absolving herself of responsibility. “Go for it, then. But don’t say you weren’t warned. That’s a bad bunch out there. Try not to hassle ’em. Stay out of sight if you can.”
“Thank you.” I gave an enthusiastic nod. “I certainly will.”
She gave me directions, specifying that I should look for a “Y” in the road and a sign announcing the “Gleason Mill.”
The directions the woman at the grocery store offered proved essential; I’d never have found the place without them. Locating Benedict Road wasn’t much trouble, although it was farther from the North San Juan turnoff than it appeared on the map. Once I exited onto Benedict Road, however, the woods pressed in on each side while the road curved every ten feet or so, making long-range visibility nearly impossible.
Benedict Road narrowed after about a mile. At first, side roads angled off where houses peeked through the trees. These gradually became farther and farther apart until no more appeared. Perhaps a half mile after that, the pavement ran out and a bumpy dirt road took its place.
How do they get in and out of here during the winter rains? There must be another way in. Lumber trucks would never be able to navigate this lane.
Deep potholes scored the road. The Jeep bucked and jolted when I tried to drive over them. It took concentration to maneuver around them. I decreased speed significantly, but still bounced and rattled as if I drove a wooden cart pulled by a horse. Molly let out a whine of discomfort.
“I know, girl.” I patted her head. “I don’t like it either. Hopefully, these bumps won’t last much longer.”
The dirt path twisted and turned through dense woods. I hadn’t passed any indication of civilization for at least a mile when I came upon a wider space of road where the dirt path made a “Y.” A weathered sign with an arrow pointed to “Gleason Mill” ahead.
“Thank you, God, for the helpful woman in North San Juan.”
Braking to veer to the right as she had directed, I caught sight of another beat-up sign nailed to a tall pine tree. In large red stenciled letters it read:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
STAY OUT!
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
NO QUESTIONS ASKED
When I slammed on the brakes, Molly fell off the seat and thumped to the floor.
“Sorry, girl!” Pretty strong language! What now, God? Should I go ahead or turn around?
Driving a little farther, I braked and turned off the ignition. After the dust settled, I stepped out and slowly scanned the dense forest that surrounded me, looking and listening for movement.
Silence. Not even a leaf stirred.
Fixing my eyes on the Jeep, I looked for some assurance I was still on planet earth. Molly sat motionless in the driver’s seat staring. Only her panting tongue moved. Was her brow furrowed?
She blinked, forcing my mind back to the task at hand. My exploration could take a while, so what was I going to do with Molly? Why didn’t I think of this before? I couldn’t leave her in the car and go off without her.
The Jeep presented another problem. I rearranged the car facing toward Benedict Road under a leafy arbor just in case I needed to leave in a hurry. Partial camouflage seemed preferable to none at all.
Normally, I didn’t put Molly on a leash because she always obeyed when I called. But since I was sneaking in and didn’t want to risk being heard, I hunted through the back of the Jeep until I found the purple leash I kept for emergencies. Clipping it on Molly’s collar, we set off for the sawmill.
Through the trees, the noonday sun hovered nearly straight overhead. Despite the mild spring air, before long I worked up a sweat. Being sweaty made me grumpy. My face got red and my clothes stuck to my skin. And why didn’t I wear proper hiking shoes? Molly didn’t look as if she enjoyed the walk either. Maybe the leash bothered her.
Presently, we came upon a fenced area with an iron gate that was locked. Of course. I’d have to climb over it. Climbing fences always challenged me, having such short legs. But this time I managed with only minimal discomfort from the jump down.
“Ouch! That stings!” I clapped a hand over my mouth when I remembered my need for stealth. I’d let go of the leash and when Molly saw me on the other side of the gate, she scooted underneath.
Ahead I saw the rundown sawmill buildings. Several had collapsed walls. I peeked in the windows of one of the larger buildings, but only could only see lots of rusted machinery. The saw must have been housed inside. The next building hosted piles of wooden crates.
Ammunition? Mary had said they were getting ready for war. Guns, maybe.
Old logging machinery and tools were stored in the two small shacks. Why put some of the machinery indoors and leave the rest outside?
Tiptoeing to the next set of windows, I came upon a low structure that resembled barracks. Rows of bunk beds lined one wall. A wood stove at either end promised heat on cold winter nights. Sparse rustic furnishings lent a monastic atmosphere to the space. I counted beds, thirty-six with top and bottom with each having the same heavy woolen blanket and pillow.
Not the Ritz, but serviceable if you don’t mind Spartan surroundings.
By then, we’d reached the far end of the compound without encountering a single soul. That worried me, but Molly padded contentedly at my side, not even straining on her leash, as if she enjoyed our stroll.
Where did everyone go?
Most likely playing war games in the woods.
By now, the skulking had become stressful. Squatting fatigued my leg muscles. Jesse liked to remind me that I wasn’t as young as I used to be. My shoulders ached from holding my body so tense. My eyes strained to scout in all directions before moving a muscle. Not to mention the mental fatigue from worrying that at any moment someone might discover us lurking behind the buildings.
Molly whined a couple of times when I stopped too long. I considered returning to the car the way I’d come. Although I’d
seen evidence that people currently occupied this compound, I’d yet to come upon any vehicles. That’s what I really came to see, the vehicles.
Where is that black van?
When I got to the crossbar section of the “U” on the far end of the compound, I craned my neck to peek between the two farthest buildings.
A small black surveillance camera caught my eye when it moved a few inches with a faint whirring sound. The camera hung under the eaves of the next building to my left, pointed away from us. Did that indicate the relative importance of that particular building?
A large pile of fur on the veranda rearranged its position with a grunt and a groan. Oh, no! A dog! A German shepherd guard dog.
I struggled to keep from screaming.
>
Now what? Dogs have keen hearing. Why hadn’t he heard us already?
A mere fifty feet separated Molly and me from the dog. I tucked Molly safely behind me where she’d be harder to see. Shade at the back of the building gave us partial covering. I hoped the two dogs wouldn’t see or smell each other.
How had I missed that dog when I started my trek along these buildings? Christine, Christine! How do you do it?
No one knew our whereabouts. This is what you get for going against your husband’s wishes. That was wrong. A headache stabbed my brain. Why hadn’t I told someone where I planned to go? We might never get out of here.
Retreating to a safer position at the rear of the building, I pressed my back against the wall. Molly plopped at my feet, watching my face. Tilting my head upward, I prayed to God for wisdom. Oh, Lord, help me. I know I should’ve asked You before I came out here today. But I didn’t. Again. Why do I think I can do
these things on my own? Please forgive me. I know asking for Your help now is like asking You to keep the cow from escaping after the barn door has been left open all night. I’m a sinful creature, Lord. A wretched, sinful creature.
I poked my head out around the buildings once more. The scene hadn’t changed. Beyond the next building another long building stood. Most likely another barracks. The final building on that side appeared to be two stories tall with a large double barn door. Two beat-up pickup trucks rested in its shade, the only vehicles I’d seen so far. There must be others. That larger building might be tall enough to park cars inside. If I wanted to find the black van, I’d probably have to look in there.
Now or never. I sucked in a long breath, put my head down, and raced along the back side of the building where I knew the dog and camera guarded the front. Then I continued to the long building without pausing to look around, dragging Molly behind me.
On the other side, loud voices shredded the afternoon silence like sharp bowie knives. I froze mid-step.
The Dunn Deal Page 10