by Paul Moomaw
Arden Marks was packing boxes when Arceneaux arrived, and the shelves that had held stacks of travel books and old National Geographics were half empty.
“I assume you’re not moving out just yet,” Arceneaux said.
Marks smiled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not moving out. Moving on, maybe. Packing up old dreams and putting them in boxes.”
“Where are you going to take them?”
“Right now, into the storage shed behind the house.” Marks loaded a box with Fodors and folded the flaps closed. “You got news for me?”
“Just a question. I’m not sure you were being straight with me about that knife I showed you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you didn’t know anything about it, but I checked with Matt Hagan, the man who made the knife.” Arceneaux paused, decided to bluff. “He says he sold it to you.”
Marks looked up, eyes wide. “You’re making that up.”
“The name on the sales record was Marks,” Arceneaux said.
“The world is full of people named Marks. Now if it was a name like yours, you might have something. That’s a pretty weird name.”
Arceneaux let the remark pass. “You swear that’s not your knife?” he said.
“I swear by God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost,” Marks replied. “I never owned that knife.”
“And you don’t know who does,” Arceneaux said.
Marks stared at the table and shook his head. “I just never owned that knife.” he repeated.
Arceneaux sighed and stood up. “All right, Arden,” he said. He walked to the door and opened it. “Have fun packing,” he said.
He navigated the curves back down to Highway 93 in a black mood. Time to call it a day, he thought. He would not accomplish anything productive in such a funk. He reached the highway and started to turn left toward Missoula, then braked again. The knife, he decided. Time to keep his promise and deliver it to Barbara Drake. He sighed, pulled out onto the highway and headed south. Crossing the river and swinging into Hamilton he was careful to stay well within the speed limit and signal every lane change; and still he found himself checking his rear view mirror. “Getting that ticket has got me paranoid,” he said, and laughed. He passed David Crisp’s dojo and looked automatically see if the yellow Ford was parked in the lot. It was there, but not parked. Instead, just as Arceneaux drove by, it pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road behind him. A Conoco station lay just ahead of Arceneaux, and he pulled into it, stopping at the bank of pumps.
“I think fate is making me an offer I can’t refuse,” he said, and watched Crisp drive past, heading south toward the center of town. He gave the big Ford a one-block lead, then pulled away from the pumps and back onto the street again.
Crisp drove through the town, moving sedately this time, then picking up speed as he hit the southern edges. Arceneaux followed him as he sped across the river and up the highway to Darby, then through that town, slowing down to match the 25 mile-per-hour speed limit there, as well. Arceneaux slowed to match Crisp’s pace. Once through Darby Crisp picked up speed. Arceneaux stepped on the gas, and the Subaru labored up to eighty, but the Ford was still pulling away. Arceneaux nodded to himself and slowed to seventy. He was sure he knew where Crisp was going, and there was only one route back from there.
By the time Arceneaux reached the West Fork turnoff the Ford was out of sight. He drove past the turnoff and continued for another few hundred yards, then swung around and parked off the shoulder, facing north. Now it was a matter of waiting and being patient. “No problem,” Arceneaux said to the windshield. “Us Indians are big on patience.”
Almost two hours later, the yellow Ford appeared again. Crisp came to a rolling stop at the highway and swung left, headed toward Hamilton. Arceneaux started the Subaru and pulled back onto the road. He let Crisp establish a good lead, and had no trouble maintaining his distance after that. Crisp appeared to be in no hurry, or perhaps simply did not want to attract attention. For whatever reason, he stayed well within the speed limit on the highway, and slowed down dutifully going through Darby. Then, a few miles north of the town, Crisp crossed the center line without warning and made an abrupt turn onto the road to Lake Como.
“Now what?” Arceneaux muttered. He pulled onto the shoulder and stopped, wondering what would draw Crisp to this spot. The lake, named after the European original by a homesick Italian priest, was beautiful and framed by mountains; and this time of year it was not loaded with high-powered motor boats. But other than some parking spaces for cars and trailers, and a camp ground off to one side, there was nothing there, except a hiking trail that led past the lake and into the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness. Arceneaux continued to sit, giving himself five minutes, then drove slowly to the Como intersection and into the first parking area. No sign of the Ford there. He stopped the Subaru, got out, and walked the several hundred feet to the boat landing that offered access to this end of the lake. From there he could see a wide area, but there was still no sign of Crisp’s truck. Then he wondered if Crisp was meeting someone at the campground. It would be a nice, isolated place to do a drug deal. He started to get back into the car, then decided it would be wiser to stay on foot. He walked across the parking area and into the woods along a trail that led to the forested camping site. As he reached the end of the trail and the edge of the campground, he was rewarded by the sight of the yellow Ford. Crisp had parked at the farthest campsite. Arceneaux began to move toward the truck, staying in the trees as much as possible. He edged to within thirty feet of the truck and saw that it was empty, and that there was no sign of Crisp anywhere. Arceneaux looked around in all directions. The campground held no other vehicles. Arceneaux shook his head and wondered what to do next. A number of side trails led into the woods. Crisp might have gone down any of those. Most of them simply curved to carry a walker back to the lake shore, but one led deeper into the trees and skirted a small pond where Arceneaux had once spotted the biggest moose he had ever seen, a giant bull, up to its belly in the water, placidly munching on the vegetation. Arceneaux decided to try it.
