by Jan Dunlap
“Looking for something?” I asked.
There was enough moonlight filtering through the tree limbs that I could see expressions chasing each other across Montgomery’s face: expressions like frustration, calculation, resolution. Gee, isn’t it great that I can recognize these things? Too bad it didn’t count for squat at the moment.
“Yes,” she replied, her sarcasm thick. “I’m looking for a way out of this mess.”
“And which mess would that be?”
Crap! I was doing it again, asking counselor questions when what I really wanted was for Montgomery to stop talking, go away, and leave us alone.
“Where should I start?”
A memory flared in my brain. I was in the girl’s bathroom at school one morning, about a year ago. A petite brunette stood at the sink, shaking, holding a razor blade just above her wrist. Calmly, I talked with her, using every trick I’d learned in Crisis Intervention 692 in grad school. I empathized, I gained her trust, I directed her attention, I listened. In the end, she had folded and dropped the razor.
I just had to do the same thing here. Except that this wasn’t about wasn’t a teen with a razor at her wrist. This was a desperate woman with a gun … aimed at me.
I looked Montgomery in the eye. “I’m listening.”
“For starters, I need to get these clothes out of this cherry-picker.”
“Why’s that, Margaret?”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought her gun hand wavered a little. Even though my eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, there were too many shadows to make my vision completely reliable. I tried to quiet myself even more and focus completely on her so I would know the moment she lapsed, either mentally or physically. And the second that happened, I’d push Luce to the side and make a dive to tackle Montgomery, and we might be able to get out of this situation alive, even if a little worse for wear.
And then it came.
Not the lapse I was waiting for, but something else.
The cry of an owl.
Rising, flute-like notes. A fast series of seven tones.
For crying out loud, I thought. Not now!
Ruthlessly, I shut it out. I needed to concentrate on Montgomery. My life, and Luce’s, were riding on my paying attention. Very, very close attention.
“I have to get the clothes out of here,” she said again, “because we can’t get the cherry-picker out. It’s stuck. I just tried again a little while ago. Damn weather. Either the ground is too soft from the snow, or too hard from the freeze, or too slippery from the thaw. I hate the weather here. You can’t depend on a thing.”
She was right about that, but I didn’t think this was the opportune time to compare meteorological notes. Then again, everyone likes to talk about the weather. Especially in Minnesota.
“Is the weather different in Seattle?” I asked, grasping at the slim hope that she’d been living in the state long enough to want to talk weather. The truth was, I needed a conversational distraction, and this was going to have to be it.
She smiled and nodded. “Vern told me you stopped by today and that you were heading up here. That’s why I came up tonight to try to get the picker moved. He thinks it’s hidden well enough, but I know about you. You find the birds no one else does, and I was afraid you’d find this. I was right. And now I can’t let you tell Knott, about the picker or the clothes.”
Montgomery shifted her weight, still holding the gun steady. “Vern also said he told you that I encouraged him to start his own business.”
“VNT is going well, isn’t it?” I tried for a soothing tone. “Was the poaching your idea, too?”
“Of course not. That’s illegal.”
She sounded offended that I would even think it, but at least she was getting engaged in the conversation. That was good, in my favor. She shifted her weight again. Her arm definitely relaxed a fraction.
“I just mentioned there were a lot of woods up here that nobody even knew about. Trees and flowers no one would ever miss. I was a lobbyist for the timber industry, Bob. I believe we should use our natural resources wisely, but that we should, indeed, use them.”
“I’m familiar with that sentiment.” I hoped that Eddie’s gizmo was picking up every word. “So when the Pacific Northwest logging companies got clocked by the spotted owl …”
Montgomery visibly stiffened. Suddenly, anger radiated off her in almost tangible waves.
Uh-oh. Ixnay on the owl-ay, I told myself. Somehow, I’d hit a nerve. A very big, very raw nerve.
