Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler

by Victoria Houston

  “You know, that is a great idea. Let me text our friend, Bruce. He won’t want to miss that. If he doesn’t mind driving up tomorrow, that will make it easy for us to get an early start on Monday. He’ll never forgive me if he doesn’t get the lesson too.”

  “And me? What about me?” Osborne did his best to sound hurt.

  “The more the merrier,” said Jake, holding the car door open. “By all means, Doc, I know you need to help with your grandson but we’ll just be a couple hours or so. Once you know when you need to be at the hospital, give me a call. We’ll work around your schedule.”

  He stepped out of the car, paused, then got back in. He shut the door. “Something is bothering me. Something I saw at the Jarvison’s tonight.” He was quiet for moment then said, “Chief Ferris, what I saw is hardly proof of anything but I have to mention it.”

  “Go right ahead, Jake,” said Lew.

  “You two were talking to that woman behind the bar when Nancy gave me a grand tour of their place. When we were in Bud’s study, I saw a small wooden box on the mantel over the fireplace. A box almost identical to the one my son used to carry his trout flies. Jarvison’s got wood carvings all around the room but that box stands out.”

  Lew turned around to stare at Jake. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, of course it doesn’t. I asked her about it and she had no idea where it came from. She did comment that she hadn’t noticed it before.”

  “They have a lot of art that Bud inherited from his father and grandfather. The family’s been known for their collections of antique duck decoys and fishing lures,” said Osborne.

  “Well… could be there are a lot of small boxes like that around.”

  “Would there be an identifying mark of some kind on your son’s box?” asked Lew.

  “I think so. I believe there is a red seal on the bottom.”

  “And did you check to see if—”

  “No. I didn’t think to do that until later. I should have—it would have made me feel better.” Sadness filled Jake’s voice.

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I’m so sorry for everything.” Lew’s voice trembled.

  Jake reached across the car seat to grasp her hand and squeeze. “I know. And I thank you both. Just a break like this evening helps. Tomorrow in the river—that will be good.” He whispered, “Good night.”

  • • •

  Lew’s last thought that night as she lay next to Osborne in the dark, listening to the hoot of a marauding owl, was to wonder—along with the FBI—where Bud was getting all that cash. Selling family heirlooms on eBay?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I called one of the kayakers who found Peter Corbin to find out where they put in their kayaks,” said Lew as she drove her pickup along a forest road that wound through the national forest. “I want to avoid the area where we found Liam because Ray is still searching that location. He thought he could put in another four or five hours today but he said it’s been rough going through the swamps along there.”

  “So no traces of the shooter yet?” asked Jake.

  Jake, Bruce, Osborne, and Lew had squeezed themselves into the little truck that Lew used for fishing.

  “It’s designed to fit four,” she had said hopefully.

  “Yeah? Four munchkins,” said Bruce, tucking his knees up under his chin. “I think Mr. Barber here is going to have me arrested for molesting him.”

  “Hey, to answer Jake’s question a minute ago,” said Lew, “Ray’s found nothing significant. But given that it’s been months since hunting season and we haven’t had rain for ten days, he’s confident that when and if he comes across signs of a person or people having been back in there, they may well be just who we’re looking for. No other reason for them to be there.”

  “Ah ha!” she said, squealing her tires as she yanked the truck into a small clearing to the left of the road. “Look at that.” Lew pointed over a cluster of sumac to a glimmer of blue. “The river is right here. Everybody out.”

  Before they pushed through the brush to head down a slope to the river’s edge, Lew lowered the tailgate. She handed out the waders they had stuffed in there along with Jake’s tenkara rods. While they were pulling on their waders, Lew set four brown paper bags on the open tailgate.

  “If anyone gets hungry,” she said as she struggled into her own waders, “those lunch bags are filled with treats. You get a peanut butter sandwich, a little cheese and crackers, and the first raspberries of the summer. But no eating until after class—right, teach?” She grinned at Jake.

  “Right you are,” he said with a smile. He was the happiest Osborne had seen him since they first met. Though his face was lined with the vestiges of grief, he appeared to be at peace for the moment.

