by Paul Moomaw
He got out, locked the car—you couldn’t really trust Californians, after all—and walked back down to the forest road. It was still a pleasant day, almost balmy, with plenty of light left, and the dirt and gravel track invited him into the forest. He lengthened his stride, enjoying the feeling of letting his legs work, and actually hoping that the cabin he expected to find was a good distance away.
He had walked about half an hour when he came around a sharp curve and found that he had company. A bear emerged from the trees on the left, fifty or sixty feet ahead. He stopped and watched as the bear started to cross the road. Then the bear stopped and looked at him. Arceneaux felt no fear. He had always had an affinity for bears. He had never hunted them, and never would; and although he had never done anything like a formal vision quest, a part of him was convinced that if he had a totem animal, it was the bear. He also knew that even if the bear did show aggression there was no sense trying to run. That would only cause the animal to give chase, and he had seen bears in a hurry before. They could outrun a horse at full gallop when they were minded to, only you couldn’t really call it running. They flowed like water when they moved fast, as if they had no bones or joints. No other animal looked quite like a bear on the move.
This one was a beauty, with dark, expresso brown head, legs and tail, and the back and flanks of a rusty cinnamon that glowed in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees. Its face was heart shaped, and almost dainty. He guessed it was a sow, and was proved correct a few moments later when a cub trotted out of the woods and up to the bear. She continue to stand, as if waiting, and then a second cub appeared. The sow turned to face Arceneaux directly, and stood silently, a cub on each side in an ursine tryptich that took Arceneaux’s heart away. One of the cubs started to meander down the road toward Arceneaux, and then the sow moved, coming after the cub, making a sort of warbling grunt, and then whacking it with one huge forepaw. The cub squealed and headed into the woods. The sow stood a moment longer, gazing in Arceneaux’s direction, and then moved into the woods herself, followed by the second cub.
Arceneaux took a deep breath, and only then realized that it was the first he had taken in an eternity. He started walking up the road again, slowly, taking his time. As he passed the point where the bears had returned to the woods, he heard the noise of their bodies moving through the understory. He knew they were looking for berries, and grubs if they could find any. It was almost time for them to den up, and they had to fatten themselves as much as possible before settling in for the winter.
“Good eating,” he called out quietly, and was pleased to hear a soft, answering whuff.
He had walked another twenty minutes when he heard the clunky sound of a diesel approaching from behind, and was glad he had tucked his car away instead of driving up the forest road. He ducked into the trees to wait, and was soon rewarded by the sight of David Crisp’s big yellow Ford. Crisp was alone in the truck, his face creased in an intense frown. Arceneaux let the truck pass and disappear around the next curve, then stepped back out into the road and started trotting after it. Almost immediately after the curve he came onto the edge of a clearing. The road opened into the clearing, then resumed again on the far side, disappearing into the trees. In the middle of the open space, surrounded by native grass and a few berry bushes, stood the cabin Arceneaux had hoped to see. It was bigger than he would have expected, with an entry door right in the middle and four windows. Arceneaux decided it had to have at least two rooms, and maybe three. The door appeared to have a fairly substantial padlock, which was unusual for a cabin in the woods. Most of them didn’t contain anything worth stealing. Crisp’s truck was parked to one side of the cabin, and Crisp was just getting out of it. Arceneaux slipped back into the cover of the trees and watched as Crisp strode up the the cabin, pulled a key from his pocket and released the padlock, then opened the door and vanished inside. Arceneaux sat down with his back to one tree and another directly in front of him, and waited to see what would happen next.
After less than two minutes, Crisp re-appeared, carrying two large, white trash bags. They looked full, but from the way Crisp handled them they seemed to have little weight. Crisp dropped the bags to the ground and opened the tonneau cover on the truck, then picked the bags up and tossed them into the truck bed. He shut the tonneau cover again and latched it down, then turned and went back into the cabin. He came back out almost immediately, closed the door and secured the padlock, then turned so that he was facing Arceneaux’s position, although Arceneaux was certain he could not see him. Then he rubbed his hands and smiled. He sauntered over to the truck, climbed in, and started the engine. The truck wheeled around in a large circle and headed back to the road.
