Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  I scraped the now-chopped garlic and onions into a skillet of hot olive oil that spattered and sizzled. “What was your take on Watlamet when you met him?”

  Philip stroked his chin and thought for a moment. “Like I said, the guy’s a loner, or was a loner. Some of the people I talked to used the term ‘apple.’ You know, red on the outside, white on the inside. I was a little surprised by his spread. He was living above the poverty line, for sure.”

  I nodded as I added some wine and dill to the skillet. I was pretty sure that’s what my wife put in the sauté. Then I added the pasta to the big pot of water, which was now at a roiling boil. “You said he seemed a little reluctant at first—”

  “Yeah. When I mentioned Nelson Queah he seemed to react, you know, his eyes kind of flared. But then he nodded and said something like, “Yes, I will talk to this friend of yours.”

  I crumbled the smoked salmon into the sauté, and then I remembered the secret ingredient—lemon zest. Luckily, there was a lonely lemon in the fridge, so after adding some chopped lemon peel, lemon juice, salt, and pepper, I let the whole thing simmer while the pasta cooked.

  We went back over everyone Philip had talked to about Sherman Watlamet one more time, but nothing else of interest surfaced. By this time, the pasta was ready. I drained it, put it back in the pot, and dumped in the sauce. “Got any parmesan cheese?” Philip found a small hunk, which I grated and added to the pot. All that remained was tasting my masterpiece and announcing that dinner was ready.

  Philip opened a cheap cab and poured two glasses. We both ate hungrily and silently for several minutes. He said, “This is great, man. I didn’t know you could cook like this.”

  “I didn’t either. I got tired of eating crap food, so I’ve been dabbling in the kitchen. Sometimes a recipe just comes back to me. I guess I’d paid more attention to my wife’s cooking than I realized. I exhaled a breath. “She was a great cook. To her, food was the glue that held our family together. Of course, it really wasn’t. She was the glue.” I felt a surge of emotion and caught myself. “Anyway, I’m getting better at cooking, I think.”

  “For sure,” Philip said as he piled on a second helping.

  Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Philip changed the subject. “What’s the deal with this sketch you helped make? Will it be in the papers?”

  “Uh, it’ll circulate through the law enforcement systems for sure. I don’t know about the papers.”

  “Hmm. So, what’re you going do to protect yourself from this guy?”

  I shrugged. “Any suggestions?”

  “I think you have to assume the shooter knows who you are. So, don’t make yourself a target. Stay away from the windows at your place, keep the blinds drawn, that sort of thing.”

  I nodded and frowned. The thought of having to skulk around at my own place was disquieting.

  “You have a weapon at home?”

  “Nope.”

  My friend shot me an incredulous look. “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “Never felt compelled to own one. In my last job I became familiar with what a bullet can do to a human body. Too familiar.”

  He cranked his brows down and shook his head. “That’s the whole idea, Cal. I’ve got a .357 Magnum I can loan you.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I knew I probably should take the gun, but at the time the threat to me personally still seemed pretty abstract.

  After we finished eating, I asked to use Philip’s computer to see what I could learn from the numbers I’d taken off Watlamet’s phone. I reminded Philip that Grooms was probably going to contact him, and when she did, he wasn’t to mention I had the numbers. Cops get pissy about people messing around in their crime scenes, I told him.

  I pulled up the reverse phone number directory and punched in the first of the three outgoing numbers I’d jotted down. It corresponded to a Methodist Church in Shaniko, the nearest meaningful town from Watlamet’s ranch. The second number was the residence of a minister named Aldus Hinkley in Shaniko, and the third was the Rose City Senior Living Center in Portland.

  Looking on over my shoulder, Philip said, “What do you make of that?”

  “Not much.” I checked the dates of the calls again. “But it’s interesting that Watlamet seemed anxious to talk to the reverend at a church in Shaniko after you talked to him about me. Maybe I’ll drop by there tomorrow on my way home and see what I can find out.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. It’s not too far out of your way.”

  I tried the numbers of the two incoming calls next. The first belonged to a doctor’s office in Shaniko and the second to a veterinarian in Fossil, a larger town north of Clarno.

  We went back in the kitchen and poured some more wine. Philip said, “What about Winona. Have you talked to her since the shooting?”

  I scratched my head and frowned. “Nah. Not yet. I guess I’m just putting it off. It’s bad news for her. The last person to see her grandfather alive is dead now.” I retrieved her card from my wallet and called her. When she didn’t answer, I left a message to call me but gave no details.

  Philip eyed me appraisingly. “I know you’ve had a couple of meetings with her, but you haven’t told me much about them. She’s quite a woman, huh?”

  I kept a poker face. I didn’t want to encourage Philip to do me favors when it came to women. I wasn’t looking for that kind of help. “She’s been all business when I’ve talked to her. Are you two really related?”

  “Well, we didn’t hang out together as kids. I think she’s a second cousin, once removed.”

  “She seems pretty private. What’s she really like?”

  Philip shrugged. “From what I hear she’s, uh, complicated. Married some Klickitat from over in Washington, a political activist. That didn’t work. Lives alone in Portland now.”

  “What’s complicated about that?”

