Dead Silver hd-2

by Neil Mcmahon

  In the process, Tom had learned a very interesting piece of information.

  Astrid had belonged to that same radical group, and she had talked seriously about blowing up the mine itself.

  That news had surfaced in Phosphor County at the time of the equipment-damaging incident and made its way around the rumor mill, stepping up antagonism toward Astrid. But then her death gave it a reverse spin, because it strengthened suspicion that the killer was a local resident or mining company employee. The gossip quieted, the Sheriff's Department ignored it, and it never played a part in the investigation.

  I thought about it all through the drive back to Helena, but by itself, it wasn't much to go on. Maybe it was an important factor that could play a part in exonerating Professor Callister, maybe just another complication.

  But it underscored one of the saddest aspects of situations like that, where the conflicts themselves weren't intrinsically violent, but got people riled up to the point of hatred-sadder still because the majority just wanted to improve their lives and would gladly have come to a peaceful compromise. It tended to be extremists who barred that and created bitter polarization, with each side roundly blaming the other.

  Most environmentalists were well intentioned, but easy targets for dislike because they often took a moral high ground-including groups like Astrid's that felt justified in destruction. There were also wealthy interests that wanted to close off wilderness and make it their private playground, and used conservationism to disguise their real object. They had a lot of money and knew how to work the system. The result was a gridlock of litigation that blocked even the most sensible proposals, like salvaging fire-damaged timber that would otherwise rot. Sometimes it seemed like a lawsuit got filed every time somebody walked into the woods and opened a pocketknife.

  At the other end of the spectrum were corporations contemptuous of both the land and its residents, resorting to barefaced lying and manipulation to gouge fast bucks out of a place, then leave it bleeding and move on. The landscape had plenty of those scars from companies that had flagrantly violated regulations and defaulted on promises of cleanup, then stonewalled authorities or simply dissolved. Mines like the Dead Silver project were particular offenders. There were several thousand abandoned mines in Montana alone and several hundred thousand in the nation that had been polluting for decades. The cost of detoxifying a typical site ran well into the millions; the overall amount was staggering and would have to come mostly from taxpayer money. Not much of that had been found for the purpose.

  Caught in the middle of the conflict were the working people who had depended for generations on resource extraction industries. As they lost their way of life and sank into unemployment and poverty, it was only natural that many blamed the environmentalists, especially affluent outsiders. The hovering business concerns weren't shy about fueling the fire, knowing that would put pressure on politicians and intimidate activists.

  I'd once harbored a naive belief that most of those issues could be resolved if the money interests would take a step back from the trough; the purists would admit that everything they ate, wore, lived in, traveled via, and so on came from natural resources; and both sides accepted the fact that the people who did the hard, dangerous work of obtaining those resources should be paid and treated fairly. Encouraging breakthroughs came along once in a while, but in general, the bulb of reasonable compromise wasn't giving off much light.

  18

  When I drove up to Renee's house this time, her car was parked in the driveway.

  But Ward Ackermans's big green rust bucket was right behind it.

  The two of them were on the porch facing each other, along with another man standing beside Ward. Renee, still wearing her black funeral dress, had her back to the doorway like she was protecting the place.

  My adrenaline started pumping. I pulled over to the curb, jumped out of the truck, and strode to the house.

  Their faces turned toward me, and I recognized the second man as Boone Ackerman, Ward's father. Years ago, he'd been peripheral to amateur boxing circles-not in any official capacity; there were always guys like him who were just around. I suspected that he remembered me, too, although he didn't give any sign of it.

  If ever I'd seen living proof of the old adage about the fruit not falling far from the tree, those two were it. Boone was around fifty, about the same size as Ward and with the same generic look. He also had a rap sheet, more impressive than his son's, as befitted his seniority. Boone was craftier; he'd mostly been involved in small-time financial fraud, and he was capable of emitting a snaky charm. But under that I sensed real menace, much more disturbing than Ward's tough-guy act. I didn't know for a fact that he'd ever been involved in violent crime, but it sure wouldn't have surprised me.

  "I see you brought your lawyer," I said to Ward.

  Boone's cool gaze flickered, just enough to tell me that the words had scored. If he'd ever opened a law book, it was in a prison library.

  Ward strode to the top of the porch steps and jabbed a forefinger down at me. No doubt he'd been simmering about our run-in yesterday, and was emboldened now by having an accomplished felon to back him up. At a guess, alcohol and meth were also in the mix.

  "The only thing I got to say to you is, get off this property," he said harshly.

  "Funny-I was just about to say the same thing to you. Again."

  "This is family business. Stay the hell out of it."

  Renee folded her arms and spoke firmly. "You are not my family in any way that counts, and you're not welcome here."

  "You've crossed a line, Ward," I said. "Harrassment, stalking-police turf. Next step's a restraining order."

  Then Boone Ackerman raised his hands placatingly.

  "Let's just everybody hang on a minute," he said. "Sir, I don't know exactly how you figure into this."

  Sir-the slick, respectful con. He waited for me to explain myself. When he realized I was just going to let him wait, he went on.