Arceneaux waited until the sound of the Ford’s diesel had faded away, then stood up and walked across the clearing to the cabin. A fast examination of the padlocked door told him he would not enter that way. He had some experience with picking simple locks, and even had a rudimentary pick set in the glove compartment of the Subaru; but this was no simple lock. It was an expensive Master, the kind made of case-hardened steel and equipped with tumblers from hell. A expert lock pick would have trouble with this barrier, and Arceneaux was no expert. He shrugged and backed away from the door. In addition to the windows in front, the cabin boasted two more on the back side. He supposed he could break one, but he did not want to leave such obvious evidence of his visit. At least, he decided, he could take a peek through the glass and see what he could see. The answer was, not much. The cabin did have two rooms, running lengthwise. The four windows in front gave him a decent view of the front room, but the space was essentially bare. A table stood next to one of the windows, accompanied by two chairs. A wood burning stove squatted against the middle of the rear wall, with a pile of split logs on one side, and a metal basket of kindling on the other. The two windows in the rear were covered by curtains, and revealed nothing at all of the second room.
As Arceneaux began to circle the cabin toward the front a shot rang from the woods. It was not that near, from its sound, but Arceneaux jumped reflexively and dropped to his knees. He looked around, then rose to his feet again, feeling a little foolish. It had to be a hunter, he decided. Rifle season for deer would not start for another week, but fall bear season still going. That made him think of the cinnamon sow with her two cubs that he had met on the way to the cabin. “Don’t get yourselves shot up,” he murmured. He walked up to the front of the cabin and peered through one of the windows again. Then, knowing it would not work, he pressed his fingers under the window pane and shoved. It refused to budge. Feeling stubborn, he went to each of the others and tried the same thing. The third window felt loose, which motivated him to try harder. One side seemed to give a little, so he tried the other side, and it also showed some movement. He worked back and forth, side to side, and the window began to move the slightest bit. Finally, he grabbed the middle of the pane and lifted hard, and with a quiet squawk the window opened.
“Somebody got careless,” he said. He raised the window to its full height and clambered through.
The smell hit him right away. It was sharp, and acrid, the smell of chemicals. Arceneaux had never smelled a meth lab before, and wouldn’t know one if he saw one, but everybody knew that forest hideaways were becoming popular with the people who made and sold crystal meth. Now that he was inside, with a clear view of the room, he could see a pile of plastic bags and cardboard boxes in one corner, along with a good sized camp stove hooked up to a propane tank. As he moved toward the corner, the smell got stronger. Arceneaux nodded. “Maybe now we know how you paid for the truck,” he said.
He turned back and moved to the door to the back room. It was a little warped, but not locked, and it opened when he pushed hard enough. He stepped through and stopped, eyes wide. The room had full length shelves loaded with stuff. There were bottles that contained what were clearly pills of all colors, and plastic Ziplocs filled with white powder that had to be cocaine. Under
the shelves on the floor were several more of the large white trash bags of the kind Crisp had carried to his truck. Arceneaux stepped to the shelves and picked up one of the plastic bags. He opened it up, dipped a finger in and put it to his tongue. He had no experience with cocaine, but he knew it was supposed to be bitter, and this stuff certainly was. He closed the bag and tossed it back on the shelf, then stooped to grab one of the trash bags. It was closed with a wire tie, but even through the plastic the odor told him what he would find. He unwound the wire and looked inside to find at least a couple of dozen smaller Ziploc bags, each fat with marijuana. He opened one of the Ziplocs and fingered the weed. It looked to be very fine British Columbia bud, sin semilla, outrageously potent, and something that Arceneaux did have a little experience with.
Arceneaux closed the Ziploc and put it back into the trash bag. He retied the wire around the neck of the trash bag and shoved it back under the shelf.
