Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  At eight the next morning I stood at my north fence line, a cup of coffee in hand. My house stood below me near the edge of the ridge. We’d had a pretty good blow in February, and I could see that some of the shingles on the roof had lifted. I wondered how much longer the old cedar roof would last and how much it would cost to replace. Behind me, my neighbor’s south pasture stretched up to her house, which was partially screened by a stand of Douglas firs. I saw Gertrude Johnson out by her barn and waved. To the east and west were large tracks of undeveloped land, thick with fir and cedar that ran up to my fences and were rendered nearly impenetrable by dense thickets of blackberry, silal, and poison oak.

  My phone chirped, and I dug it out of my jeans. “What’s up, Philip?”

  “He’s pigeon-toed.”

  “What?”

  “The sniper. I’m over at Watlamet’s ranch right now. I got to wondering about the scene out here, so I came over to have a look around. I figured the sheriffs might have missed something.”

  “Yeah. Go on.” He had my attention. Philip had mentioned in passing once that he was an expert tracker, a skill learned from his father and grandfather and one that was probably embedded in his DNA. The Paiutes, after all, were legendary Plains hunters. But it hadn’t occurred to me to ask him to examine the crime scene.

  “Anyway, I found the spot where I think he nailed Watlamet. A stand of cottonwoods. Some idiot had tromped all over the ground there, so I couldn’t tell much.”

  “Right. Grooms’ partner was looking for shell casings.” I waited for my friend to continue, knowing it was not wise to rush him.

  “There’s another stand closer in toward the house. Something happened there, too, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Same idiot.”

  “Yeah, that’s where he was when I shot back with the shotgun. I think he fired two more rounds at me from there.”

  “Okay, could’ve been. But here’s the deal—there was another spot further up the knoll. I figured he might have stopped at that spot, you know, to take cover on his way in.”

  There was a long pause. Finally I said, “And?”

  “There they were. A couple of nice boot prints right behind one of the trees where the ground was firm. Our boy’s as pigeon-toed as they come.”

  “How do you know the prints belong to the shooter?”

  Philip laughed. “Once I knew what to look for, it was easy to track him back to the road, where he parked his car. It was in some trees, maybe a half mile away. Then I doubled back and found his tracks between the two stands of trees. They were faint as hell but unmistakable. It’s gotta be him, Cal. Who else would have parked out there, walked into Watlamet’s property, and just happened to wind up where the shots were fired? By the way, I found some nice tire tracks, too.”

  “Nice work, Philip.”

  “Yeah, well, this guy needs to go down. What should I do now?”

  “Call Grooms and tell her what you’ve got. She talked to you, right?”

  “Yeah. She drove over yesterday. How much do you think that woman can bench press?”

  I had to chuckle. “More than you, for sure. This could be huge. They may be able to make molds from the boot and tire prints.”

  “Okay, I’ll call her right now. Is she going to be pissed I was nosing around in her sandbox?”

  “You didn’t cross any crime scene tape, did you?”

  “Nope. Didn’t see any.”

  “Then you’re good.”

  And that was a fact. My friend was good.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It wasn’t fear, but Philip’s call dredged up an acute feeling of vulnerability in me. He was right when he said I needed to assume the shooter knew who I was, and now the solitude of my sanctuary and the long, unobstructed views of the valley seemed more of a threat than a comfort.

  I walked through the vegetable garden, thick with winter weeds, down to the house and around to the side porch. The valley floor was suffused with early spring colors—soft greens, yellows, and ochres—but my eyes fixed on the bare, rocky cliff edge of the abandoned quarry in the foreground, directly below the ridgeline. Most of the quarry was beneath my line of sight, but I could see the top of the cliff, where decades ago miners had chased a sinking vein of blue basalt into the ground, forming a deep trough that ran along my property line. A lake choked with pea-green algae lay at the bottom of the trough. Left of center on the cliff edge was a single copse of scraggly cedars whose growth had been stunted by the rocky soil.

  No question, I decided. That’s the spot a sniper would pick, aided no doubt by a satellite image pulled off the Internet.

  I heard a beep inside the house, causing Archie to yelp and telling me someone had triggered the motion sensor at the front gate. This was the first day the young man accused of stealing the shoes was supposed to work for me. Archie led me around to the front of the house, just as the boy and his dad were getting out of their truck, a beat-up Chevy with a rough-running V-8 engine. I shuddered at the thought of gassing up that guzzler.

  The boy’s name was Santos Araya. His dad and I had agreed he would work five Saturdays, and that, combined with a hundred bucks, would cover my retainer fee. Archie gave Santos the once-over, and by the time his dad was pulling away, my dog was standing next to him, tail wagging in a gesture of acceptance. Santos was taken by Archie as well but struggled not to show it as he appraised me warily with dark, expressive eyes set in a face that was just beginning to know the scrape of a razor.

  He wore baggy jeans, battered sneakers, and a large black and red jersey with Blazers written across the front and the number 7 below the letters.

  I looked him over and said, “You a Brandon Roy fan?”

  He nodded.

  I smiled. “Me, too. You play?”

  He nodded again.

