The Deadly River

by Jeff Noonan

  Lee grinned. “No. But I’m really curious as to whether there’s a deal to be made there. Is someone else involved or is Willy just the hapless idiot that he appears to be?”

  The sheriff stopped and turned an appraising stare on the youngster. “You know, I’m starting to think that you’re a lot sharper than I gave you credit for. I can’t answer that question except to say that there’s no reason that both answers couldn’t be in the affirmative. It’s always easy to get a hapless idiot to do things a smart person wouldn’t try. And it’s pretty hard to prove that there was anyone telling the idiot what to do when he did it.”

  It was Lee’s turn to search the sheriff’s face, trying to read between the lines. But the sheriff was impassive and Lee knew he would learn no more that day. He smiled and the two went through the courthouse door into the bright sunlight.

  By the time Lee was back in his cabin, it was too late to begin another hunt for the elusive lake. So he bought a newspaper and a Max Brand western from the general store and settled in for a relaxing afternoon at the cabin. The little front porch featured a wooden swing that, when padded with the cabin’s bedding, made a comfortable place to read and watch the world pass by.

  CHAPTER NINE: REVELATION

  It was almost eight o’clock when the evening chill woke Lee. He was still on the porch swing, with the novel half-read on his lap. Shaking his head, he laughed aloud at himself. I must’ve been really tired. Standing, he carried the bedding back inside, splashed his face, and made himself presentable. His stomach was telling him that it was dinner time. Once again, he crossed the highway and took a seat in the café.

  The café was crowded tonight. Several truck drivers were swapping road stories at the end of the counter. Some teenagers that Lee didn’t know were making a mess on a table in the corner opposite the truckers. The stool next to the cash register was empty, so Lee slid into it and found himself facing Betty. She gave him a big smile and a quick “Be right with you, Lee.” He nodded and began studying the menu. Soon she returned, brought him coffee and took his order.

  He was sipping the coffee and thinking about the plan for tomorrow when a voice at his elbow signaled the arrival of another acquaintances. “Hi Lee. What’s new with you?” It was Kurt Kochran, still dressed in the Levi’s and flannel shirt he’d been wearing on the river that day.

  “Hey Kurt. Good to see you. Nothing much new here. Had to meet with the County Attorney about that robbery, but that wasn’t particularly exciting. What’s new with you? How is the river float going?”

  “Not bad. We’ve worked our way down to just east of Big River. Tomorrow we’ll pass the mouth of Thunder Creek where the runoff from the International Match sawmill hits the river. I’m anxious to see the pollution readings we get there. So far, the reading have been even worse than we expected.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the heavy metal and chemical contamination was worse than we thought from the headwaters down to the conflux of the Clark Fork and Blackfoot Rivers, just east of Missoula. There’s a dam, the Milltown Dam, just below where the two rivers come together that’s been stopping a lot of the mine and sawmill waste behind it. We found out that the dirt behind the dam is very badly contaminated. In fact, it’s just a kind of greasy sludge down at least four feet into the river bottom. I don’t know how on earth anyone will ever be able to fix that place. There’s a massive area there that’s so badly contaminated that it must look like Hiroshima under the water - and it’s probably just as deadly.”

  He stopped to take a sip of coffee, then continued. “But the dam did stop a lot of the heavier contamination. Below the dam, we’re finding less heavy metal contamination, but about as much in the way of chemicals. Plus, we’re finding a tremendous amount of human waste contamination from Missoula on down the river. It gets really disgusting sometimes.” Kurt had let this all run out in a gusher of words. He was obviously disheartened by what he had found.

  “Wow.” Lee paused, thinking about this revelation. Then he continued, “I heard that there are even some outhouses built on piers over the river. Is that true?”

  “Not so much anymore. There were some a few years ago, but then we had a big spring flood and it took most of them out.” Kurt chuckled, “I guess the river got even with them.” Then he grew serious again. “But I did see one outhouse built on a big log raft just west of Missoula and I know of one on a pier in the area we’ll be looking at tomorrow. I heard that there’s another just west of Big River.”

