by Mark Hazard
“Ed Garvey searched his son’s house. He might have been withholding, but then why tell us about the go-bag Andy had packed?”
Corus got off the Renton thruway, passed under the 405 and got onto the 169 to the precinct.
“Corus I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
“Call Ed Garvey.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Call his office then, L-T!”
“Okay, okay.” Chu searched on his phone for a number to the County Commissioner’s office. “Here.” Chu dialed and spoke to whoever answered. He asked for Ed Garvey, but was told he was in a meeting. “Can you get him out of it? I think it’s an emergency.”
Chu shrugged as he waited. “I’m on hold.”
Long minutes passed. Corus pulled into the precinct, and Chu got out near the door. “You aren’t coming in?”
“No. I don’t know what I’m doing yet.”
“What do you want me to talk to Ed Garvey for?”
Corus thought a moment, biting the knuckle of his index finger. He remembered the mud on Andy Garvey’s SUV. “Ask him… ask him if his PI buddy that tailed Andy ever saw him drive on a dirt road or drive too far out of town, and when.”
Chu nodded, still holding the phone to his ear, and went inside.
Corus parked and stayed in his vehicle. He called the county records office and waited until he was able to ask for any property records for Andrew Garvey. The only property on record was his home. Next he called Snohomish County. He was on hold when Chu’s call came in. He answered.
“Garvey says his PI followed Andy to Kitsap County. He turned off before Bremerton in Gorst.”
“I’ve been out there. That’s right near Jim’s new place in Oak Harbor.”
“He didn’t know the road, and he lost the tail somewhere near a Jelly Ranch.”
“A Jelly Ranch?”
“That’s what he said. Listen, I think I spooked him. Garvey is on his way down here.”
“Chu, you need to make sure Garvey doesn’t get into that precinct building.”
“Ok, I’ll stop him.”
They hung up, and Rosen came out the main entrance, moving as fast as he dared in the snow. He jumped in the SUV, and Corus pulled out of the parking lot.
FORTY-SEVEN
Corus got back on I-5 south and put the Kitsap County records office on speaker. He again tried to get a listing under the name of Garvey, but by the time he reached Tacoma, they told him there was nothing.
He called Jim.
“What’s the Jelly Ranch?”
“I dunno. Sounds like a strip club or something.”
“Gross, no. It’s somewhere west of Gorst.”
“Which road? 3 or Belfair?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Maybe I can ask around.”
“It’s a rush job, Jim.”
Corus hung up and crossed the Puget Sound onto the Kitsap Peninsula. The further north he drove, the more intense the snow flurries became. The sun was getting higher, and the snowflakes grew large and wet. Highway 16 was beginning to clear a bit, at least in the tire tracks. Vehicles were going slower than usual, but at least they were moving steadily.
“You sure Andy is involved?” Rosen asked.
“I’ve got a bad feeling, Abe. Real bad.”
“But Andy? He always acts so nervous, and kinda nerdy.”
Corus called Chu again and asked him to text him a picture of Garvey’s SUV.
After forty minutes of driving up the Kitsap Peninsula, Corus arrived at Jim’s house. Jim stepped out the front and down a flight of steps to the driveway. He strode up to Corus’ Explorer, wearing thick boots and a winter jacket.
Rosen moved around to the back, and Jim leaned a long, soft rifle sleeve in the foot well of the passenger seat and kicked his boots against the runners before he stepped into the SUV.
“What’s that?”
“That’s just in case.”
“Did you figure out where the Jelly Ranch is?”
“No, but Earl my elderly neighbor said there were quite a few raspberry farms out this way.”
“Did he say which road to try?” There were two roads leading west from Gorst. They ran parallel for a bit before branching away from each other. “Which road is more likely to take us to a dirt road?”
“The Belfair Valley Road I’d guess.”
Corus drove and Jim navigated. While passing through Port Orchard, Corus’s phone rang.
“Hey, it’s Chu. Listen, Andy Garvey took off.”