“They didn’t just get clocked, Bob,” she snapped. “They were shredded. They were ground through the mill just like the wood they harvested for paper. Families were ruined when there were suddenly no jobs, no income. Children went hungry. Communities disappeared. No one was prepared.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it,” Montgomery almost spit, she was so angry. “Not for me, at least.”
“What happened?” I asked. I kept my eyes locked on Montgomery’s face. Beside me, I could feel Luce tense, and I carefully placed my hand on her arm, willing her to be still for just a little bit more.
“My brother was killed.” Montgomery’s voice went flat. “He worked for the lumber company. He was a logger. He cut into a tree that was spiked. His chain saw snapped, and the blade flew back into his chest. He was dead when I got to the hospital.”
I heard Luce’s quick inhale next to me, and then silence filled the night. Montgomery was still holding the gun on us, though it was definitely shaking in her hand.
“It was an exchange,” I offered. “You lost your brother to the woods, so you figured the woods owed you something in return. Vern was the middleman.”
Montgomery took a deep breath, and the gun steadied. “Yes, I guess you could say that. We made good partners. He needed capital to get the business off the ground—literally, with the cherry-picker—and I knew where to find it. It was the perfect enterprise—free stock and minimal expenses. Fat profits. Our investor couldn’t be happier. And the Boreal sites were ideal. Vern could get in, cut, and get out with no one ever being the wiser.”
“As long as it wasn’t March or April,” I added.
“We were doing really well with just the lumber last fall,” she continued. “But then, as the holidays approached, we saw the real money-maker: Christmas trees. You wouldn’t believe how much money that generated.”
“Actually, I would,” I said. “My sister made a killing.”
My eyes dropped to the gun in her hand. Maybe that wasn’t the best word choice under the circumstances.
“And then it started snowing,” Montgomery went on. “The roads got so bad, we decided to just leave the picker here till spring. We covered it with the tarp, and the snow just piled on.”
Montgomery stopped to catch her breath. I was pretty sure she was tiring, because she clasped her other hand over the one holding the gun and raised it just a little higher.
And then the owl called again.
This time it was closer, and there was no mistaking the rising flute call. Despite having a gun pointed at me, I could actually feel a smile on my face. Here I’d finally gotten my Boreal, but I wasn’t sure I was going to live long enough to put it on my list.
My life list.
Which, unless I managed to disarm Montgomery pretty soon here, was going to be significantly shorter than I had hoped.
“Margaret,” Luce said, her voice cutting through the silence that had formed around us. “It’s so cold. Let’s all just go home.”
Montgomery laughed bitterly. “Don’t you think I want to? But you’re both a liability now, and I’m going to have to fix that.”
Another hoot of the owl filled the clearing.
But this time, it came from directly above us.
We all looked up automatically, but before I could lunge for Montgomery, she had the gun aimed at my heart.
“I hate owls!” Her voice rose. “They killed my brother. When I heard Rahr pounding in those spikes, all I could
think of was that chain saw flying into my brother’s chest.”
“You heard Rahr spiking the trees?”
“Yes!” she shouted, suddenly raging. “He was spiking the trees! We were trying to get the damn picker moved out of here before anyone found it, and I heard the pounding echoing from over the rise, and I knew what it was!” The gun was vibrating in her hands. “I saw him! I couldn’t help it! He was making such a racket, he didn’t hear me come up to his back. There was a big branch. I picked it up and swung it as hard as I could. I slammed him into the tree!”
Montogmery was a big woman. With all her effort behind the blow, I could well imagine that it would have knocked Rahr out.
And then a blur of movement flew out of the night. Montgomery went down, hard, her gun flying off into the darkness.
I blinked. Stan already had Montgomery’s arms twisted behind her back and was pulling handcuffs out of a pocket.
I drew in a long breath. “What took you so long?” I asked him, for the second time that night.
Beside me, Luce squeaked and abruptly jerked away from me.
“Move a muscle, and she’s going to have a heart attack.”