  Kurt leaned back and took another noisy sip of his hot coffee. “What’s new with you? What’ve you been doing with yourself lately?”

  “I’ve just been hiking and seeing the sights. Just stopped for a good night’s rest and some food. Today’s visit with the County Attorney was about that robbery we had here. He’s getting ready to go to trial next month and I’m being called as a witness. I’ll have to be back for that. I’ll probably head back into the mountains again in the morning. Still doing that errand for my parents.”

  “Okay, Lee. My curiosity is killing me. What is this mysterious errand you are doing for them?”

  “Well, it’s going to sound silly. That’s why I don’t talk about it much.”

  “I promise not to laugh. What is it?”

  “Well, okay then. My Dad had a painting of a lake above his desk for the past few years. The title down in the corner of the painting was ‘Montana Mountain Lake’. Dad’s dream was to find that lake when he retired. He couldn’t make it happen, so I’m doing it for him. That’s why I’m crawling all over the mountains, but I haven’t had any luck yet.”

  “You’re talking about him in the past tense. I hate to ask, but is there a reason for that?”

  Lee’s face must have answered the question because Kurt’s next words tumbled out rapidly. “Sorry Lee. That was a stupid question and it’s none of my business.”

  Lee took a long breath. “No, Kurt. It’s okay. I’ve gotta start talking about it eventually. You’re right. He’s gone. He and my mother both went together. A car accident on a icy road last winter. I was a mess for a while, then I started looking for the lake. I guess the solitude has helped. But it’s still not something that I like to talk about.”

  Kurt’s voice was soft and thoughtful, “I understand.” The two men fell silent for a moment. Betty returned with Lee’s dinner and more coffee for them both. The interval while she took Kurt’s order was secretly a welcome reprieve for both men. This had turned into a difficult conversation.

  Ray Moore came into the café just then and took a seat beside Kurt. “Hi guys. How’s life? Kurt, where you working now?”

  “Hitting the mouth of Thunder Creek tomorrow. Plan to spend most of the day there, just to be sure I don’t miss anything.”

  Ray agreed with this. “Yeah. Don’t let that big mill up Thunder Creek off the hook. They can afford to fix the problems they cause.” Then, leaning past Kurt, he asked Lee, “How did it go with Warthen today? Anything new there?”

  “Nope. Pretty much the same things that you had told me. But he did make you a point of contact for me. If they need to get me for any reason, the sheriff will call you. I’ll check in regularly with you to see if there’s any messages. I hope that’s okay with you?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  But Kurt wasn’t through with their previous discussion. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, he came back to it by asking Lee, “Did you bring the painting of the lake with you?”

  “Yes. Believe it or not, I did. I also took a bunch of pictures of it that I carry with me.”

  Now Ray was curious. “What lake?”

  Lee’s mouth was full, so Kurt took it on himself to explain the story of the lake to Ray. When he got to the fact that Lee’s parents had died in the car wreck, Ray couldn’t contain himself. “Holy crap, Lee. Is that why you left the university?” Lee just nodded. His eyes had filled as he’d listened to Kurt tell his story. He couldn’t trust himself to spea
k right then.

  The men saw Lee’s plight and took mercy. They talked between themselves about the thousands of lakes in the Montana mountains and how finding one specific lake could be almost an impossible mission.

  Lee quietly wiped his overflowing eyes and composed himself. When he was able, he took a bite of his dinner. Kurt took this as a signal to return to the conversation. “Can we see one of the pictures? We might be able to help. We’ve visited a lot of the lakes that have good trout in them. Maybe we can help.”

  “Sure.” Lee took a lake photo out of his shirt pocket and passed it to them. Kurt just looked at it, shook his head and passed it on to Ray. The reaction was instantaneous. Ray gasped, actually sucking in a gulp of air noisily. Then he softly, almost reverently, let out a very elongated word. “Sheeeiiiiit! I don’t believe this.” He was staring fixedly at the picture.

  Lee couldn’t contain himself. “What is it Ray? Do you know that place?” He was so excited that he was almost stammering.