“He took off?”
“Yeah, after his interview with the Marshalls he slipped out.”
“How long ago?”
“Two minutes.”
“How are the roads over there?”
“I think things are clearing up. It’s kind of slushy. Not as treacherous as this morning.”
“Did the meeting go well?”
“It was ok. Apparently hey wanted to talk quite a bit about his credibility, and of course they didn’t give any indication either way of their determination yet. I don’t know. He seemed highly agitated. Like he wanted some assurance from them. I don’t think he got it.”
“So what did you do?”
“I kept the meeting going as long as possible and then afterward I told him that the meeting didn’t go well.”
“Good.”
“Why did you tell me to do that? Aren’t you afraid that will just freak him out and make him run?”
“I’m hoping it will. I just need to find his place first. Chu, I need you to do a search for a Jelly Ranch or Berry Ranch or something close to that name. I’m heading west from Port Orchard, past a town called Gorst on Belfair Valley Road.” Corus hung up.
They drove slow, partially due to the weather and partially to look carefully for any sign of the Jelly Ranch. The snow was thicker on the ground here than Corus had seen anywhere yet. There were three, four, even five inches in spots. Now the snow had been replaced by rain, turning it all to slush. Nothing torrential, but Corus’ windshield wipers were busy.
Corus’s phone rang again. “I’m sending backup your way,” Chu said. “I’ll put a call into Kitsap County Sheriff’s Dep—
“No L-T. We haven’t found his place yet. If he sees a bunch of heat on the small roads out here he’ll get spooked. I’m not taking any chances this time.”
“Fine, but the roads are clearing. It might only take him an hour or so to get to Gorst if he heads that way. How can I help?”
“Search for any clues as to where his cabin or some sort of hideout might be out here.”
They came to an intersection of sorts where the Belfair Valley Road split into two directions..
“Which way?” Corus asked.
Jim searched the wooded opening before them for a sign. “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.”
Corus gave Jim an irritated look. “Do we got time for poetry?”
“What?” Jim asked. “It’s true. We’re more likely to find a dirt road on this smaller one.” Jim pointed to MacQuarrie Road, which veered right.
Corus turned the wheel and stayed right. The road ascended slightly and began to undulate. It pointed them northwest for a mile and then north by northwest.
“There!” Jim pointed toward a small wooden folding sign. It was old pressboard painted white, cracks showing in the paint. It stood perhaps two feet high off the ground and painted red letters read “Berries.” Below that, partially obscured by snow: “Jams.”
“Berry Jams?” Corus asked.
“You seen another sign that says shit about berries?” Jim cradled the encased rifle between his legs.
Corus parked and got out. He walked briskly into a private driveway overhung with leafless branches and knocked on the door of the small white trailer home set back into the brush.
He heard noises, and after a minute, a liver-spotted hand opened the door. A wrinkled face smile
d sweetly to him and waved him in. “Come in from the cold,” she said.
He stepped into the trailer, which seemed surprisingly spacious. A living room to his right sported early 90s décor full of pinkish hues. The old lady walked into the kitchen on the left and looked into a cupboard. “We’ve got blueberry and raspberry left. There might be more strawberry in the shed. “Hal.” She called.
“Ma’am, please don’t trouble yourself.”
“Hal. Could you go check for strawberry?”
An old man Corus hadn’t even seen bent forward out of a reclining chair in the living room and traipsed past the kitchen and out a back door.
“Really, it’s ok. I’m not here for jam. I’m wondering,” Corus pulled out his phone and brought up the image Chu had sent him, “if you or your husband have seen this vehicle on this road. The old woman leaned over the counter and placed two bent fingers on either side of the phone. “I don’t know,” she said. “Hal?” She looked out the window. “Oh Hal, you’ll catch your death.”
Hal was opening a storage shed outside.
“May I go get him?”
“Sure. Tell him to come inside and get his coat.”
