Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  “Right. He lives on a ranch out near a little town called Clarno on the John Day River. Been there for years. I popped over there yesterday and had a talk with him.”

  That cleared the cobwebs. “You did what? What the hell did you say to him?” I knew from experience that it was damn easy to scare off a witness or cause him to clam up.

  “Hey, no worries. I didn’t spook him. All I told him was that you wanted to talk to him about the disappearance of Nelson Queah. I didn’t get into any of it with him.”

  “That’s a lot, Philip.”

  “Jesus, Cal. I had to tell him something.”

  “Okay. So what did he say?”

  “Well, it took him a while to make up his mind, but he’s willing to see you. I got the impression this is a touchy subject for him.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Touchy?”

  “I don’t know. When I mentioned Queah’s name, it was like I hit a nerve. But he came around okay.”

  “Was he hard to find?”

  “Did Custer get his ass kicked? I had to cast a broad net. Apparently, he left the Yakama Rez when he got his payoff from the feds after the falls were flooded. Lives alone out on the John Day River. A real recluse.”

  “When can I see him?”

  “He said he’ll be around Friday. It’s a long drive out there for you, so I’d plan to get there early. That way you might catch him before he decides to go into town or something.”

  “Did you get a phone number?”

  “Didn’t see a phone in his place. Didn’t think to ask him.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to take my chances. I’ll try to get out there Friday. How far is it?”

  “From Dundee, oh, a hundred and seventy, eighty miles.”

  “Listen, Philip, I need another favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need you to try to find another person. His name’s Timothy Wiiks.” I spelled it for him. “He’s probably in his early seventies by now. His uncle was a Umatilla named Jacob Morning Owl. The uncle was killed in World War II.”

  “Wiiks isn’t exactly a Umatilla name.”

  “I know that. His mother was probably Morning Owl’s sister. His father was Scandinavian, by the sound of it.”

  “Hmm. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Giving up on any more sleep, I stumbled out of bed and took the back stairs down to the kitchen. Archie was right behind me, having just learned to navigate the steep stairs with big puppy paws he’d yet to grow into.

  I fed Arch, ground some coffee beans, and made my usual double cappuccino using the one appliance I brought with me in the move. I had left most of the furniture, too. A clean getaway. The night’s rain had let up, and the cloud-churned sky looked congealed, almost solid, the only evidence of the sun a yellow stain bleeding through in the east. A few birds fluttered at the feeder, the stout ones willing to brave the sodden air. I made a second cappuccino—my antidote for the rains—and padded down the hall to the study to check my e-mail.

  A message from Winona Cloud sat right on top. I’d left her a voicemail the day before suggesting we meet to discuss the letters. The note said she had a two-thirty meeting in McMinnville, and since she’d be driving right through Dundee to get there, she wondered if we could meet for lunch somewhere. I tapped back a quick reply suggesting the Brasserie Dundee, a little eatery north of town with great food.

  My fledgling, one-man law practice was struggling to take root. After all, I was an outsider in a small, agricultural community, and being from Los Angeles didn’t help my cause, either. That morning I did get a walk-in—an Hispanic man who wanted me to defend his son in juvenile court for shoplifting a pair of expensive cross-trainers at a shoe warehouse in Newberg. The only hitch was the dad was strapped for cash. He said he’d heard I had some acreage up in the hills and offered his son to work off the bill. I told him we could probably work something out.

  Taking barter was no way to get solidly into the black, but what was I going to do?

  At a little before twelve-thirty I parked behind the Brasserie and went in the back door of the place, a beautiful old Craftsman-style home converted to a restaurant and bar. The owner—a black woman named Bettie James—was the first friend I’d made in Dundee. Like me, she’d fled the stress of a big city—Seattle in her case—where she’d owned a successful, upscale restaurant. A handsome, big-boned woman, Bettie had a ready laugh, a keen intellect, and an ocean of compassion concealed behind a street-smart demeanor.

