Full Curl

by Dave Butler

  While working her way through one of the three upstairs guest bedrooms, Willson discovered a tablet hidden in a gym bag at the back of a closet. With Brown looking over her shoulder, she crossed her fingers that a password wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t. Scrolling through the picture gallery, Willson found a folder of colour images under “travels.” She clicked through them, and it was immediately obvious that they were all from Castillo’s many hunting trips. Willson and Brown smiled and shared vigorous high-fives. Over and over again, on image after image, they saw Castillo kneeling beside dead animals. There were no landscapes, no people. Every image was of Castillo with a trophy. It was unlike anything Willson had ever seen. Sometimes Castillo was smiling, but more often his face showed no emotion at all. In every image, the man had one hand on his rifle, the other on the animal’s shoulder or head as though it had, in death, become his possession. One of the last images in the folder showed Castillo, framed against a dark sky, beside a dead caribou bull.

  Willson knew that significant forensic work would have to be done to match the pictures with the poached animals, at least to a degree that would persuade a judge to convict. But with all the evidence she now had, she was confident she’d hit the jackpot.

  It was after midnight when Willson and Brown left Castillo’s now silent house. A single overhead light illuminated the kitchen counter. On it: a multi-page list of items seized during the search. The list was long and, added to the events of the past few days, it signalled the end of Castillo’s career as a hunter … as an entrepreneur … and as a free man. But first, Willson had to find him.

  Chapter 35

  September 10

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon as Luis Castillo watched his wife walk toward him, a bottle of water in her left hand. Her long, dark hair, tied in a ponytail for travelling, trailed behind her. Adelina Castillo wore a blue silk blouse that clung to her like water, matched with a pair of black leggings and black stilettos. As she moved, Castillo saw other men in the lounge area watching her, lust and longing in their eyes. It was not the first time. Wives and girlfriends watched her, too, but theirs were looks of envy.

  “I assume that our sudden pending departure is connected to your business?” Adelina asked, sitting beside him in a plush leather chair. “You haven’t put us at risk, have you? I’ve had to reschedule the charity gala and that’s going to cost us.”

  “Nothing to worry about, my dear,” he said, placing a hand on her toned arm. “It will only be for a while. Just until some legal issues are resolved. I appreciate your patience. You seemed to enjoy our two nights at our friend’s house on Puget Sound.”

  She pushed his hand away. “That was, at best, an inconvenience. Does this have anything to do with your trucking company, Luis,” she asked, “and the items you move for others? I expect those people are very dangerous, in a very dangerous business.”

  Castillo’s eyes flashed at her. He knew his wife had suspicions about his business affairs, but had assumed that because of the lifestyle he provided her she didn’t want to know too much. He now realized he’d severely underestimated her, and she might know more than he’d ever thought she did. If that was the case, and if she was angry with him, she could be dangerous. That was not good.

  “It has nothing to do with them,” he said. “The U.S. government is poking its nose into my business affairs and my lawyers have suggested I go overseas until the matter is resolved.”

  “What about our daughters?” asked Adelina. “Do they know what’s going on?”

  “I phoned them yesterday,” Castillo replied, “to tell them that you and I are going on a holiday. I have someone watching them, so I’m certain that they will be fine.”

  “I will be very unhappy with you if they’re not,” said his wife before turning away. “It would change everything.”

  Castillo looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lounge, watching the September rain fall in waves. His wife stared at a television set hanging from the ceiling. Seattle news and weather ran in a continuous loop, as much to distract guests as inform them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw signs of his wife’s anger — the thin mouth, the flushed cheeks, the rapid blinking — so he chose not to engage her further. He was certain that when they reached their final destination, one flight beyond London, she would be better company. But perhaps not. Her disclosure of her understanding of his business affairs had shifted both the foundation and the power balance of their relationship dramatically.

  An hour later, Castillo and his wife were finishing last sips of wine and last nibbles from a cheese plate when they heard a call over the public-address system.

  “British Airways Flight number forty-eight to London Heathrow is ready for boarding at Gate S4. We invite all business-class passengers to come forward.”

  Gathering their carry-ons, his wife’s large purse and Castillo’s bulging leather briefcase, the two made their way to the gate and lined up behind other business passengers, waiting to show their boarding passes. Only two passengers were ahead of them in the line when Castillo felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see two men in suits and a pair of uniformed Seattle police officers standing in a semicircle behind him.

  “Luis José Castillo?” asked one of the men in suits.

  “Yes,” said Castillo, turning. “What is the meaning of this? We’re about to board the plane.”

  A uniformed officer stepped forward, grabbing Castillo firmly by the right elbow. “You’ll have to come with us, sir,” he said. “You won’t be flying today. Instead, you’ve won a free trip to Spokane chained to a bench in our van.”

  Castillo began to protest, but his hands were pulled behind his back. He felt the cold metal of handcuffs and heard the ratcheting sound as they closed around his wrists.