  We were standing in front of the garage, which had a backboard and hoop mounted above the door by the previous owner. I went into the garage, rummaged around, and finally came out with a basketball that belonged to Claire. It had made the move up from L.A., because my daughter and I had spent hours playing one on one, and I couldn’t bear to throw it out. It was dusty and low on air but still bounced reasonably well. I snapped Santos a crisp chest pass. “Let’s see what you got.”

  He stood holding the ball for a moment, trying to figure out if I was serious or not. Wasn’t he here to work? Finally he shrugged, dribbled tentatively a couple of times, and put up a soft shot that caromed out of the basket.

  I think he missed one other shot that day. When I backed away from him, he put the ball in the bottom of the net with the prettiest jump shot you’ve ever seen. If I came out to block it, he slipped around and laid it in like I was planted in the ground.

  Gasping for breath after an hour, I said, “Okay, Santos, I’ve taken enough punishment for one day. We’ve got to get some work done around here.” Then I pointed at him and said, “But next week I’m going to kick your butt.” He suppressed a smile and remained silent. I thought of my laconic friend, Philip.

  I helped him load the wheelbarrow with tools, took him out to the garden, and introduced him to the weeds. I was walking back down to the house to make another cup of coffee when the idea hit me. I veered off into the garage, grabbed a screwdriver, and headed up my long driveway toward the front gate. I unscrewed the bracket holding the cheap motion sensor I’d mounted on a fence post. It was concealed in a big rhododendron next to the gate, placed high to avoid being triggered by coyotes and skunks. Deer hadn’t been a problem, since they avoided my property because of Archie, who liked nothing better than to try herding them.

  I unscrewed the cap and checked the batteries. They were operable but badly corroded, so I went back to the house and replaced them. I called Santos down from the garden, poured him a glass of orange juice, and showed him the motion sensor. I then walked him down the hall and pointed out the wirel
ess receiver in the laundry room, explaining in simple terms how the whole thing worked. “I’m going to mount this motion sensor in those trees over there,” I said, pointing out at the quarry. I put my hand in front of the aperture and wagged it back and forth. “When something blocks the beam out there like this, it’ll cause the receiver to buzz.”

  He nodded, but his face registered confusion.

  “It’ll tell me when animals are over there, you know, like a deer or a fox. I like to watch them,” I said, answering the question I figured he wanted to ask. I saw a flicker of interest in his eyes, but he remained silent.

  “When I get over there, I’ll call the house phone on my cell. I want to know if the signal carries far enough to trigger the alarm. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I left Archie with Santos, loaded a backpack with some tools, and walked out to a trail that ran along the quarry property, parallel to the main road. A quarter of a mile down I turned into a narrow, rutted access road that was fenced on either side and led into the quarry. I scaled a locked gate blocking the entrance and picked my way through a field littered with rotting timbers and parts of an old rock-crusher to the edge of the pit and the twisted stand of trees I was interested in.

  I worked my way through the tangle of tree trunks, rocks, and dead branches. When I reached the edge of the cliff, my house burst into view, standing maybe a hundred unobstructed yards away. I looked down and instinctively stepped back. Fifty feet below me lay the putrid lake. Its bottom wasn’t visible and its steep, rocky sides had probably trapped its share of unwary animals.

  Crouching at the edge, I dialed my land line. “I’m going to test it now,” I told Santos. “Let me know if you hear the alarm.” I waited, then put my hand in front of the beam. I didn’t need him to tell me. I heard the high-pitched buzz over my phone.

  “Great,” I told him. “I’ll call you back as soon as I figure out where to put this thing.” The white plastic casing would be too visible attached to a tree. I opted, instead, to wedge it securely between two large rocks at the cliff edge, positioning it so that the beam would aim up and cut across the only clear access through the trees to a spot affording a clear view of my place. Then I arranged some smaller rocks and a dead branch to hide it. I stood back and appraised my work. “Not bad at all.”

  I backed out of the trees, called Santos back, and then followed the path a shooter would most likely take. The sensor was off to my right, essentially invisible. I heard another satisfying buzz when I crossed the path of the beam.

  “Damn,” I muttered, “this just might work.”

  I had just scrambled back over the locked gate when my cell chirped. “Mr. Claxton? This is Deputy Sheriff Grooms.”

  “Yes, Deputy Grooms. How are you?”

  “Well, I’ve been better. I’m down here at the Portland Police Bureau in Southeast. We were wonderin’ if you could come in for another interview.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “Cecil Ferguson’s dead. He was murdered in that retirement home last night. You were apparently the last one to see him alive.”

  I told Grooms I’d leave for Portland right away and punched off. I stood there for a while, rocked by the news. It felt like something was gathering momentum. Trouble is, I had no idea what it was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I explained the afternoon chores to Santos and left him out in the garden, hoe in hand, and when Archie started to follow me to the car, told him to stay, a command he was starting to understand. After hearing the news about Cecil Ferguson, I didn’t feel so foolish about rigging the alarm system over in the quarry. Somebody was taking witnesses off the board and like it or not, I was a witness.