  I found her behind the bar. “How you been keepin’, Calvin?”

  “Good, Bettie. Yourself?”

  “Oh, can’t complain. Wouldn’t do me any good if I did.” A deep laugh and flash of white teeth. “How’s Claire doin’ down there in Beserk-ley?”

  I laughed. Bettie loved to tease me about Claire’s school and my alma mater. “She’s fine. Swamped with midterms at the moment.” We were still talking about Claire when Winona walked in. I introduced them and after some small talk, Bettie excused herself.

  Winona wore jeans, a turquoise silk blouse with a plain silver necklace, and a blue blazer. Her raven hair was pulled back, the long ponytail held with a silver clasp, and she carried a soft-sided leather briefcase.

  A striking woman, by any measure. I tried not to notice.

  First off, she asked about my fee, and I told her she owed me nothing at this point, and that I’d bill her at my attorney rate less twenty percent plus any expenses incurred going forward.

  Her eyes narrowed a bit. “Why the discount?”

  I shrugged. “This really isn’t legal work, more like investigation. If we get into some legal issues, I’ll adjust my fee. Sound fair?” She agreed and I told her I’d e-mail her a contract, which I’d forgotten to bring along. A paying customer!

  She placed a sheaf of notes from her briefcase on the table and took a pen from her coat pocket. “So, what do you think of the letters, Cal?” She was all business, and her expectant look worried me a bit, like I was supposed to pull a rabbit out of a hat or something.

  “Your grandfather was a good man. I can understand why you want to know what happened to him.”

  She smiled, but only briefly, and waited for me to continue.

  The waitress arrived. “The salade niçoise is great here,” I said. “That’s what I’m having.”

  “Fine. A salad’s good,” she answered with a curt nod to the waitress.

  I opened my folder and glanced down at the single page to-do list on top of the stack of letters. The list now seemed woefully inadequate given the apparent level of her interest. I decided to lead with the good news. “Philip located Sherman Watlamet already. He’s still alive. I can talk to him Friday if you give me the go-ahead.”

  Her face brightened, threatening to expose the dimples. “That’s good news, Cal. Yes, by all means, talk to him. Where is he?”

  “Out in the high desert on the John Day River. Lives alone on a ranch.”

  “You saw the references to him in the letters. He and Grandfather were not on good terms. Do you think he’ll talk to you?”

  “Good question. Maybe time has erased the hard feelings. People tend to open up as they get older, you know, to put things right. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “He must know more, Cal. He wouldn’t have lied like that about Grandfather unless he knew what really happened.”

  I nodded, although I still had my doubts. I cleared my throat. “Look, Winona, bear with me for a moment. I need to go back over some stuff.”

  She eyed me cautiously. “Okay.”

  “Did your grandfather have any history of drinking? Did you ever hear anything about that from your grandmother or anyone else?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she slowed the cadence of her speech. “I already told you. Sherman Watlamet was lying when he said he saw my grandfather drunk tha
t night.”

  I smiled to ease the tension. “I know what you told me. I just want to be sure.”

  Our lunch arrived at this point. After squeezing some lemon juice on her salad and forking a chunk of rare ahi tuna and a slice of egg, she answered. “Grandmother Tilda was very religious. She didn’t drink. Grandfather drank some, after all, he was an ex-Marine. But I never saw or heard of a problem. He was always a good provider.”

  “Good.” I paused for a moment and decided to risk the next question. “How likely would it have been for a Wasco man to take his life back in the fifties?”

  She laughed derisively, looked down at the green beans impaled on her fork, then back up at me. “Maybe some, but not Grandfather. That would have been a cowardly act, and he was no coward. He was raising my mother while Grandmother Tilda was in the hospital, for God’s sake. He never would have taken his own life. That would have left my mother with no one to care for her.” She paused, her eyes burning with something just short of anger.

  I held her gaze for a beat. “Sorry about the tough questions, but I don’t think you hired me to tell you what you want to hear. We’re after the truth, right?”