  One of the suits took Castillo’s briefcase, still clutched awkwardly in his hand. “Luis José Castillo,” he said, “you’re under arrest for violations of the Lacey Act.” Reading from a plasticized card in his hand, the man continued. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have read to you?”

  Castillo nodded and muttered, “Yes.”

  In obvious shock, Adelina Castillo dropped her purse and, open-mouthed, watched the four officers escort her handcuffed husband away from the gate. The wide, wondering eyes of waiting passengers followed them.

  As Castillo was led down the length of the building toward the British Airways lounge and escalators leading to underground transit, he twisted to look at his wife. His eyes met hers for a moment. He saw that her face had shifted from surprise to rage. He watched her lift her purse from the floor, turn, and walk down the ramp to the waiting airplane. She did not look back.

  Chapter 36

  August 28, the following year

  Led by a burly guard, Luis Castillo walked down a long concrete hallway toward a steel door. His plastic sandals scuffed along the floor, echoing in the corridor. His orange coveralls were two sizes too big for his thin frame. When they reached the door, the guard waved a plastic card at a wall-mounted sensor. The steel door swung open to reveal a cafeteria-sized visiting area. Saying nothing, the guard waved Castillo through to the large room beyond.

  Castillo paused and then shuffled toward a lone woman seated at a table. A file folder was on the steel surface in front of her, a digital recorder to one side, a nylon briefcase on the floor at her feet. As he moved across the room, Castillo passed mothers and sisters and wives and girlfriends meeting with other prisoners. He heard bits of conversations. Some were pointed and accusatory, others quiet and tear-filled.

  Castillo sat on a floor-mounted metal stool and looked across the table at Jenny Willson. He had only met the woman once, very quickly, when she’d barged into his home with a searc
h warrant. For a silent moment, he studied her as carefully as she appeared to study him.

  “We meet again,” said Willson. “Are they treating you well in here, Luis?”

  “I’m sure you don’t care if they are treating me well … or mistreating me,” said Castillo. “It’s clearly not the Four Seasons in here, so I’m very much looking forward to getting out.”

  “I’m no lawyer,” said Willson, “but I can’t imagine that you’ll be getting out of here anytime soon.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because our cases against you are so strong and because they arrested you in the act of trying to leave the country, the judge chose not to grant bail and he seized your passport. In my experience, that means that this will likely be your home for many years to come.”

  Castillo resented the woman’s confidence but chose not to play her game. “We can engage in this interesting conversation for hours, Ms. Willson, but I have better things to do with my time. Tell me why you’re here today. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “I understand that you were extremely lucky in court last week,” said Willson.

  “Lucky?” said Castillo. “I was sentenced to ten years for bringing animals into the U.S. that were allegedly illegally shot elsewhere and you say I’m lucky?” The woman was getting under his skin and he could feel his blood pressure rising. He breathed in deeply and then smiled.

  “The reason I suggested you were lucky,” said Willson, returning his smile, “is that, along with the significant financial penalties you now have to pay, the district court judge could have given you five years for each of the Lacey Act offences for which you were charged. You could’ve ended up with a twenty-five-year sentence. Quite frankly, the fact that you didn’t get that longer sentence is a disappointment for me. But I’ll get over that disappointment knowing that that’s just the start of your legal troubles.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Because of what happened at your Spokane Valley warehouse while we were chasing you through Spokane, because of what they found there after the shooting,” said Willson, “and because your chief financial officer negotiated a plea bargain with the feds down here, I’m hearing rumours that you’ve now got the DEA, the FBI, and the Secret Service looking into every corner of every business you own. Apparently, they’ll be charging you under the U.S. Controlled Substances Act. You’ll also face charges for conspiracy, money laundering, and tax evasion. And they’ll probably go after you under the RICO Act — that’s the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act — because in their eyes, some of your businesses look like ongoing criminal organizations. If you’re convicted of those offences, we’re talking one hell of a lot of jail time, and it will mean seizures of most, if not all of your assets, both personal and business. You may not get out of prison at all, and if you ever do, there won’t be much left for you.”

  Castillo stared at Willson, his eyes like laser beams. “You could have mailed me a newspaper instead of wasting my time by coming here to share this gossip with me.”

  “You’re right,” said Willson. “I could have done that. But then I wouldn’t have had the chance to tell you to your face that I know what you did in our parks and that I consider you to be a low-life scumbag who deserves the same friggin’ fate as those animals. But I’m certain you don’t care what I think. And —” she paused “— I wouldn’t have been able to tell you in person that you’re under investigation for murder in Canada.”

  “What?”

  “Murder. In Canada. Your friend Bernie told us all about how you took care of those nine guys who attacked his grow op, how you boasted about making them disappear permanently. They must have seriously pissed you off. But I’ll give you credit where credit is due, Luis. Nice job there. Until Bernie told me what you did, they were nine unsolved homicides with few leads. Now the RCMP is pursuing a whole new avenue of investigation, and you’re the one in their crosshairs.”