Corus went out the back door. The screen slammed, and Hal poked his head out behind the shed door. “Mr… Mr. Hal. I need your help. Not with jam.” Corus held the phone up for the ancient man to see. “Have you seen this rig passing by on the road?”
Hal squinted at the phone’s screen and sniffed. “Ah sure.”
“You have? You see this rig anytime this week?”
“Ah sure. Least I think so,” the old man croaked.
“Do you know where they live?”
“Oh, they must live up MacQuarrie a piece.”
Corus thanked Hal and walked around the trailer and back to the Explorer.
“He’s somewhere on this stretch,” he said. “Let’s keep going and keep a look out for dirt roads.”
Blue flashed between snow-covered trees, as they passed a small lake. Just beyond it they found a dirt road, but it was blocked with a thick, white swinging iron bar held up by heavy cement bases and locked. It looked like a state or federal forest service road, closed for the winter season. Continuing on, they found a dirt road leading off to the left and followed it for a hundred yards before it petered out in a wash of gravel and a small clearing, but no more road. Corus turned around and drove back to MacQuarrie Road.
They found two more dirt roads within a mile. The other led up to a larger clearing with a home set in the middle. It was a large affair with a three-car garage. A Toyota sedan sat in the driveway and a child’s bicycle on the porch. The other led on seemingly without end. Corus stopped and pulled over after four miles. He looked at the time. It had been about twenty-five minutes since Andy had left the precinct. They had maybe forty-five minutes to find the place.
The rain intensified, making it more and more difficult to see. The windshield wipers swished back and forth like the arm of a metronome counting off the beats of a song.
“We’re losing time,” Jim said. “Maybe we should just go back to the berry place and wait for him to pass. Not as good as finding his place first, but it’s something.”
Corus nodded and turned around. They drove back, and ten precious minutes ticked away. Corus slammed on the brakes when they passed the barricaded forestry road again. The SUV slid a little in the slush as it came to a stop. Corus eyed the barricade. There were no official markings, no signs of any kind. A brass padlock secured the cross bar to the post.
“You thinking that could be it?” Rosen asked.
“I’m thinking we drove right past it, and that might be exactly what he wanted.” Corus pointed. “Look, there are faint tracks where snow fell on top of tire tracks in the snow this morning. Someone has driven there in the last twelve hours.
“Can’t break the lock or he’d see when he gets here,” Jim warned. “He’d see our tracks too.”
“I’ll have to walk in.”
“You don’t know how far.”
“It’s worth a shot. You hang out of sight by the berry place and call me if he passes you by. Tail him. If he comes up this road, I’ll hide. If he keeps going, you find out where he went, then come get me and we’ll swoop in together, ok?”
Jim considered the plan a moment. “Okay, but stay off the road. You’ll leave footprints.”
It was good to have a seasoned veteran by his side once again.
As Jim pulled away, Corus tiptoed through slush in the gutter past the cross bar. He stayed in the gutter, as the detritus and tree litter mingled with slush to hide his footprints.
The road curved right and then left. Corus looked ahead and saw that the next turn seemed rather sharp. He scampered up a muddy embankment and onto the high ground and ran between tall trees without fear of leaving prints so far from the road. Eventually, the ground leveled out for a hundred yards. The road grew straighter and led back through the woods to a wooden structure.
Corus looked behind him at the twisting road, unable to see anymore where it branched off of MacQuarrie. Running as fast as he dared through slushy deadfall and over slippery logs, he stopped thirty feet from the simple brown structure. The hooded, metal pipe chimney indicated this was not a storage shed.
Corus scanned the ground to find the best route to take to the single front door. Beneath a tall spruce there was a patch of earth completely bare of snow. Corus picked up a spruce branch off the ground and made his way to the tree, tiptoeing backward and waving the needles over the slushy prints he made to obscure them. Once in the clear spot, he was able to walk within three yards of the house. Still, five yards of evenly pockmarked slush and snow remained between him and the door.
