by Brett Baker
“Today. They’re done checking it over and haven’t found anything that they expect to be helpful, but supposedly they’ve got a bunch of stuff going off to some lab somewhere. I guess it’s possible we’ll hear back something about that, but not likely. I suspect the window has closed on solving this. Something’s been missed, or witnesses ignored, or suspects gone. There’s just not enough experience here with a case like this. But yes, I should get into the house today. Justine’s coming with me. We’ve already talked about it.”
“That might be rough,” I said. “Thanks for taking care of it. I’m actually somewhat glad that I don’t have to deal with it. It’d be hard enough to go in there without them there, but to go in knowing what happened there, I don’t know if I could do it.”
When Johnny found me in the yard after my encounter with Goldschlager, I hadn’t told him the whole story. He didn’t know I’d already been in the house, or that the unknown intruder had been there either. I felt a little nervous knowing that Johnny would enter the house without me there. I obviously hadn’t left anything behind, and I didn’t do anything wrong by following the intruder in there, but still I felt a general unease at having Johnny there.
“I’ve been preparing myself for this all week,” Johnny said. “Seeing them in their caskets was so difficult, but I’m not sure what I’m going to walk in on in the house. Is the blood going to be cleaned up? Am I going to be able to tell what happened? I’m half-expecting their ghosts to be lingering around. Or at least their spirit. Whatever the case, I know I’m not going to feel alone in there. They’ll be there one way or another. That’s fine, I guess, but I was actually just telling Justine this morning that I wish I could snap my fingers and the house would be magically cleaned out and sold, and I’d never have to go in there to do anything. Just sort of end that part of this, eliminate the memories if I can, and move on.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” I asked, sensing his discomfort and latent frustration. I couldn’t offer to come back and take care of it myself, as the Chamberlain situation was more important at that moment, but I couldn’t tell him that.
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “Just nerves. Butterflies. As soon as I get in the house and start getting to work it’ll all go away. I just need to get in there.”
“And Justine’s going to help?” I asked.
“Yes. She knows how I feel about all of this, and, as usual, she’s right here for me. That woman never ceases to amaze me.”
“She’s a keeper,” I said. “Let me know if I can help at all from here.” I intentionally didn’t tell him that “here” was in the valley in California, and not in Chicago.
“We’ve got it,” Johnny said. “You do whatever you have to do.”
“Thanks, Johnny. Did you mention my encounter in the yard when you talked to the police? I meant to bring it up to them, but then we never talked, and I didn’t complete a police report or anything.”
“No, it didn’t come up,” Johnny said. “One of the officers asked if mom and dad ever complained about unwanted guests, or people lurking around, and I thought about saying something then, but it just felt like I’d be pointing them in the wrong direction. There’s nothing to go on with your encounter in the yard, and I think they need to direct all of their resources to what happened to mom and dad inside the house, and I don’t think that’s related to what happened with you outside the house.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I said. “I’m sure it was just some neighborhood punks screwing around.” I disbelieved the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. Goldschlager and his friend weren’t amateurs. The first guy didn’t handle the break-in well, and left the house without whatever he’d entered for, but Goldschlager picked up the slack to be sure that his partner wasn’t apprehended. But the Greene County sheriff seemed to have their hands full investigating the murders. I saw no need to further fill their plate with another hard-to-figure crime, for which there were no suspects.
“One last thing,” Johnny said. “Whit’s having a real tough time. We got back from taking you to the airport yesterday and he was sitting on the front porch, just staring out at nothing. At first I thought he was just lounging around, enjoying the quiet. But he’d checked out. We pulled into the driveway, walked up to him, said hello, called his name, nothing. No response. It really freaked Justine out. It was like his body was there, but his mind was on another planet. I had to grab his hand to bring him back. Once he saw me he smiled and assured us he was fine, but he’s anything but fine. Justine heard him sobbing a few times during the night, and when I told him we were going to start staying in mom and dad’s house, he broke down. Asked us to just stay with him a little longer. Said he didn’t want to be alone. Real sad stuff.”
“That’s horrible,” I said. “He’s going to have quite an adjustment. They were his life.”
“That’s what he said. ‘They were my life.’ Then he said he doesn’t have a life anymore. Justine’s worried he’s going to hurt himself, but I don’t think he’s that type. More likely to just hang on and be miserable for the rest of his days. His time will probably be cut short, but not by his own hand. He’ll probably die of a broken heart.”
“Do you think there’s anything we can do?” I asked. “Get him a dog or something.”
“I don’t think so,” Johnny said. “No way he’d ever go see a therapist, and he’s too damn old to start meeting new people. I think he’s just going to have to absorb it. Deal with it however he can.”
“That’s so sad.”
“It is. But I was thinking about it on my run, and I’m sort of ashamed to say it, but it’s kind of nice to see him so upset. I mean it’s bad for him, obviously, but sweet to see that mom and dad had someone who loved them so much that losing them is affecting him so deeply. They had good lives.”
“Yes, they did,” I agreed. “Very good lives.”