  “Oh, and there’s one more bag here—chocolate chip cookies. Baked ’em this morning.” On that happy note they trudged down to the river.

  As they neared the river’s edge, Jake dropped back to whisper to Osborne, “Lewellyn certainly is one Swiss Army knife of a woman, isn’t she?” He sounded so admiring that Osborne gave him a sharp look.

  “Tenkara is fly-fishing in the most traditional sense,” said Jake as he waded into the water a few feet from shore. Holding a rod in his hands, he gestured as he spoke. “Your rod casts the line with a fly at the end that drifts but the tenkara rod is different from a traditional fly rod—it’s fourteen feet long, you tie the line at the end, add three feet of tippet and a dry fly. No reel. That’s the major difference from the fly-fishing you’ve done in the past: no reel.

  “Chief Ferris, this is Liam’s rod so you take this one,” he said, handing Lew one of the two rods he had carried down to the water. “You’ve got 5X tippet on there and I tied on a Royal Wulff, which is the trout fly I prefer.”

  “It’s ‘Lew’ today, Jake,” said Lew. “I’m off the clock.”

  “Lew it is,” said Jake with a wide smile.

  A little too wide, thought Osborne.

  “Bruce and Doc,” Jake continued, “you two will take turns with my rod. Same line length, about twelve feet. The line is more like a leader than a line—it’s not as heavy as the traditional fly line.”

  “But it’s pink,” said Bruce, sounding chagrined. “Does it have to be pink? And what test is it?”

  “Don’t mind Bruce,” said Lew from where she had waded knee-deep in the river. “He always gets his shorts tangled in too much detail.”

  “I’m a Type-A techie, I can’t help it,” said Bruce.

  “Fifteen-pound-test fluorocarbon to answer your question, Bruce,” said Jake. “But Lew has a point. Tenkara fly-fishing is less about technique than adventure.”

  “Looks to me like you’re pretty limited in how far you can cast,” said Osborne, watching Bruce flick the Royal Wulff tied at the end of their tenkara rod.

  “True,” said Jake. “But you make up for that in presentation. Watch me cast… see how little line is on the water? No drag. Just so you know, there are many fly-fishermen who don’t like tenkara,” said Jake. “To be fair, a tenkara purist doesn’t worry about matching the hatch or owning thousands of trout flies. All that matters is presentation.

  “Plus you don’t have much gear to carry. That’s what my son loved about it. He would put his fly box with two trout flies in one pocket of his fishing vest, carry the telescoped rod in one hand, and the only other thing he might need were waders. Half the time you don’t need waders because you’re fishing a narrow stream from the bank. Oh, and lunch—especially if Lew Ferris has made it.” Again a wide smile that Osborne was beginning to question.

  “So let’s say that I like this tenkara style of fishing,” said Bruce, “what the heck can I do about it? If I can’t buy the rod and correct line here in the U.S. am I supposed to drive down to Chicago and borrow yours?”

  “Excellent point,” said Jake. “I’m glad you brought that up, Bruce. Turns out that even though very few people in this country had ever heard of tenkara before 2009, it has since
taken on a cult status among quite a few devotees—including some people so dedicated that they learned Japanese so they can use tenkara’s native tongue when they’re fishing.

  “But to answer your question, you can now buy tenkara rods, lines, and accessories at places like Orvis and Temple Fork Outfitters. When it comes to the tenkara flies, the classic Japanese tenkara fly is almost identical to one of our soft-hackle wet flies. Personally I like to use a Humpy or a Royal Wulff because they entice a trout just as well as any.”

  “Ah,” said Bruce, “now I’m in trouble. Not like I don’t own enough fly rods already—but, hey, life is too short not to buy one more, right?”

  The Sunday morning could not be finer. The sun was bright and the water a cerulean blue plucked from the sky. The grasses, wild flowers, pines, and stands of birch were a summer medley of buttery yellows and vibrant greens sparked with flashes of brilliant birch white. Burbling riffles in the Pine River lent soft harmonies to the vista surrounding them.

  After waiting to see that each of his students felt comfortable with their casts, Jake wandered up the river to where it narrowed, flowing between large boulders lining the riverbank. Lew followed behind Jake, staying back a ways and casting as she went, while Bruce sat on a stump watching Osborne practice.