  Philip smiled and shook his head. You know, the same old story—she’s conflicted, caught between two cultures, all that bullshit. And she probably feels a ton of pressure because of the expectations, Stanford PhD and all.”

  I thought of Philip. Half white, half Indian. He was caught in the middle, too. “Sounds familiar.”

  Philip looked at me and laughed. “She’s got it worse than me, man, a lot worse. Nobody expects me to change the world. For me, it’s simple. Live in the moment. Screw the rest. That’s how to survive.”

  “Words to live by,” I said and instantly regretted it.

  My friend looked at me again and held my eyes with an impatient, almost scolding look. “You’re like her, Cal. Complicated. I know that what happened down in L.A. was bad. I’m not saying it wasn’t. But at some point, you need to shrug it off and get on with your life.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” but inside I was screaming, shrug it off? How could I possibly shrug it off?

  I was utterly exhausted and turned in early that night, but sleep didn’t come quickly. I lay there in the dark listening to Archie breathe and thinking about what had happened—Watlamet’s rag-doll body, his shattered skull, those incoming rounds with my name on them, and the question of whether I was now the target of some maniac sniper.

  Fragments of that scene spiraled in my head like debris in a tornado. It was a feeling I’d experienced once before, and I manned the firewall separating me from those old memories with all my strength.

  I finally fell into a fitful sleep, which was, thank God, dreamless.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning Archie and I sat in the car across the street from the Shaniko Methodist Church waiting for someone to show up. A modest, single-story structure sided with board and batten hewn from old growth firs, it looked at least a hundred years old. The sign out on the highway told me the population of Shaniko was four hundred sixty-nine, but right now, at eight-forty, it looked more like five or six, max. I sipped a cup of
black coffee I’d bought at a little diner just outside town. The coffee was better than I expected, which boded well for the rest of the day. I’m off my game without a decent cup or two in the morning.

  At eight-fifty a dusty green pickup pulled into the church parking lot. A big man with a mashed potatoes and gravy waistline got out. He wore dark slacks, a faded cowboy shirt and freshly polished boots. I told Arch to stay put and intercepted him as he was unlocking the back door.

  “Excuse me. Are you Reverend Hinkley, by any chance?”

  He looked around at me and smiled without any effort. “In the flesh. What can I do for you?” He had combed-over, black, thinning hair and a lopsided nose that made me wonder if he’d ever boxed. His eyes were a soft brown, his gaze disarmingly friendly.

  I offered my hand. “My name’s Cal Claxton. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Sherman Watlamet.”

  His face clouded over. “Is Sherman a friend of yours?”

  “No, Reverend. I take it you heard what happened yesterday.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I have. It’s all over town.”

  “I was the one who found him. I’d driven out to his ranch to talk to him.”

  He shook his head and looked at me in bewilderment. “My Lord, what a terrible thing. Who would shoot a kind man like that? Our whole congregation’s in shock.” He paused for a moment and appraised me. “Are you with the Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Claxton?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m an attorney.” I handed him a card. “Could we talk for a few minutes?”

  Reverend Hinkley’s office was a small cubicle cluttered with books and papers. There was a single picture on the wall of Jesus praying in the Garden, light streaming down from the heavens onto his upturned face. One of the books on his credenza was Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, and I wondered whether the Reverend had an open mind or was preparing to tell the local library to remove the book from its shelves.

  He offered me a seat. I said, “I have a client who has asked me to look into the disappearance of her grandfather, a Wasco Indian named Nelson Queah. Mr. Watlamet and Mr. Queah were seen together the day of the disappearance. I’d gone out to Watlamet’s ranch to talk to him about this. That’s when I discovered his body.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “That must have been horrible for you. I understand he was shot from long range with a rifle.”

  “It was a high caliber weapon, for sure.”

  He nodded in my direction. “I see you’re injured.” He wasn’t probing like a gossip or voyeur. There was genuine concern in his eyes.

  I shifted in my seat. “Yeah, the killer shot at me but missed. I took some splinters when the bullets hit the house. I’m fine.”

  His eyes got larger. “Dear God. Something happens like that must make you wonder about mankind.”

  There was an invitation in the statement. I almost dumped the feelings that the shooting had stirred up in me but caught myself. I was here to get information from the Reverend, not the other way around. “Well, I was a district attorney for the city of Los Angeles for many years, so I’ve seen a lot, Reverend. But, in all honesty, you never get used to something like this.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Claxton. I’m sure you don’t.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m wondering if Mr. Watlamet happened to say anything about the disappearance of Nelson Queah to you or anyone else in the church?”

  The wariness returned to his eyes. “Are the shooting and this disappearance related?”

  “I have no reason to believe that’s the case. The disappearance happened quite a while ago.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask how long. The answer might cause him to doubt my sanity.

  He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together on his belly, and looked straight into my eyes. “Mr. Claxton, words are often spoken to me in confidence.”

  “I know, Reverend. And I respect that. It’s just that Mr. Queah’s granddaughter cares deeply about him, and she’s been suffering in his absence. Mr. Watlamet was one of the last persons to see him alive.”