“But fucking horrible deaths.”
24
Chapter 24
For a place conceived as an escape from the outside world, and nestled into the perimeter of a national forest, I found Chamberlain’s cabin quite easily. The cabin had become well-known in the environmental movement, and any local knew how to get there. I found it on my own though, with the help of Google, and my innate geographic ability. On my way to the cabin I’d heard on the radio that mourners had turned it into a sort of shrine and gathering place to mourn Chamberlain. Federal officers urged visitors to find a different location to mourn, as the delicate terrain that surrounded the cabin couldn’t handle so many visitors without being altered in some way. Chamberlain would want to preserve the original condition of the land, the officers suggested. The news anchor concurred, and mentioned that she’d visited the cabin a couple of day before and saw three men trying to cut down a tree on Chamberlain’s land to take a souvenir. The irony of such an act surprised her.
I saw visitors to the cabin before I saw the cabin. Before I even rounded the bend that led to the cabin, cars parked on both sides of the narrow, almost-non-existent shoulders, which left barely enough roadway for a car to pass through. I inched along, avoided hitting pedestrians, and finally made it to the cabin. Crowds gathered in the driveway, and a large mountain of flowers covered the ground where Chamberlain died. I drove another three hundred feet, parked on the shoulder, and added mine to the numerous feet trampling the round that Chamberlain so loved.
When I reached the cabin a forest service officer greeted me in the road, before I could even reach the bottom of the driveway.
“We just announced that we’re going to clear the area in about fifteen minutes, so make it quick. This place can’t handle all these people.”
“Clear it for what?” I asked.
“For the land’s own benefit,” the officer said. “All these people trampling on this ground and polluting the air and destroying the solitude that Abner loved so much.”
“So should I leave?”
“You should, but if
you’re like everyone else you’re not going to until we make you leave. So go ahead and do what you want to do, but just know that you don’t have much time here.”
I thanked the officer for his help and walked up the driveway where a mass of people had congregated. They appeared to fill every inch of the driveway, and all looked toward the large deck at the back of the house, which rose a few feet off the ground, as if waiting for someone to address them.
I didn’t want to negotiate my way through the crowd, so I stood in the back and lifted myself onto my tiptoes and strained to see whatever I was missing. A young man in a tank top and a bushy, unkempt beard, with a green bandana tied around his head said, “Don’t bother. There’s nothing to see up there.”
“No?” I asked. “Then what’s everyone looking at?”
“They’re looking for him, I think. They don’t even know it though. I’ve been here three days and no one has come out to address the crowds, but every day the crowd shows up and looks at the balcony. It’s like they’re waiting for orders about what to do next. Either that or they think the pope is going to come out and eulogize him.”
“I’m surprised how many people are here,” I said. “I heard the crowds were large, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”
“You’re not in the movement?” he asked.
“The environmental movement?” He nodded. “No, I’m not.”
“If you were, you’d understand what’s going on here. What this is about. It’s not just about Abner. I mean, I guess it is, but at its core it’s about this place. The forest, the cabin, the progress we made from here. This man and this place have done more for the environmental movement than anyone else in our lifetimes. I mean, can you even name another environmentalist?”
I didn’t want to tell him that a few days ago I wouldn’t have even named Abner Chamberlain. Best to keep that bit of ignorance to myself, I think, so I just shook my head.
“He’s the man. Our leader. The difference maker. And I think everyone’s just worried now. Sort of looking for guidance, but worried that no one will provide it. So that’s part of it. The other part is that even though he’s gone, we’ve still got this place. And the memories of the progress made at this place. Abner met with people here all the time, and made a real difference. Business leaders, mayors, senators, even the governor have been here. So as much as we mourn him, I think everyone’s just showing up to sort of say, ‘This isn’t the end. We’re ready to push on for what needs to be done.’ It’s inspiring. He would have loved it.”
“Did you know him, or you’re just involved in the movement?” I asked.
“Oh, I knew him. I worked for him. Well, he used to always say that no one works for him, we all work together, but we all understood we worked for him. He was the leader, he got things done. He has us on solid footing for the future, that’s for sure.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“I’m Curt Adcock,” he said. “Abner and I went way back. Friends from high school. We lost contact for a few years, but started working together again about five years ago. We talked just about every day. Strategized, gossiped, bitched.”
“Sounds like you guys were close.”
“I don’t think anyone got too close to him. He lived in the woods by himself for a reason. I mean this cabin’s got a lot of symbolic value, but he built it as a real retreat. He wanted to get away. From cities and civilization, but from people, too.”
“Sounds like a complex guy,” I said.
“Just the opposite, really. A simple guy. The simplest. Had no use for all the extra bullshit in the world. He liked nature, he liked himself, and sometimes he liked other people. That was about it.”
“You say sometimes he liked other people. Did he not get along with others?”