  Ray held up the picture, pointing at the little cabin at the end of the lake. “That was my Dad - I mean my Uncle’s - work cabin. He worked a mine behind it. The lake is Flynn Lake.” He stopped, overcome. He, in turn, now had tears in his eyes. “The painting was done by my mother, Hilda Moore. She sold it to a tourist a few years back.” He stopped, still staring at the photograph, unable to say more.

  Lee was speechless. His long quest was almost over.

  Ray cleared his throat noisily. “Come over here tomorrow morning at about eleven. I’ll clear out my work before then so I can take you to the lake.” He got up and walked out before either Lee or Kurt could say anything. He was scrubbing furiously at his wet eyes as he left the café. Lee had the same problem. Kurt was, for once, speechless.

  CHAPTER TEN: FAREWELL

  Sleep wouldn’t come to Lee that night. Thoughts flew through his head, each one more fascinating than the last. Suddenly he was realizing that he didn’t have any plans for the rest of his life. He’d been so solidly focused on finding the lake that everything else had been swept aside. Now his thoughts turned to his future and he discovered he had a dilemma. He had no desire to go back to Pennsylvania, nor did he want to return to the university. But he knew that his days of roaming the mountains had come to an end. Tossing and turning, he fought with himself over this problem until dawn. Even though he spent an hour puttering with his gear and his car, he was at the café for breakfast three hours before his scheduled rendezvous with Ray Moore.

  Finally, the time arrived. Ray walked into the café, his voice booming, “You ready, Lee?” His voice gave no hint of the tearful person that had so hastily exited the café the evening before. Ray had obviously composed himself. Lee hoped he could do the same.

  “Yup. Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. Want to take my car?”

  “No. Let’s take my truck. I want to bring down some things from the cabin anyway and this is a good chance to do that, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. No problem.” The two left the café and prepared to climb into Ray’s pickup. But first, Ray went to the passenger side and reaching in, removed a rifle. Lee noticed it was a Model 94 Winchester carbine, much like one that his father had used to teach him to shoot years ago. Ray removed it from the front seat where it had been resting and slid it onto a blanket behind the passenger seat. “I always bring Old Betsy along when I head into the woods. You never know when you might run into a coyote or a cougar.”

  Lee was puzzled. “Why? Are they dangerous?”

  “Only to chickens and livestock. We make sure there aren’t too many of them around here.

  “That makes sense, I guess.” Lee climbed into the passenger seat and Ray started the big pickup.

  The trip was uneventful. The men exchanged small talk and compared notes on the painting and the lake. Lee learned that Ray’s Uncle Wayne, who had passed away two years before this, had worked the mining claim that included the little lake from the painting. Ray had inherited the claim, but had only visited occasionally, usually to go fishing or hunting. Ray’s mother, Hilda, had lived about halfway between St. Dubois and the lake, in a little town named Dublin. When her brother, Wayne, died, she sold her home and moved south to Arizona to escape the harsh Montana winters. She was fast becoming a well-known local artist in her new home.

  As the two passed through Dublin, Ray pointed out the old grocery store, the boarded-up bar, the home where he had been raised, and the still-occupied home of Dawn’s parents. Only a few people were still living in Dublin, since the closing of a local railroad had turned it into a virtual ghost town. Lee thought it was sad to see something like this. He couldn’t help but to think about the dreams that people had once harbored in this place. Dreams that had led them to build the little homes with their still-fenced, but long overgrown garden plots. Dreams that were now long-lost along with the crumbling homes that had housed them.

  It didn’t take long to get through Dublin and soon Ray turned off onto a one-lane dirt road that led west toward the huge mountains along the border between Montana and Idaho. The pickup labored as it climbed, navigating the twists and turns of the road. They were following a small stream named Little Joe Creek. According to Ray, the name had something to do with the fact that the larger St. Joe River traversed a mirror-image path through the Idaho mountains on the other side of this wilderness.