  I decided not to call Winona until I knew more about what had happened to Ferguson. I was beginning to wonder just how far this thing would spread. Is it conceivable, I asked myself, that she’s in danger, too? I knew she didn’t know much about what the hell was going on, but was it safe to assume the murderer knew that as well?

  There was little traffic, and forty-five minutes later the Portland skyline loomed in front of me as I came out of the Terwilliger curves on I-5. A gondola from the city’s brand new aerial tram dangled over the freeway in front of me like a piece of silver fruit. I wondered what the tram cost and thought of kids in the city schools who were going without computers.

  I was learning the traffic patterns in Portland and took the Hawthorne Bridge to the east side instead of chancing I-84, which was frequently jammed like an L.A. freeway. I worked my way up to Burnside and found a parking space on SE Forty-sixth, pleasantly surprised by the lack of parking meters on the east side of the river. I spotted Grooms slumped in a chair halfway down a dimly light corridor. She smiled wearily and stood up as I cleared the metal detector.

  “Thanks for comin’ in, Mr. Claxton. You made good time.”

  “No problem, Deputy Grooms. Shame about Ferguson. He knew a lot more than he told me.”

  She looked at me with steel gray eyes. “Who’s next on your visit list?”

  I shook my head. “Yeah, I’m feeling like the angel of death here. Find anything that points to our boy with the cowboy hat?”

  Her smile let me know she wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t need to know. “Portland wants to talk to you first. This is their murder. When they finish, I want to tie up some loose ends with you. Come on, I’ll take you up there.”

  The two detectives who interviewed me were cranky and generally pissed off. A murder on a pleasant Sunday will do that to you. I went through the whole story with them in great detail. At one point Detective Adams, an old warhorse with thick, stubbly jowls and a florid complexion, said, “How did you get into the building to see Ferguson?

  “I waited ’til a couple was buzzed in and went in with them. There’s not much security there.”

  “You in the habit of sneaking into private buildings, Mr. Claxton?”

  I smiled. “No, of course not. It was just that Ferguson didn’t know me, and I figured it was my only shot at talking to him. You know, just show up at his door.”

  Adams glanced at his partner and back at me. “No. I don’t know. You were trespassing, Mr. Claxton.” His partner, a younger black man named Hamilton, shifted in his seat and nodded in agreement.

  “Mr. Ferguson invited me into his apartment.”

  “I was talking about the building, not his apartment,” Adams snapped back.

  I kept my mouth shut. Technically, he was right.

  “So, Ferguson proceeds to suggest he knows who killed the guy out in eastern Oregon—”

  “Who you also just happened to pop in on,” his partner, Hamilton, interjected, leaning forward in his chair.

  Adams warned him off with a look and continued, “Did Ferguson say how he talked to this party? In person? E-mail? By phone?”

  “Yes, like I said, he mentioned a pay phone.” Out of frustration I added, “Look, gentlemen, we’ve been over this already in great detail. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Adams nodded grudgingly. “And you’ve done all this investigative work on behalf of a client you’re going to make available to us to question.”

  “Right. No problem. I’ll pursue that as soon as we finish up here.”

  “Fine,” Adams replied.

  The two detectives left, and I stayed in the interview room waiting for Deputy Grooms. I didn’t enjoy it, but I wasn’t surprised at the hard grilling they’d given me. At this point I remembered the look in Winona’s eyes and her comment after I told her what Ferguson had said about her grandfather’s resting place. How much of a warrior was she? I didn’t know the answer, and I brushed away the thoughts the question conjured up.

  I spent another forty minutes giving a statement on tape to Grooms about my meeting with Ferguson. I tried to get her to reciprocate with some information on the murder, bu
t all she told me was that he was beaten to death that night after I left. I gathered that no one had heard or seen anything suspicious, and there were no surveillance cameras at the retirement home. At least I hadn’t seen any. When we finished, Grooms said, “Where does your client live?”

  “Here in Portland.”

  “Any chance you can get that person over here? It would save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “Right. I already told the Portland detectives I’d try to do that. Hang on.” I took out my cell phone and speed-dialed Winona. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message for her to call me.

  We decided to wait for a while. Grooms went out and brought back two cups of coffee. I blew on mine, took a sip, and looked at her over the cup. She had sturdy legs and surprisingly narrow hips that fanned into a thick upper body with well-muscled arms and broad, beefy shoulders. She moved with the kind of physical assurance top athletes have. I guessed softball. I could picture her hitting the cover off the ball or windmilling a fastball that rose a half foot before it got to the plate. Her face was round and fleshy with a small nose and large, full lips, but it was her steel-hard eyes that you remembered.

  “So, teaming up with Portland’s finest to solve interconnected cases, huh?”

  “Right.”

  “I couldn’t help notice you didn’t sit in on my interview.”

  “Wasn’t invited. Adams and what’s his face won’t give me the time of day. I might as well be from Afghanistan.”

  I wasn’t surprised. I knew from experience that expecting different law enforcement groups to cooperate was a stretch in the best of circumstances. And combining a couple of Portland male detectives with a deputy sheriff from Wasco County—and a female to boot—was hardly the best of circumstances. “Hmm. This can’t be good. I’m probably next in line to get hit. I’m hoping you folks will find this guy first.”