The pond was farther than he remembered. He was not paying that much attention to the time, but it felt like at least twenty minutes. When he finally reached the small patch of water, it was empty. No moose, and no Crisp. Arceneaux took a deep breath, turned and headed back down the trail, puzzled and frustrated. Since he had no idea where Crisp might be, he moved as slowly as possible, staying in the trees, telling himself he was on a hunt, and had to act like a hunter, or else he might wind up being the hunted. Finally he got back to the area where the campsites lay, and looked around. Crisp’s yellow Ford was gone.
“I’ll be damned,” Arceneaux said. He stood spread-legged, his right hand crossed over to support the cast on his left arm, and looked all around again, as if willing the Ford to appear. It refused, and Arceneaux gave up in disgust and began walking back to the boat parking area where he had left his car.
The Subaru was still there, but it looked funny. As Arceneaux got closer he realized what was wrong. All of the tires were flat; and when he reached the car he saw that their sidewalls had been expertly slashed. Arceneaux stared at the ruined tires and scratched his head. The tires were only a year old, practically brand new by Arceneaux’s standards. It was the ultimate insult, and in his head he imagined David Crisp standing somewhere in the woods, laughing his head off.
Arceneaux opened the car, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out his cell phone. He wrestled it out of its leather case with one hand and punched in a number, happy that he at least was within reach of a telephone tower. The phone rang several times, and then was answered.
“Hey, Anne,” Arceneaux said. “I got a little problem.”
Chapter 31
It was getting dark by the time Arceneaux got on the road to Missoula, equipped with new tires and several hundred dollars poorer. Anne had played rescuer, driving to Como and giving him a ride to Hamilto
n, where he arranged a tow to a tire shop on the south end of town. She had asked him only once what had happened, he had replied that it was a long story.
“You can tell me at dinner,” Anne had said, and Arceneaux had flinched as he remembered he had invited her to eat.
“You are cooking for me?” She had said.
“Yeah. I just forgot that Josh will be there.”
A long silence, then, “Maybe we should figure on a different day.”
“No,” he had said, and then again, “No. Josh needs to get used to having you around.
Now he would also have to deal with letting Josh know there would be company.
Halfway back, his arm started to complain again. He rested his left hand on the wheel to keep it elevated, and let the right hand do the work. Ibuprofen and a couple of mugs of strong coffee got him going in the morning, but Arceneaux refused to take more pain killer during the day, even though the sensible part of his mind knew that it was foolish to need to be such a tough guy. Right now that part of him was asking, “Who the hell will know if you take a little pill?” but Tough Guy just muttered, “I’ll know.” Tucking the steering wheel between his knees, he reached across with his right hand and rolled the window down, and immediately got lost in the crisp autumn air and the vibrant colors. He remembered someone saying once that western Montana was as good as New England when it came to the fall of the year; but in New England you looked up, because the colors were in the trees, and in Montana you looked down, because the fire was in the berry bushes, the Oregon grape, and all the other ground cover. Only in parts of Missoula, where non-native maples had been planted earlier in the century, did the trees burn in October. The peak was past now, and it would not be long before the leaves fell, and the chore of raking would be at hand. It occurred to him that it would be different this year, because Josh could rake with him, and he decided that maybe there was something to this thing of having a kid, after all.
Josh was not pleased Anne was coming to dinner. He made a face, then said, “Why does she have to come?”
“I invited her,” Arceneaux said.
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I forgot,” Arceneaux said. “Sometimes I forget things. Don’t you ever forget anything?”
“Not if it’s important,” Josh scowled, then said, “If she has to be here I get to have a friend, too.” Thus it was that Jimmy Littletoes shared the dinner table with Arceneaux, Anne and Josh. He was also planning to spend the night and help christen Josh’s new double bunk bed.
When Anne arrived she made an effort to connect with Josh, but he was not having any.
“Dad says you can be here, so I guess you can,” he said. Then he went into his room and stayed there until Jimmy Littletoes arrived.
The meal was a variant of macaroni and cheese that was the closest thing Arceneaux could come to a kid’s meal. Jimmy Littletoes sat at the table and looked warily at the food on his plate, which did contain macaroni and cheese, but also fresh garlic and basil, tomato puree, and toasted pine nuts. He reached in with his fingers and pulled out a pine nut.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A pine nut,” Arceneaux said.
“My mom’s macaroni and cheese doesn’t have those,” Jimmy said. He put the nut in his mouth and chewed tentatively, then shrugged and started eating.
“How did you like it,” Arceneaux asked, when the meal was ended.
“Oh, it was real good,” Jimmy said. He looked at the large amount of food still on his plate. “But I wasn’t all that hungry.”
“Ice cream for dessert,” Arceneaux said.
Jimmy eyed Arceneaux warily. “Did you make that, too?” he asked.
Arceneaux shook his head. “Came straight from the Safeway freezer,” he said. “Rocky Road.”