“I’m in drug heaven,” he said, and now he found himself wondering why Crisp had settled for a new Ford. “You could buy a fleet of Hummers and not even feel the pinch,” he said. He walked out of the room and closed the door carefully. Then he went to the window, looked and listened to make sure no one was coming back, and climbed through to the outside. He pulled it shut, having to coax it the last couple of inches, and sat down with his back to the cabin wall. What now? he asked himself. A good citizen would go home, call the authorities, and tell them about the cabin.
“Then they would rush out here, make a big noisy bust, and Crisp would duck for cover,” he said to the air around him. That would not do. On the other hand, he could tail Crisp the next time he came for a load of stuff, find out where he took it, whom he sold it to, and present the whole thing to Dave Butcher and Barbara Drake, gift wrapped. Then they could handle things, and keep the DEA goons out of it. Arceneaux didn’t like DEA goons.
At least three of his Vietnam veteran buddies had gone down before them, all for smoking a little weed. One of them was still in prison, because he had also happened to grow a little of his own and sell it cheap to friends.
He started across the clearing to the road, feeling a little more excited than he liked to let on that he could feel. Then, after about fifteen minutes of walking, he heard an eerie sound and stopped dead. It was a cross between a howl and a whine, something he had not heard before. He moved to the side of the road, not sure why, except it felt better, and started forward again. As he came around a curve in the road he saw the source of the sound and froze. A rush of nausea hit him. He choked it down as he edged forward, and felt a wave of rage replace it.
The cinnamon sow lay in the middle of the road. She was obviously dead, half her head blown away by a large caliber bullet. The two cubs crouched at her side, pawing her. They were the ones making the sound he had heard. He stepped closer and they became aware of his presence. One of them ran from the road into the trees, then turned and watched him from the shadow. The other growled a baby growl and stepped toward him menacingly. He stopped moving, and the cub stopped, too, watching him warily. Then it made that odd, whining cry again, and followed its sibling into the trees.
Arceneaux stepped closer to the sow. She was not beautiful any more, and her children had no mother. He felt tears rushing to his eyes, overflowing, and spilling down his face. It had to have been Crisp. He was sure no one else had been on this road; and a bear hunter would have taken the animal, not left it lying in the dirt.
“You’re going to pay for this, you piece of shit,” he said. He looked back at the cubs, huddled side by side, watching him. “You’re going to pay,” he said again, and found himself screaming the words. “I’m going to take your fucking scalp, white man. I’ve had enough of your shit. We’ve had enough of it, all of us, all the shit we’ve taken from all of you. Five hundred years too much.” He shook his head, tried to rub the tears away with the back of his hand, and half walked, have stumbled the rest of the way to his car.
As soon as the Subaru was within reach of a cell phone tower, Arceneaux called the Fish and Game people. He told the man who answered what he had found, and where. With any luck, the cubs would not go far from their mother for a day or two at least, and that could save their lives. If the game wardens could find them and tranquilize them, they could be taken to one of the refuges for wild orphans that had sprung up around the state in recent years. They asked Arceneaux his name, but he rung off without telling them. It was not so much that he did not want to get involved. He simply wanted to get Crisp, and did not want to be distracted. He was also clear, now, on how to handle his discovery of the cabin in the woods.
“That’s going to be between you and me, asshole,” he said. He was calmer now, but a quiet rage still flowed through every part of him. Suddenly he was a small boy again, standing at the door of his maternal grandparents’ house, washed in their contempt. They were dead, and someone else lived in that house; and yet he had a flicker of an image of torching the place, and then watching it burn.
“Where the hell did that come from?” he muttered. He would have told anyone who asked that he had gotten past all of that years before. Now he had to wonder, and it made him wonder about his father as well, who had never shown anger about anything. Once again, Arceneaux could not make that image mesh with the picture Helen Lousen had drawn of a rebellious, proud boy, and he wondered just how much rage Dale Arceneaux had stuffed away in some dark part of his soul.