  “Right,” she answered, but her look told me she hadn’t ceded an inch of ground.

  I glanced down at my notes. “Uh, this white guy who tried to buy off your grandfather—Cecil Ferguson. Any thoughts on how to locate him?”

  She scrunched up her brow. “I know who you’re referring to, but no, Grandmother Tilda never spoke of anyone by that name. I wouldn’t know how to find him.”

  “What about Timothy Wiiks, the kid who discovered the theft at the dam? Any thoughts on him?”

  She frowned and shook her head.

  “I asked Philip to see if he could find him,” I said. “Wiiks’ mother’s a Umatilla. We’ll see what he comes up with.”

  “Great idea. Philip has such good contacts in the tribes.” Her look turned wistful. “I’m afraid I’ve been out of touch too long.”

  “Well, maybe this exercise we’re about to undertake will help bring you back.”

  She nodded, managing a smile. “Maybe so.”

  I went on to tell her I would also try to locate the newspaper man, Fletcher Dunn, and as we continued to compare notes in detail, I was disappointed to find that she hadn’t noticed anything or anyone that I hadn’t. That left me feeling even less optimistic about our chances.

  Winona had a different take. As we finished up she said, “I can’t help feeling encouraged by this, Cal. I just know that one of these people must have the key. Like you said, people want to make things right as they get older.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s early days.”

  After Winona left, I sat at the table sipping my coffee. I had to laugh when I thought about how she’d left—all cheery and optimistic, like I was going to clear this thing up tomorrow. I thought about my upcoming meeting with Sherman Watlamet. Did you really agree to drive a hundred and eighty miles to talk to this guy? I asked myself. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long drive for a short meeting.

  Chapter Seven

  In my book, the only decent reason for getting up before dawn is to fly-fish. But there I was, fumbling around with the coffee machine at four-thirty on Friday morning. Philip was right about an early start. I sure as hell didn’t want to miss Sherman Watlamet after driving all the way out there. But I had to admit I was looking forward to the drive to a part of Oregon I’d only read about. I would go through the Gorge again, this time well past Celilo Village, and then climb out into the high desert. Out there, the landscape was formed, not by the ice age torrents that carved the Gorge, but by millennia of erupting volcanoes that sculpted a sprawling, starkly beautiful landscape.

  Archie was in the backseat, a happy puppy. He loved to ride in the car, so I’d decided to take him with me, his first serious road trip. He was large for his breed, with a black coat trimmed in copper and white and big, expressive eyes that matched the coppery color of his trim. Not high strung like most Aussies, he was calm, inquisitive, and utterly undeterred by any obstacles he encountered. He had a way of winning people over, too—even folks who thought they didn’t like dogs.

  We were twenty miles into the Gorge when the sun ignited the horizon in gold and orange light filtered through a low bank of thin clouds. A profusion of sharply etched silhouettes emerged upriver—knife-edged cliffs, blunt headlands serrated with firs, and smooth, humpbacked peaks. In first light, the scene was a study in purple, with the distance of the shapes marked by the depth of their hues. The river materialized almost simultaneously as a smooth, rose colored band that ran through the center of it all.

  We exited the Gorge at Biggs and made a pit stop before heading south on Route 97. The sky had turned vivid blue and was featureless except for the blurred arcs of two crossing contrails. I smelled sagebrush and juniper as we sped through the high desert, slowing only for a couple of one-stop towns and one big coyote on the side of the road that set Archie off in a fit of barking.

  Just before Clarno I turned off the highway onto a dirt road that ran more or less parallel to the John Day River. A mile in I slowed down as I approached a thick line of junipers on my left, which, according to Philip’s directions, marked an intersecting road without a street sign. I was to turn there, toward the river. A pickup suddenly emerged from the shielded road, swung into the intersection, and blew by me in the direction I’d come from. Fearing it was Watlamet on his way out, I craned my neck to get a look at the driver, a man in a cowboy hat. As we passed each other, our eyes met for a moment before he turned away. “Too young,” I said, feeling relieved. I was sure he wasn’t the man I’d driven all this way to see.