  At the sight of a wide pool behind a boulder ten feet away, Lew decided this would be her spot. She lifted her right arm, tenkara rod held high, and cast with the same motion as her roll cast. The trout fly wobbled then dropped close to her feet. Okay, that didn’t work very well, she thought as she raised her arm again. This time, she used the roll cast motion again, only to have the dry fly flop just a few feet farther out.

  Lew stood still for a long moment trying to visualize the instructions Jake had given them. Maybe tenkara style just wasn’t for her—why struggle when she knew she was an expert fly caster in the traditional mode? She decided to relax and just flick the damn thing sideways. To her surprise, the trout fly flew across the water to land just shy of the far bank. She watched it float as lightly as a dragonfly before flicking it again. And again. Each time the trout fly landed like an angel descending from heaven. Lew smiled, she was mesmerized. Okay, if this was what Jake called “the Zen of fly-fishing,” she could be all about Zen.

  Downstream from Lew, Osborne handed the tenkara rod over to Bruce and stepped back to watch him try. The sound of someone moving against the current caused him to look upstream past Lew.

  Fifty yards ahead of Lew he watched as Jake leaned against a large boulder and dropped his head. His shoulders shook and Osborne sensed his shirt would be wet with tears. How could he not feel a sweep of anguish that his son had to die even if it was in a beautiful place where sunlight sparkled like diamonds cast across the water?

  Lew approached the grieving father and laid an arm across his shoulders. Now Osborne felt a definite pang of envy. Lew had to feel a bond of loss with Jake. Add to that Jake’s impressive career, his expertise in the trout stream, the reality that he was a nice-looking man, a good man. And not only that, he was likely just a year or two older than Lew. She must be attracted to him.

  “Hey, speaking of lunch,” said Bruce, leaping up from the stump. “I’m hungry.”

  “Wait for us,” said Lew.

  As she and Jake waded side by side, Jake laid an arm across Lew’s shoulders while she stepped into the curve of his tall frame to wrap one arm around his waist. Osborne saw her give Jake a quick hug before the four of them set their rods on the riverbank and started up toward the truck.

  Just as they got to where they could see over the sumac, Osborne thrust both hands out saying, “Whoa, stop.”

  At the tailgate, paper sacks ripped apart, were two four-legged creatures, their tawny coats and lupine bodies unmistakable in the bright sunlight: wolves. Forelegs braced on the tailgate, one was nose-deep in one of the lunch bags. The other was scarfing the contents of the other bags, which were strewn on the ground under the truck.

  No one had the urge to interfere. Slowly, slowly the four fishermen backed away before scrambling down to the riverbank.

  “How far is it to the Pine Tree Diner?” asked Bruce, brushy eyebrows bobbing up and down with glee. “Man, this will be one good story for the guys in the lab. Jeez Louise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The parking area of the Pine Tree Diner was packed with a late Sunday breakfast crowd, forcing Lew to park on the road. As they approached the battered screen door entrance, her cell phone rang.

  “Chief Ferris—where are you?”

  The tension in Ray’s voice stopped Lew. She spun away from the door. Bruce and Osborne paused beside her. Jake stood back, waiting.

  “What’s wrong? Are you safe?”

  “Yes, I’m safe. Surprised as hell but, yeah, I am safe.”

  “What’s the problem?” Osborne watched Lew’s face as she listened.

  She covered the phone and leaned sideways to whisper to Osborne, “Ray talking fast is never a good sign.”

  “A little over two hours ago, I stumbled on a massive marijuana farm not 500 yards from where we found Liam Barber. Acres of the shit! Pardon my language. We are so damn lucky they didn’t shoot us—or one of the Wausau boys. Gotta tell you, do not let anyone go within a ten-mile radius of that section until you’ve got reinforcements, Chief. You won’t believe the size of the operation and they are armed.”

  “Slow down, will you? I’ve got Bruce and Doc right here. Is it okay for you to talk right now?” Lew switched her cell on to speaker so Bruce and Osborne could hear.