Completely stunned, I turned. A man was holding Luce in a headlock, a hypodermic needle to her neck. Lit by the thin moonlight that filtered through the pines, he looked tanned and fit, but even in the dimness, his trademark silver toupee gave him away.
“Dr. Phil?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I advised you to stay home, Bob,” Dr. Phil reminded me. “Repeatedly. But you just couldn’t stay away, could you?” His hand steady at Luce’s neck, he nodded toward Stan, who had rolled off of Montgomery. “If he moves, Luce gets the shot. It’ll stop her heart.”
“I’m not moving,” Stan said. “What do you want?”
“Get up, Margaret,” Dr. Phil ordered. “We’re going to do it right this time.”
Montgomery sat up, obviously dazed from her impact with Stan and the ground.
“This time?” My voice rasped.
“If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” the doctor said, exasperation plain in his tone. “First Andrew and now this.”
He turned his attention back to Montgomery, who was now on her feet, though somewhat shaky. She took a step or two and stopped, then bent over to catch her breath, her hands on her knees.
“Margaret, there’s a cord here behind me,” Dr. Phil instructed her. “Take it and tie Bob up first. Tightly. We’ll get Mr. Commando there in a minute. For now, I just want him to lie there where I can see him.” He tightened his grip around Luce’s head. “Don’t try it, Luce. The needle’s faster than you.”
I had to look away. The feeling of complete helplessness, seeing Luce immobilized in Dr. Phil’s hold, a deadly needle at her neck, was making my head spin and my vision blur. On top of that, I couldn’t believe that Dr. Phil—a man I’d known and respected for years—was the one with the needle, and somehow involved in Rahr’s murder. In desperation, I glanced at Stan, flat on his back, staring straight up into the trees.
He didn’t look desperate at all. In fact, he was grinning, his teeth shining white in his camouflaged face.
I followed his gaze.
About thirty feet above the ground, a Great Horned Owl was poised on a limb, looking down and weaving back and forth, a behavior that allow him to pinpoint his prey all the better. He was about to grab tonight’s dinner.
And I suddenly knew why Stan was smiling.
Tonight’s dinner wasn’t a rodent.
Tonight’s target was Dr. Phil’s bush of a silver toupee. Dr. Phil was about to join Uncle Gus in a very exclusive club.
The owl spread his wings, ready to launch himself in a silent, deadly attack.
I felt the surge of pure adrenaline in my legs.
Margaret was coming toward me with the rope, but that wasn’t my concern at the moment. I prayed that both the owl and I were faster than the needle.
Another heartbeat, and the owl and I were both flying through the night.
I dove straight for Luce, wrenching her out of Dr. Phil’s grip at the very moment the enormous owl reached the doctor’s head. With a vicious swipe of his powerful, inch-long talons, the owl raked the man’s scalp, capturing the tempting toupee and leaving bloody gashes on the dome of his bald head. By the time Dr. Phil could even realize what had happened, Stan had chopped him on the neck, knocking him out, and once again had Margaret pinned to the ground.
Shaking and gasping for air, I lay in a pile of wet leaves, holding Luce as close as I could, waiting for the tremors of the post-adrenaline rush to subside. Against my neck I could feel her breath warming the chilled skin between my woolen cap and my parka collar. I wanted to hold her right there forever.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah,” I told her. “Never better. I’m having a great time. How about you?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m okay. A little shook, maybe. I’ve never been very fond of needles, and I don’t think that’s going to change in the foreseeable future.”
I stroked her back in understanding. “I can appreciate that. I’m not especially crazy about them, either. So, I guess we’re not going to take up needlepoint, huh?”
And then Stan was looming above us. “I called Knott. He’s on the way.” He pointed towards Dr. Phil and Montgomery, who were both face-down in the earth, their hands tied together with the cord Dr. Phil had pointed out to Montgomery. “They’re not going anywhere.”