It was too far to jump. The area was too clean and neat to simply obscure his steps by sweeping them with the branch. Corus studied the door. A single step led up to it, covered in slush and snow with the faint image of a footprint in it. Of course. If Garvey had left this place in time to get to the precinct by eight then the tracks he made on the way to his vehicle would have been masked with more snow and now rain.
Corus looked around and spotted another faint print and another. Where they stopped, tire ruts appeared in the snow on the road. Corus backtracked through the clear space under the spruce and through the slushy underbrush to the snow covered dirt road. He stepped into a rut and used his spruce branch to obscure his tracks while walking backward. He reached the spot where Andy got into his vehicle that morning and stepped backward into each one of his footprints, still sweeping and slapping them with the spruce needles to simulate the effects of the rain. He stepped backward onto the step and then up into the single room cabin.
FORTY-EIGHT
Corus pushed the door closed, and it clicked shut just as he saw what hung next to it.
An AR-15 with a thirty round magazine.
“Son of a bitch.”
To the right of the door, against the short wall, a twin mattress rested on a wooden frame. A black sleeping bag with a blue interior lay unzipped, but tidily arranged. Atop the bed was a large duffel bag packed full. To the left of the door was a washbasin with a cistern above it. Corus shook it and felt a large quantity of water slosh inside of it, perhaps twenty gallons. Beside the basin sat a propane stove with a two burners, one slightly larger than the other. Two pans and a pot hung on nails in the wall above it. Corus touched the chimney pipe of the woodstove in the center of the room. It was warm, but not hot. A fire had been lit earlier that morning.
A bookcase stood against the wall opposite the door. The top two shelves were filled with books. The bottom three were filled with food, plates and other supplies. To the left of the bookcase, a long bench ran to the corner and all along the other wall, just over hip high. A single four-legged stool sat beneath it. Atop it sat an assortment of tools, diagrams, and an open book. Small cardboard boxes were stacked on the wooden bench next to rows of small plastic storage bins that looked like tiny chests of drawers. Corus pulled one of
those drawers out and a pile of jacketed bullets glistened inside. He opened another and another until he found drawers of non-jacketed bullets. One drawer held bullets that had been filed down into asymmetrical, un-aerodynamic shapes.
“So it tumbles easier,” Corus murmured.
A row of metal canisters rested on the shelf above the bench. Corus took one down.
Gunpowder.
On the short wall under the window the bench was more orderly. This was the killer’s workspace. Just left of center sat a blue contraption eighteen-inches-high and mounted on a squat base. It was much larger than Gus’s reloading press, but Corus immediately identified it as such.
In addition to the weapon by the door, more firearms leaned in the grooves cut for them in a rack above the bench, one of which had been modified to cycle subsonic rounds.
Corus reached for his phone.
He called Jim but his phone made a sad noise to indicate he had no signal. Corus marched about the room keeping his eye on the phone, looking for even a single bar to appear and indicate reception. He wasn’t a half-mile off the road. Corus could probably get a signal if he just walked a ways. He stepped to the door, put his hand on the handle and froze.
He heard sounds.
The unmistakable sound of tires on slush grew louder. Corus took his hand from the door and moved to the window above the bed. He peered out a dirty corner watching Andy pull up near the cabin in his old light-colored SUV. He slammed the door as he got out and walked quickly toward the cabin.
Corus pulled out his 9mm pistol, chambered a round and released the safety. Andy walked right in front of the window instead of to the door, continuing back behind the house and out of sight, so Corus stepped to the window beside the bookshelf. Andy rushed to the outhouse set twenty paces back from the cabin. A minute later Andy emerged, seeming relieved. The door clapped shut behind him, scaring a bird from a tree. Instead of walking straight back the route he came, he walked toward the rear of the cabin. Corus ducked and heard the soft sound of bark on bark, the hollow clunk of firewood being stacked. Corus took up a position behind the wood stove and waited. Andy’s blonde head moved past the window above the bed.