  He kept his eyes on me. They had softened again. “I see. Are you a religious man, Mr. Claxton?”

  As a lapsed agnostic, I was afraid the conversation might veer in this direction. I stroked my mustache with my thumb and forefinger to buy a little time. “Uh, not in the conventional sense, Reverend. I sometimes feel spiritual when I’m out in nature. When I’m fly fishing, mostly.”

  Smile lines sprang from the corners of his eyes. “Christ is in all things, especially nature, don’t you think?”

  I wasn’t sure I could put a name on it, but I nodded in agreement.

  “Where do you fish?”

  “Oh, I’m just a beginner, but I like the Deschutes. That’s my favorite river.”

  “It’s a great river. The salmon fly hatch’s superb, and the winter steelhead, oh my. I love the John Day, too. Can’t beat the smallmouth bass there.”

  I smiled and nodded in agreement. “Haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve heard that.”

  Reverend Hinkley’s smile was now a broad grin. “You know, last July we had a trip on the Day you wouldn’t believe. A big mayfly hatch brought every smallie in the river to the surface. Lordy. You should have seen it, Mr. Claxton. The river was boiling.” He leaned back in his chair, and a laugh roared from his chest like a thunderclap.

  He went on to tell me about the trip, which led into a lengthy exchange of fly fishing stories, mainly from his end. It was a relief to think about something other than bloody murder, and to tell the truth I almost forgot why I’d come to see the Reverend, whom I learned was an uncommonly good fly fisherman. No user of foam poppers and treble-hook spinners, the good reverend fished the right way—using dry flies that float on the surface.

  The fact that I was a fly fisherman must have compensated for my shaky religious underpinnings, because when I finally steered the conversation back to the subject of Sherman Watlamet, Reverend Hinkley leaned forward and said, “You know, Mr. Claxton, what Sherman told me the other night is confidential. But since he’s now in the Lord’s hands and since you’re an honorable man, I’m going to share some of what he said to me.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. I’ll treat the information with great discretion.”

  “Sherman joined our church a couple of years ago. He’s been a blessing. Our only Native American.” He gazed down at the blotter on his desk for a few moments and then chuckled. “You know, there’s nothing like the passion of the newly converted, Mr. Claxton. Sherman was no exception. He loved Jesus with all his heart.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure he did.”

  “A couple of nights ago he called me and said he wanted to come by to talk about something important. About setting something right, I think is the way he said it.”

  A small current of excitement went down my spine. I nodded but kept quiet, fearing if I said anything I might break the spell.

  “His soul was in great torment. Said he’d done things that were wrong, that he was ashamed of. Said he wanted to get it off his chest.” The Reverend closed his eyes and shook his head at the memory of it. “He wanted to know if it was right to tell the truth, even if it hurt someone, a friend.”

  “Couldn’t the truth hurt him as well?”

  Reverend Hinkley smiled. “He didn’t care about himself, Mr. Claxton. When you have the fire of the Lord in your heart, you’re fearless. I told him the Lord spoke only the truth, and if he wanted to be like Jesus, he would have to do the same thing, no matter what the consequences.” Reverend Hinkley’s eyes brightened with a film of moisture. “He cried when I said this. I told him to talk to his friend. To ask his forgiveness.”

  “Did he mention any names, Reverend?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “He didn’t mention anyone named Queah. He was worried the truth might hurt a man named Cecil. Cecil was an old fr
iend of his.”

  “Cecil?” I recognized that name. “Did he mention a last name?”

  The Reverend paused for a moment and wrinkled his forehead. “No. I don’t believe he did, Mr. Claxton. All I remember is the name Cecil.”

  “Did he tell you what it was he wanted to set right?”

  “No. I’m afraid he didn’t. All he said was the passing of a man’s wife got him thinking, a man he had wronged in the past. I didn’t probe.” Then he paused again and met my eyes. “This could have something to do with Sherman’s death, couldn’t it, Mr. Claxton?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Reverend. But I think you should consider passing this information along to the Sheriff’s Department. They may contact you, but if they don’t, I’d call Deputy Grooms, and tell her what you just told me.” I wrote the name down for him.

  ***

  Frampton? Farmer? What the hell was Cecil’s last name? Archie and I were back on the highway, heading north toward I-84. Out on the horizon, white clouds scudded east to west like a thawing ice floe. I figured the wind was up in the Gorge, and hoped it wouldn’t rain now that I was missing a back window. I couldn’t for the life of me remember the last name of the Cecil mentioned in Nelson Queah’s letters—the guy who had offered him a job if he would stop protesting against construction of the dam. I thought about calling Winona when it came to me—Ferguson. That was it—Cecil Ferguson.

  I pulled off the road and let Archie out to stretch his legs. An eighteen wheeler whooshed by, and my dog instinctively moved away from the highway. We walked a few yards into the sage brush, and I dialed one of the numbers I retrieved off Watlamet’s phone. A female receptionist answered at the Rose City Senior Living Center. “Uh, this is Jim Smith from Fed Ex,” I said. “I’ve got a package here for a Cecil Ferguson. Just checking to make sure I’ve got the right address.”

  “Yes,” she answered brightly, “he’s one of our residents.”