“Thanks, Stan.” I pulled myself to my feet and helped Luce up. Then I offered my hand to him. “You can chase birds with me any time, buddy.”
He clasped my hand with his own. “Ditto.”
“Ssh,” Luce hissed at us. Slowly raising her hand, she pointed up into the branches over our heads. It took me a minute to see it, but once I found the intense yellow eyes staring at me, the rest of the little owl’s body became distinguishable from the surrounding blackness.
“You little devil,” I whispered.
Because, if nothing else, it had been one hell of a chase.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was very late on Saturday night when I finally turned the key in my front door.
These weekends up north were killing me.
I really needed to rephrase that.
Since I’d had a gun aimed at my heart not even twenty-four hours ago, killing was not a word I could consider using frivolously at the moment. To be honest, I was so exhausted, I didn’t think there were any words I could use at the moment, frivolous or not. I dumped my overnight bag, parka, and binos inside the door and collapsed on my living room sofa.
Luce, Stan, and I had all given statements, I’d handed over Eddie’s recorder (which did, indeed, have almost-miraculous powers of audio reproduction—we could hear every one of the Boreal Owl’s calls on it, along with every word uttered by Montgomery and Dr. Phil), and finished all the paperwork Duluth’s finest could possibly push at us. We did, however, decline to buy any tickets to the policemen’s ball as it was scheduled for next month. By then, I would be too busy with girls’ softball to make it up for the big event, and Luce had a conference to cater. Stan’s excuse was something about tax returns and April 15.
He was, after all, an accountant. Among other things.
About halfway through our stay at the station, Knott had joined Luce and me in his office. Stan had already migrated down the hall to talk to local officers about the results of his own investigation into VNT’s illicit operation. Apparently, now that his covert assignment was over, Stan wasn’t worried about anyone on the force interfering with his investigation. For a while, he could actually play well with others again.
“So, do you want to press charges against anyone?” Knott asked us. “You can take your pick—Montgomery, Thompson or Dr. Hovde. Of course, you’ll have to stand in line behind the state and Rahr’s widow, not to mention the litigation we may have pending th
e VNT garden business.”
“I just want to go home,” Luce answered.
I agreed. Filing charges, giving testimony, listening to lawyers and being hassled by the press was not the way I wanted to spend even the next ten minutes of my life, let alone the next twelve months. Stan might have been an ace when it came to disappearing, but I wasn’t going to fool myself that I could pull off a similar vanishing act in the face of a media spotlight. Besides, I didn’t want to vanish. I had a great life back in Savage. And now, thanks to Knott’s arrests, I could have my great life … back.
I took Luce’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She looked worn out, and I expected I wasn’t going to be winning any fresh-face awards with my tired mug, either. Nor was Knott.
“Tired?” I asked him.
“Absolutely.” He sprawled in a chair and tipped it back on its hind legs. “I like you, Bob, but this is two nights in one week that you’ve kept me up way past my bedtime. I’m sort of hoping you’ll stay in the Twin Cities for a while now. You know? Away from here?”
“That’s the plan,” I said. Now that I’d scored the Boreal, I was planning to stick close to home for the immediate future. Like, really close. As in my backyard. Maybe I’d venture out for birdseed, but that was about it.
Which reminded me of Lily’s Landscaping and VNT.
“So where does Thompson fit in?” I asked. “I mean, besides running a poaching business? Did he help Montgomery remove Rahr’s clothes? Montgomery told us they were trying to get the picker out last Friday when she heard Rahr pounding the spikes, so I assume he knew that she had killed him.”
Knott brought his chair back to the floor and reached for his cup of coffee on the desk. “Actually, Thompson didn’t know a thing about the murder until he learned about it on the radio Sunday evening.”
“No way,” I said. “How could he not know? He was right there trying to get the picker moved.”
Knott took a sip of the coffee. “No, he wasn’t, Bob. When Montgomery told you that they were working on the picker, she wasn’t referring to Thompson.”