  "Well, my son's right. We got a legal claim to this place, and you tearing it up-" he pointed toward the carriage house-"that's trouble. But if you pull off right away, we'll be inclined to let it go."

  "The only trouble here is you giving this lady a hard time."

  "We didn't mean to upset her," he said quickly. "I'm sorry to hear she feels the way she does. I always thought highly of these folks-and her father was my second cousin."

  "By a half-brother," Renee said.

  "That may be, ma'am. Still, it's a blood tie that can't be denied."

  "I'm not denying it. It just doesn't have anything to do with this."

  "With all respect, that's not so. Ward stewarded this property to aid his kinsman, who lay stricken by affliction," Boone said, working a little jailhouse preaching into his act.

  Renee's eyes widened in outrage. "Stewarded! We let him live here free for years and even paid his expenses, and he thanked us by turning it into a dump. You people never lifted a finger to help us-just schemed to get something out of us."

  Boone put on a rueful smile and shook his head.

  "I could give you plenty of examples where that ain't true," he said. "Now, we're only asking for what's rightfully ours. It may not say so on any piece of paper. But if you search your heart, you'll-"

  She slapped her palms to her temples. "If you start in like that again, so help me God, I'll scream."

  "Time for you guys to leave," I said. "Any more hassles, and you better believe the sheriffs will come calling on you."

  Boone sized me up with his reptilian gaze, looking sour, like he'd run into an unexpected obstacle that had derailed his smooth maneuvering.

  "We'll respect her wishes, of course," he finally said, with the phony dignity of those who sought profit by proclaiming themselves wronged. "Come on, son."

  When Boone walked off the porch, I saw that he'd developed a limp. It might have been genuine, but I suspected it was manufactured for sympathy. He sure hadn't gotten it from any work-related
accident.

  Ward stomped down the stairs after him and headed straight toward me, a schoolboy bluff to make me step aside. With equal immaturity, I didn't. At the last second, he sidestepped, but gave my shoulder a hard bump with his.

  "This time it ain't two on one against me, is it?" he sneered.

  Letting it go hurt even worse than last time.

  Boone stopped walking briefly, maybe figuring he'd need to step into the fray and blindside me or supply a few kicks. When I didn't take the bait, he started toward their car again, but this time he forgot to limp.

  I was tempted to make a comment, but I let that go, too. With any luck, this situation was now at a stalemate where it would rest.

  Sure it was.

  19

  As Ward roared away with his signature spray of gravel, I started to shake, like I always did in the aftermath of a confrontation-sort of like an engine dieseling when it was switched off while overloaded with gas.

  Renee came down the porch steps and surprised me pleasantly by giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  "I think we deserve a drink," she said.

  "I could use ten."

  "It just so happens I bought you a little gift. Come on."

  She led me into the kitchen, where the gift turned out to be a bottle of John Power amp; Son-a rough-edged Irish whiskey that I savored as an occasional treat.

  "I love this stuff," I said. "How'd you know?"

  "I asked Madbird. Tell him I got him one, too."

  She had a bottle of chilled Clos du Bois sauvignon blanc for herself. I poured her a glass of it, then a healthy splash of the Powers over ice for myself. It tasted like the nectar of the gods.

  "The nerve of those men," she said wryly. "Their pitch today was that they've decided to let me sell this place, but they want half."

  I was almost amused. You couldn't fault them for thinking small.

  Then Renee frowned, looking puzzled.

  "That reminds me, I didn't see Evvie and Lon at the reception," she said. "You know, the couple that were here yesterday? She's the Realtor who wants to handle the sale?"

  "They were at the funeral. I saw them going into the church."

  "Huh. I can't believe she'd miss a chance like that to bond with me."

  "Probably something came up," I said.

  "I'm sure I'll hear. Anyway, thank God I didn't have to deal with her. Not a polite thing to say, but true." She picked up her wineglass and started toward the living room. "I'm going to run up and change. I'll only be a minute."

  "You better stash that earring while you're at it. Sheriff's orders this time."

  She paused and turned to me anxiously. "You talked to him?"

  "I'll tell you about it when you come back."

  Renee hurried on, leaving me, I had to admit, with tantalizing images flashing through my mind. Did mourning apparel mean black underwear? Was there some secret female code that dictated those things?

  But my thoughts returned quickly to what had just happened. I walked outside and sat on the porch steps, aware that along with my anger and dislike of the Ackermans, guilt was creeping in.

  At its core was an issue far broader than the personal one-a version of the old nature-versus-nurture debate, a complex calculus of being that involved the interaction of inherited factors and outside circumstances.

  Ward, and probably also Boone, must have had a tough time in a lot of ways when they were growing up. Education and self-betterment were not priorities in their world. Their role models were lowlifes and outright criminals. God only knew what kinds of sinister doings took place in their warren of shabby dwellings. Whenever you saw a group of the younger clan members cruising around, it usually included a pregnant teenaged girl.

  Then again, most of my friends had grown up without much-Madbird, for instance, on the Blackfeet reservation, a hell of a lot harsher than anything around here. My own father had spent his life as an ironworker, my mother as a grade school teacher. By and large, our household was no-frills and no-nonsense.