“He was indifferent, I think. He didn’t care if you liked him, and he didn’t put much effort into liking you. People liked him instinctively. They appreciated his complete lack of bullshit. They liked his innate kindness. They liked his gentleness. He was authentic, and people liked what he actually was, but if you didn’t like him, he didn’t care. And he made some enemies just by doing what we do. People don’t like being told they can’t exploit nature, and they can’t destroy things that have been here for billions of years just so they can make a buck. So yeah, he made some enemies that way.”
“Do you think that had anything to do with his death?” I asked. “News reports say he just came upon some burglars, wrong place, wrong time. That seems a bit fishy to me though.”
“I thought the same thing,” Curt said. “It seems unlikely to me that the person who’s interested in burglarizing a shabby cabin in the middle of the woods is the same person capable of delivering a single gunshot wound to the center of the forehead.”
“So what’s your theory?”
Curt started to say something, but stopped. He exhaled, and then looked at me, and then at the ground. He swayed back and forth from one foot to the other, and said, “Why do you ask? Are you a reporter or something?”
“I’m a writer,” I said. The Summit had established a fake technical writing career for me, and I’d discovered over the years that if I just explain that I’m a writer that people immediately stop questioning why I’m interested and asking questions. They don’t need to know that I’m a technical writer, or, to be more precise, I pretend to be a technical writer. People hear writer and they automatically assume I’m researching some giant manifesto, or that I’m writing the next great American novel. It’s been the most valuable part of the career that The Summit created for me.
“I think he pissed off the wrong people this time. We’ve had people mad at us since I started with him. Like I said, people don’t like it when you tell them no. And that’s what the environmental movement is, a bunch of us do-gooders telling people no. No, you can’t pollute that water. No, you can’t remove that entire mountaintop to get at the rocks and minerals beneath it. No, you can’t plow under those grasslands to build a strip mall. No, you can’t kill all those animals so you can build some new houses. Kids aren’t the only ones who don’t like to be told no. You say no to the wrong people and it’s hard telling what they’ll do. Usually they just try to sue us into the poor house, or sometimes they’ll throw a rock through a window or something, but I can see how it could get out of hand. If there’s enough money involved, and the ego of the person being told no is big enough then…” Curt didn’t finish his thought, but we both knew what he was implying.
“And you think that’s what happened here?”
Curt nodded.
“Any idea who?”
“I thought you said you’re a writer. You’re starting to sound like the police. Is there something you need to tell me?”
“I’m a writer, Curt. It’s important for me to ask questions. That’s how I figure out the facts. Sometimes it sounds a lot like police work. Actually, sometimes it feels a lot like police work. And if I want to get the story, I have to be ahead of the police. They’ve got a job to do, and I’ve got a job to do, and our jobs aren’t too different.” Curt looked at me, but said nothing. “Who do you think killed Abner?”
“I’ve got ideas,” Curt said. “I’m not ready to start pointing fingers yet though. The cops are on this, and I’ve heard that the FBI is considering getting involved, so there’s interest to figure it out.”
“Who mentioned the FBI?” I asked. Federal agents often made my missions more difficult. They’d experienced a wider variety of criminal enterprises, and often that experience meant they cut off line of inquiry that local law enforcement left open, much to my advantage. If the FBI became involved my job would become much more difficult.
“No one in particular, I guess,” Curt said. “It’s just sort of been the word around here. This isn’t quite federal land, but it’s close. And Abner was a well-known dude, and although he had powerful enemies, he ended up with friends in some pretty high places, too.”
If Curt and Abner spo
ke as often as Curt claimed they did, then I hoped he might know something about why my name appeared on a slip of paper in Abner’s cabin. However, if I didn’t want to put all of my cards on the table right away, so I thought it best to approach indirectly.
“What were you working on these days?” I asked.
“What weren’t we working on?” Curt responded. “There’s no shortage of environmental work to be done.”
“Nothing you guys were focused on in particular?” I asked.
“Nah, a little of this, a little of that. He had a meeting with a congressman scheduled for next week about some fishing regulations in Florida, and we just get started in talks about blocking some new resort in the desert in Nevada. Abner opposed that project because a particular desert tortoise would have lost three-quarters of its native range. One project would have single-handedly destroyed a species. That’s the kind of shit that really pissed him off.”
Curt didn’t seem ready to offer any useful information on his own, and there were at least two hundred other people milling about, so I decided to move on, but not before planting a seed. I’d discovered over the years that sometimes the most insignificant interactions and remarks can produce colossal results later, so I’d always found it best to cast a wide net at the beginning of a mission, and then quickly tighten things up as things take direction on their own.
“I’m going to be in town for a few days, and I’d love to hear anything you have to say about this. If you decide that you want to talk about those ideas you have about how this might have gone down, let me know.”
“Why are you here?” Curt asked. “Are you writing something about Abner, or about his death?”
“I’m not sure what I’m doing yet,” I answered. “There’s a story here, but it hasn’t revealed itself. I’m a writer, but really what I do is let the stories reveal themselves. I’m an archaeologist, and the story’s a fossil. I don’t create it. I just use delicate brushes to sweep away the dirt and see what’s under there.”