  “Sure, I just got out of there. I’m in my truck. I can talk fine. I was walking north along the Pine River from where we found Liam’s body when I saw what looked like an illegal dumpsite. There was all kinds of trash thrown in the water—plastic garbage bags, empty Gatorade jugs, a deer carcass, clothing, beer cans, you name it. I was thinking some squatter was living back in those woods so I walked over to the dump—and fell in.”

  “You fell in?”

  “Kind of. Only it was no dump. Under all the logs and branches was a black tarp and under that I found generators and water pumps. Quite the operation, too. The water pumps are linked to a full-scale irrigation system.

  “I’m lucky no one was around—this was before six this morning. Before I left, I was able to get a good look at the size of the place. It runs from the river back into the woods pretty deep. I hid behind bushes along the outskirts and kept going until I spotted some sheds they got set up. There’s a good-sized barn that looks like the kind you cure tobacco in and a greenhouse. I got good photos of the buildings. Like I said, this is quite the operation.

  “The whole area has been clear cut and the plants look real healthy. Then around seven, people started moving. That’s when I saw two dudes carrying rifles with telescopic lenses. I could hear ’em talking and they have to be from south of the border. My high school Spanish isn’t great but I know it when I hear it.”

  “Dogs?” asked Lew.

  “No dogs. Trust me, if they’d had dogs, I wouldn’t have got close to the place. But no dogs and if they ever had dogs I’ll bet you the wolves got ’em.”

  “Any idea how many people are out there?”

  “I saw seven—five men and two women. Also, I counted five vehicles—a couple older model sedans, two pickups, and a good-sized utility truck. I’m betting they use those for deliveries.”

  “Okay, Ray, we’ll grab a bite to go and meet you back in town. I have to get Sheriff Moore in on this.”

  “Wait, Chief. One more thing: there is only one road going in to this weed farm, okay? No other access so far as I can tell unless you take the river. I’ve got GPS coordinates for the road as well as the parameters of the growing operation but I think you’ll be real interested in a certain jabone who drove by just as I was leaving… a white guy in a big red SUV… a white guy named… Bud.”

  Osborne swore he could hear Ray licking his lips before he said, “Bud… Jarvison.”

&
nbsp; “Did he see you?” asked Lew.

  “I don’t think so. My truck was parked back in the clearing where we started our search the other day. I followed him just far enough to see him turn down that dirt road I’m telling you about.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  An hour later, after dropping Jake off at the inn, a group of six gathered around the conference table in Lew’s office: Doc, Lew, Ray, Bruce, Garry Moore, and Alan Strickland.

  “I am sorry to ruin your Sunday afternoon, boys, but we have a dangerous situation in our backyard. Before I start, Garry and Bruce, have you met Alan Strickland? He’s with the FBI and working a bank fraud tip that the late Peter Corbin sent them a couple months ago. Alan, Garry is our county sheriff and Bruce is with the Wausau Crime Lab.”

  The three men nodded at one another.

  “Alan is here because the FBI’s regional office was tipped that Bud Jarvison has been making cash deposits structured to come in just below the ten grand limit that triggers SARs—Suspicious Activity Reports. I invited Alan to this meeting because it involves Mr. Jarvison.”

  Over the next twenty minutes Lew described Ray’s findings, including the sighting of Bud Jarvison driving in the direction of the marijuana plantation. She had blown up a map of the area on which Ray had pinpointed the GPS coordinates of the marijuana-growing site and the single access route.

  “Over here,” said Lew, pointing to a red X, “is the riverbank where we found the body of the young researcher, Liam Barber. I’ve had confirmation from the Wausau Crime Lab that he died from a bullet to the head. Based on Ray’s observations, it could have come from one of the men guarding the marijuana operation. Ray took a photo of one man carrying a rifle with a telescopic lens, which means it is capable of shooting long distances.

  “Over here,” she said, pointing to another red X, “is the approximate location on the river where we found the remains of Peter Corbin who disappeared last February. If I draw a line from the Corbin site to the Barber site and to the coordinates of the road leading in to the pot plantation, we get a triangle.” Lew drew the lines with a pencil then stepped back. “My hunch is both victims were shot by guards to prevent them from getting within sight of the marijuana-growing area.”