  I took the left at the trees and a quarter mile further in saw a rusty mailbox marking a deeply rutted driveway, just as Philip had described it. The driveway led up a low knoll. I stopped at the top and took in the view of Watlamet’s place—a weathered, ranch-style house, a barn behind the house with an old tractor parked alongside, and pasture land behind the barn, where at least a dozen head of cattle were grazing. Two horses were corralled next to the barn, and a cherry red Toyota pickup sat in front of the house.

  I eased down the drive and parked well back from the truck so that I could be seen from the house. Philip had reminded me that it was bad manners to barge in on an Indian household unannounced. The proper etiquette was to wait outside several minutes, which I did before leaving Arch in the car with the windows partway down. The house was quiet, and no one answered the door, so I started around the house toward the barn.

  That’s when I saw him.

  He was slumped in an old rocker on the side porch, his chin resting on his chest, arms dangling at his sides. The back of his head was a dark red mass. I moved in for a better look. The wall directly behind his head was sprayed with bloody pulp, gray hair, and bits of bone. I said something out loud—I think it was, “My God!” My knees quaked, and my mouth filled with saliva as the coffee and cereal in my stomach threatened to come up.

  I took a deep breath, exhaled, and looked again at his head and at the deposit on the wall. Definitely not blunt trauma. I moved around him carefully, looking for a gun but saw none. Not a suicide, but a bullet for sure. High caliber, from the damage done. The round had entered about mid-forehead and judging from the blood still oozing from the cavity, I guessed the shooting happened no more than ten minutes earlier.

  I stepped back. This was a crime scene, and I didn’t want to disturb anything.

  I followed the probable trajectory of the bullet with my eyes to a stand of cottonwoods maybe seventy yards off toward the river. The shot probably came in from those trees. A moment later Archie began to whine and bark, the way he does when he’s heard something outside and wants to be let out. A spike of adrenaline shot through my body. I thought of the pickup that had passed me and the fact that I’d heard a car approaching out on the road just as I
got out of the car to knock on Watlamet’s door.

  Had the shooter circled back?

  Archie whined again, and every hair on my neck stood in unison. The house. Take cover in the house. I reached the side door just as two shots rang out. The door frame next to my head exploded. I fumbled with the doorknob, flung the door open, and dove into Watlamet’s dining room. Two more bullets hissed over my head, ripping into an interior wall. I hadn’t served in the military, but those shots taught me all I needed to know about combat. It was personal. Those rounds were meant for me.

  I rolled behind a wall below a window, aware now that Archie was still barking. “Archie, lay down, boy! Lay down now!” I yelled out, keeping my head down and hoping my dog would obey me. Another shot rang out, and I heard the distinctive crunch of auto glass, which shatters without disintegrating. The barking stopped.

  I couldn’t let myself think about what Archie’s silence meant and fought back the urge to go to him, which would have been suicide. Focus, I told myself. Watlamet’s a rancher. There must be a gun in this house. Find his goddamn gun! I glanced around. Nothing in the dining room. I started down a narrow hall to what I figured was a bedroom and nearly ran into it— a gun rack on the wall bearing several rifles and a shotgun. The rifles looked intimidating, because I didn’t know much about guns. The shotgun, an old double barrel breach loader, looked like one my grandfather had.

  I took the shotgun out, and after fumbling around with shaking fingers for what seemed an eternity, pushed a lever mounted between the stock and the barrels to snap open the breach. The shiny brass heads of two shotgun shells stared back at me—a welcome sight. I closed the breach and moved quickly to a side window in the living room just in time to see a figure dash from one stand of trees to another, closer in. My attacker was coming in for the kill. I punched the barrel through the glass and pointed it in his general direction.