Jimmy’s face broke into a wide grin. “I like Rocky Road a lot,” he said.
“I wanted spumoni,” Josh said. “But I guess what I want doesn’t matter.” He looked at Jimmy. “You can have mine,” he said. He got up and headed for the hallway.
Jimmy watched him go, then looked at Arceneaux.
“I guess I’m not really hungry for dessert, either,” he said. Then he got up quickly and followed Josh.
Arceneaux cleared the dishes and stacked them on the kitchen sink. Then he poured a brandy for himself and a glass of wine for Anne and settled onto the couch. Anne placed herself at the end of the couch, and Arceneaux was acutely aware of the distance. He braced himself for whatever she would have to say about Josh’s unfriendly behavior, but instead she asked about his arm.
“Okay,” Arceneaux said. “It’s my pride that’s in pain right now.”
“So what the hell happened out there today?” Anne asked.
Arceneaux collected his thoughts in silence for a while, then stood up. “First let me show you something,” he said. He went to the spare bedroom and returned with the knife he had gotten from Helen Lousen, still in its paper bag. “Look at this,” he said, and pulled the weapon out.
Anne’s eyes widened as he extracted the blade from the sheath. “Pretty fancy,” she said.
“Damascus steel, custom made by a local artisan.”
“It must cost a fortune.”
“Pretty much.”
Anne shook her head and frowned. “It seems to me that if you can blow money on a toy like that you can afford to trade that broken down Subaru in on something a little more dependable.”
“I didn’t buy this,” Arceneaux said. “I got it from the housekeeper who found the bodies at the Double Pine. She said it was lying on the bed in the cabin that morning when she went in to clean.”
“Jesus, Sam. This came from the murder scene?”
“Yep.”
“Then what the hell are you doing with it? How come you haven’t turned it over?”
“I’m going to. Don’t worry.”
“Of course I worry. You’re withholding evidence.”
“The thing is, I got a lead on the maker, and so naturally I wanted to find out who owns it before turned it over. Just being helpful, is all.”
“Just trying to score points on the cops, is all,” Anne said in an exasperated tone. “I think you read too many bad murder mysteries. You know, clever private eye solves the case while the police stand around looking dumb.”
“Works for me,” Arceneaux said, and smiled, but Anne did not smile back. He shook his head slowly and sighed.
“It isn’t going to be easy to hand this thing over, though,” he said. “I did get a lead on the owner.”
“And?”
Arceneaux gulped. “It’s someone named Marks. No first name, but how many of them could there be?”
“Probably lots,” Anne said.
“Arden’s words exactly.”
“You’ve told him about it?”
“Sure. I thought he might at least blink.”
“And instead he chased you all the way to Lake Como and then slashed your tires with it.”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, what happened to those tires?”
Arceneaux sighed. He realized that showing Anne the knife had been a way of putting off revealing just how dumb he had been. Now it was time to eat crow.
“Remember when we saw David Crisp heading up Piquette Creek Road?” Anne nodded. “Well,” Arceneaux continued, “I decided to take a look. There’s a cabin up there, not too far in. I managed to get inside, and what I found was the mother of all drug warehouses. The place was loaded. Meth, cocaine, weed, pills. Everything an addict could ask for.”
“And so you went straight to Sheriff Butcher and told him about it.”
“Well, no.” Arceneaux offered Anne what he hoped was his most disarming smile. “I played private eye, and tailed Crisp. I saw him load up some bags from the place once, so I figured if I could follow him and find out where he was taking it, I could give the whole package to the cops.”
Anne slammed her glass down on the coffee table.
“Jesus Christ, Sam,” she said. “I don’t know if I can afford to be around you. Hiding evidence, obstructing justice. I could lose my job just sitting in the same room with you.” She knocked her fist into the palm of her hand. “Do me a favor. If you’re planning on breaking any more laws, don’t tell me about it and make me an accessory after the fact. I’m a goddam prosecutor, after all.”
“You want to hear the story or not?” Arceneaux said.
She nodded gloomily. “Go ahead,” she said.
“He must have spotted me. He drove into the campground at Como and parked, and then while I was skulking around in the trees trying to find him, I guess he circled around, got into his truck, and drove away.” He should his head. “But not before he took care of my tires. They were pretty new, too.”
“Sam, you really have to stop playing boy hero. You’re going to go straight to Hamilton tomorrow and tell them about that cabin. And hand over that knife, too.”
“I was actually on my way to give them the knife when I spotted Crisp and decided to follow him today,” Arceneaux said. “And I already decided to tell Barbara Drake about the cabin.”
“When did you decide that?”
“Probably about when I was going into hock for those damned tires,” Arceneaux said.
“You act like some damn Indian brave trying to count coup,” Anne said.
“I am Indian. Remember?”
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah, Arceneaux thought. I know what you mean, and I’m not sure I like it. He threw her a jaundiced look and she threw it back, and they sat there like that while the time passed tensely. Finally Anne stood up.
“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” she said.
As Arceneaux was rising to his feet Josh appeared. Jimmy Littletoes stood behind him, looking awkward.
“When are you leaving?” Josh said.