  Castillo turned to stare out the barred window, his focus on the barren wheatfields far to the north of the prison. Below the table, his hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. “That fucking Eastman told you that, did he?”

  “He did … and I hear that the RCMP have found evidence that confirms his story, although I don’t know what that is.”

  A bank of fluorescent lights above them buzzed and then blinked on and off. Looking back at Willson, at the smug smile he wanted to wipe from her face with the back of his hand, Castillo knew he was being played in an age-old game of pitting co-accused against each other. But the thought of Eastman making a fool of him drove an anger deep inside him. Willson’s face shimmied and blurred as though he was looking at her through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Despite the red haze of his anger, he realized that he was only getting in deeper and had nothing left to lose. He had no power, no control. Nor did he have any remaining reason to protect the treacherous bastard who’d taken his money and then ratted him out. All he had left now was information.

  “Did Eastman tell you about the Clarks?” asked Castillo. He saw Willson move forward on her metal stool, her eyes widening.

  “What do you mean, Luis? What should he have told us about the Clarks?”

  Castillo again smiled. He clearly had the female warden’s attention. His anger cooled slightly, allowing his conscious mind to regain control, if only for a moment. A small sliver of his old mastery was back. “Why should I share anything with you?” he asked. “What’s in it for me?”

  He watched Willson slide back on the stool. “You’re in this so deep, Luis, that there’s very little I can offer. I’m not going to bullshit you. But here’s something for you to consider when you have some free time. I’m guessing that your business partners — and yes, we know who most of them are — are extremely nervous about what you might say if and when the additional charges come to trial. In fact, I bet they’d rather not have any trials at all so their business dealings in the U.S. and Canada, legal or otherwise, aren’t exposed to the light of day.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Castillo, “perhaps not. So what’s your point?”

  “I believe I am right. My point is that through my contacts in law enforcement here, those partners can either hear confirmation that you’re pleading guilty to all charges … or they can hear that you’re talking to us, singing like the proverbial canary. The choices you make today will lead to one of two very different outcomes for you. Am I right, Luis?”

  Castillo slammed his open palms down on the table with a bang, startling everyone in the room. From a far corner, a prison guard moved quickly toward them. Willson waved him off.

  “Fuck you and fuck them,” said Castillo, spittle flying across the table, his hands spread on the table like he was bracing himself against a strong wind. “I will not spend the rest of my life in jail so those fuckers can sit on their fat asses on top of the piles of cash I made for them. The same goes for that goddamn Eastman. I won’t do it.” He saw Willson staring at him, calm, expressionless. Despite his earlier attempts at dominating the young officer, he knew that the woman had triumphed. Game, set, and match. And he’d let it happen. He slumped back on the stool, defeated.

  “Luis, tell me what you know about Bernie Eastman and Charlie and Wendy Clark,” she said. “That’s the missing piece for me — and for the RCMP.”

  Later, when they’d finished talking, after he’d told Willson all she wanted to know, after he’d answered every question she’d asked him, Castillo stood and looked at the Canadian park warden. He was confused by what had just happened, by what she’d done to him, and about what was to come for him. He had never let a woman get the best of him like that. This confusion was a strange sensation for Castillo, something for which he had no frame of reference. It left him numb, disoriented. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly realized that there was nothing left to say. As if knowin
g what he was thinking, he watched her slowly close the case file and turn off the recorder. He turned and walked purposefully toward the door leading back to his cell, leaving Willson sitting alone at the steel table. His decision was made, his information shared, his future firmly in the hands of others. He was an empty shell. He looked back once to see her smiling.

  When Willson was sitting in her truck again, the Walla Walla State Penitentiary sign standing prominently to her left at the edge of the parking lot, she powered up her cellphone to see that while she was in the prison with Castillo, she had received two calls from a blocked number. As she looked down at the screen, it buzzed in her hand, startling her.

  “Willson here.”

  A man’s voice. “Is it true?”

  “Who is this?” she asked, recognizing the voice but not placing it.

  “Once again, you don’t recognize me. I’m beginning to get a complex. It’s Sprague.”

  “Sprague. Is what true?”

  “Is it true that Castillo is done? In jail for the rest of his life? Did that arrogant son of a bitch finally get what he deserved?”

  “Yes. It seems to be true. You must be very pleased.”

  “You have no fucking idea how happy I am. My life just got a whole lot easier.”

  Willson could hear the elation in the man’s voice, as though he was smiling right through the phone. “Well, you played a key part in what happened to him, Sprague. I appreciate that. And that must make you feel even better. Are you ready to tell me who you are now? I’m less than three hours from Spokane, so I could meet you somewhere in town if you’d like to talk.”