  But my sisters and I knew that we could depend on them, that they'd provide for us and protect us, that their sternness came from concern for us-above all, that we were loved and wanted. To be a child who was neither, especially if mistreated besides, was a nightmare I couldn't fathom. And yet, so many parents kept bringing them into the world.

  None of that resolved my feelings about Ward and Boone. They were still first-class shitweasels, who had made the easiest, most self-serving choices without hesitating to fuck people over. But thinking about the forces that had pushed them in that direction softened my animosity and made me face my own conceit.

  Renee was a new kind of eyeful when she came out to sit beside me. I'd only seen her in around-the-house clothes and her black dress. Now she looked like a hometown girl, wearing tight jeans and a sweatshirt. And she seemed energized, even happy. With all her other problems that remained, getting done with the funeral must have been a huge relief.

  The earring, I was glad to see, was gone.

  "So what about the sheriff?" she said.

  "It's kind of a good news-bad news situation. Gary doesn't think you should stay here alone anymore."

  Her eyes changed and her mouth opened. "Are you serious?"

  "He doesn't want you to be scared. Just careful."

  "I'll only be here two more days."

  "I can just about hear him say, 'Humor an old cop.' I'd feel better, too, Renee."

  Her mouth twitched. "I hope that's the bad news."

  "It's both. The good is, he agrees there's a chance your father wasn't guilty, and the real guy's still out there."

  She stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing that-and probably thinking again about how she'd shown off the earring.

  "I have another favor to ask you," she said. "I guess I should say, 'yet another.'"

  "For this kind of whiskey, I'm all yours."

  "I'd like to see the place where-this is hard to say. Where Astrid was killed. Her cabin. I've never been there, never wanted to go. But now I feel like I have to."

  That idea hadn't even occurred to me. But I was curious, too. "Sure, that's no problem," I said. "I could take you now, if you know where it is."

  "I don't, dammit. I was hoping you would."

  I shook my head. "Just the general area."

  "Well, no big deal," she said. "I'll try to find out tomorrow." She smiled, but I could tell she was disappointed.

  "Let me try Madbird," I said. "He just might have a line on it." He possessed an astonishing amount of that kind of information, and if he didn't know something, he usually knew somebody who did.

  I went into the house and called him. He said he'd never been there, either, but his girlfriend, Hannah, had worked in that area.

  "She just come home, hang on." Half a minute later, he was back. "She ain't ever seen the cabin; it's in from the road. But she's driven by there plenty of times. When you want to go?"

  "Actually, now would be good."

  "Well, hell, let's call it a road trip," Madbird said. "We'll come by and get you."

  20

  Madbird and Hannah arrived about half an hour later in Hannah's ride, a late 1980s Dodge Ram that she'd bought used through her job. A lot of government rigs got beaten to death in the backcountry, but this one had stayed in good condition. She'd had it painted a deep metal-flake blue and redone the interior herself. It was a sharp ride, and held the four of us comfortably.

  Like Darcy, Hannah was a Blackfeet reservation girl, but a contrast to Darcy's brassiness and high visibility-petite, beautiful in a way that bypassed pretty, and possessing a sultriness the more powerful because it was contained. She was quiet but very tough-the proof of that being that she held her own with Madbird-and very smart. She'd made her way in the white world, going to college at Montana State, then advancing up the ranks in the Forest Service.

  It was just about an hour's drive to the Phosphor County line, and Hannah said Astrid's property wasn't far from there. Th
e landscape started feeling lonelier and wilder soon after we left Helena, and as the evening deepened, so did the sense of being at a dreamlike remove from everyday time and space. The road was narrow but mostly bare except for occasional sunless curves where patches of black ice lurked. Madbird was driving and spotting them was second nature to him, but they racked up a fair number of victims every year, usually unwary folks in SUVs who thought that going into four-wheel drive meant they were flying on a magic carpet.

  "Any word from Darcy?" I asked.

  "Nah, she'll still be pouting," Madbird said. "We figure just leave her alone for now. But that Fraker. You know what you told me about him being on that island and a woman drowned?"

  Renee gave me a curious glance. I hadn't mentioned any of this to her.

  "Yeah?" I said.

  "Hannah started asking around about him. Tell them, baby."

  Working in local government circles, Hannah was privy to a lot of gossip-a much richer source of information than the Internet.

  "People say he's always played around on his wife," she said. "It's an open secret. A couple of the women ended up afraid of him. I guess he can be a mean drunk."

  "Yeah, that fancy gin will do that to you," Madbird said with a humorless grin.

  I explained the circumstances quickly to Renee, and then the conversation moved on. But Hannah's news left an unsavory little residue.

  The last daylight was fading as we got to the town of Phosphor-with several hundred residents, the metropolis of a large area that was mostly rugged timberland. There probably weren't more than a couple thousand people in all of Phosphor County. The far-apart paved highways were narrow two-laners like the one we were on, and gravel roads tended to dead-end or loop back rather than go anywhere else. That eerie quality seemed concentrated here, fitting our purpose of visiting the site of a double homicide.