Bedtime that evening was a three-brandy job, and even then he tossed on his mattress for an hour. Finally he slept, and then some time later was in the woods again, walking under the trees, and the cubs tried to wake him with their crying, but he continued to follow the path through the trees until he came upon the sow, lying in the dirt, the back of her skull blown away, and he approached her and nudged her once with a toe, and then a second time to roll her over, surprised at how light she was, but when she was on her back and he could see her face it was not the sow but the child-soldier he had shot to death in Iraq, staring up at him with dark, sad eyes, and then he was really awake, and whimpering, and his cheeks were wet with tears.
It was almost dawn before he finally slept again.
Chapter 23
Arceneaux would have been the first to admit that he did not know much about some of the nuts and bolts of private detecting—staking out and tailing, for instance. It did occur to him, however, that simply hanging out in the parking lot of David Crisp’s dojo, or in front of his house, waiting for him to drive off somewhere, would be unproductive at best, and maybe even stupid. Crisp had to be at least a little concerned about being observed when he was making a drug run to the cabin up Piquette Creek Road, and he knew Arceneaux’s Subaru. On the other hand, the round trip would be too long for a lunch hour jaunt, so Crisp would likely wait until the end of the working day, and working days included Saturday mornings, Arceneaux had learned. That left Sundays, but Arceneaux was betting Crisp would stay with family on that day. Anna Mae Preston had said, in fact, that Crisp was a regular churchgoer, although she saw it as a sign of hypocrisy, not piety. So if Arceneaux stationed himself in the right place at the end of the day on weekdays, and just after noon on Saturdays, sooner or later he should spot Crisp. The big, yellow Ford would be hard to miss, and he would have to drive right through Darby, a one-street town a few miles south of Hamilton, on his way to the West Fork Road. Darby itself offered numerous places for Arceneaux to park inconspicuously. It was a plan. Maybe not the greatest plan, but preferable to wandering around at random, and it made Arceneaux feel a little more in charge.
The first day, a Monday, Arceneaux sat in the parking lot of the Farmers State Bank, amazed at the number of high-grade SUV’s, including two Mercedes and a Cadillac Escalade, that pulled into the lot. The town itself might be busted since the lumber mill went down, but there clearly was some money in the area. There was no sign of Crisp, however.
Tuesday Arceneaux pulled into the lot at the Montana Cafe and treated himself to a cup o
f bad coffee, but still no Crisp. On Wednesday he moved to Honey Hardware, where the lot had plenty of well-used pickups, no fancy SUV’s, and, wonder of wonders, Crisp’s Ford, which was there when Arceneaux arrived. Arceneaux pulled out right away and drove back north a block, and parked where it would still be possible to see the yellow Ford when it left the hardware store. Within a few minutes the Ford nosed back into traffic and headed south.
Bingo, Arceneaux thought, and started the Subaru. “Got you in my sights, now,” he said. He let two other vehicles interpose themselves between him and the Ford, knowing that the bright yellow would be easy to keep in view. Then Crisp slowed at the turnoff to Conner, a small village that mainly existed for the benefit of the area Job Corps center. He turned there, and Arceneaux shook his head in frustration. He pulled off onto the shoulder to wait and see what happened next. Forty minutes later the yellow Ford appeared again, and turned north onto the highway, heading back in the direction of Darby and Hamilton. Arceneaux started the Subaru and pulled quickly onto the road. As he and Crisp passed each other, Arceneaux waved. It was his effort at a small bluff, but Crisp did not wave back, and in fact appeared to be looking toward the fields to his right as the two vehicles met.
On Thursday, Arceneaux was sitting in front of Bud and Shirley’s Restaurant, trying to force one of their notorious peanut butter shakes through a straw that was not really up to the job, when Crisp went past, driving fast. Arceneaux wheeled out of the lot and onto the road behind the Ford, which immediately slowed down.
“Shit,” Arceneaux muttered, afraid Crisp had spotted the Subaru. Then he saw a Sheriff’s car coming from the opposite direction, and realized Crisp was simply getting himself within the speed limit. As soon as the patrol car passed, Crisp speeded up again, heading south. He picked up even more speed as he reached the outskirts of town.