  After a few miles, the road became rougher as it ran through narrow gulches and ravines, still following the creek. Now the pines had given way to magnificent stands of cedar trees that rose to incredible heights above them. The cedars were so thick that there was a perpetual twilight at their base, where the ground appeared moist and was blanketed with ferns. It was a unique and beautiful sight, but in the semi-darkness it seemed eerie, almost otherworldly, to Lee.

  “Ray, in all my wanderings, I’ve never seen a forest like this. It’s beautiful, but I can’t help but think that Edgar Allan Poe would have loved it.”

  Ray chuckled. “Yeah. This is kinda unique. That’s why some of us fought so hard to keep it alive.” He went on to describe the battle he and Kurt Kochran had done to save the cedar forest from the loggers. By the time he had finished the story, the pickup had emerged from the cedar-filled ravines and had taken a turnoff to the west. Now they were traversing across a bald hillside where the road turned to parallel the side of the mountain. Before long, the bald hill gave way to another pine forest and the road made a gradual turn to the left and took them up toward the crest of the mountain. After climbing about a quarter of a mile, they came over the crest and the road leveled out. They moved slowly ahead, through a fir and pine forest. A few hundred feet into this forest, the pickup suddenly tilted downward as they came to the other side of the hill they had been on. Ray stopped the pickup.

  They were parked at a wide spot in the road. Beside them was a cairn of rocks topped with a well-maintained white cross. Through the trees, Lee could see deep blue water. He looked questioningly at Ray.

  Ray gestured toward the glimpse of blue, “That’s it, partner.” He put the pickup back in gear and headed toward the distant lake.

  Lee watched excitedly as the trees opened before them and the water became more and more visible. He soon saw the cabin off to his right and realized that they were coming toward the lake from what had been the right side of the painting. The spot where the artist had been when she had done the painting was somewhere off to his left.

  He realized that he was leaning forward so far that his forehead was almost resting against the windshield. Glancing over, he realized that Ray was watching him with a smile creasing his rugged features. Lee laughed self-consciously and forced himself to sit back in the seat. Soon the pickup stopped in front of the cabin.

  Ray got out first, saying, “I have to load up some stuff that I want to take home. Why don’t you take a walk and see the sights? There’s a path that goes around the lake. I’m not in a hurry, so take your time.” Lee just nodded.

  At first, Lee h
ad been excited. But now that they had arrived and the elusive lake was finally in front of him, the excitement seemed to fade. Moving as if he was in a trance, Lee got out of the pickup and started up the path toward where he knew the painter had done her work. His head and eyes scanned the area repeatedly as if he was memorizing every rock and tree. But, in truth, nothing was really registering. It seemed like he was moving in a dream.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it. He’d anticipated this moment for months and had expected excitement and some kind of profound emotion. But it wasn’t there. He felt dead inside. It was just another lake.

  The trees are bigger than they were in the painting, he thought, in an attempt to arouse his inner self. But that meant nothing to the zombie he’d become. He continued walking down the little fishing path, trying to understand why he felt this way. Mentally he began cursing himself. Why had he wasted six long months on this if it meant nothing? Why didn’t it mean anything? Had he become so calloused that an event like this was just another day? What in hell was wrong with him?

  Soon he rounded the far end of the little lake and found himself on a small hill that projected slightly into the lake. He knew that this was the place from which Ray’s mother, Hilda had created the painting. The view was exactly as the picture had shown. He sat on a large rock, lost in thought, studying the scene around him.

  As he sat, lost in thought, a huge golden eagle circled above him and came to rest on a tree about a hundred feet up the lake from him. He watched it idly, thinking that if he sat still he might be able to see it catch a fish. But it just sat on the branch, almost as if it was watching him.

  It was a magnificent bird. His mother would have appreciated it, he thought. She’d had a thing for this particular kind of bird, having seen them in various zoos. She’d always argued with his father that the golden eagle was far more beautiful than the nasty old bald eagle and it should be our national bird. His father, the traditionalist, had always stoutly defended the maligned bald eagle. It had been a playful argument that Lee remembered hearing at least a dozen times while he was growing up. He smiled at the memory and continued returning the golden eagles haughty stare.