Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  But I needn’t have worried that I opened the door to questions from Dunn. He said, “Well, somehow, I don’t think that qualifies you to judge me. Spare me the pop psychology, okay?” With that, he spun his chair around and began furiously tapping on his keyboard.

  Talking to his back, I apologized for my remarks, thanked him for the information, and slunk out of there like a kid who’d been expelled from school.

  Nice work, Claxton, I told myself as I pulled away. Fletcher Dunn’s a walking history book, and you manage to insult him. You can kiss off getting any more help from this guy.

  But Dunn was wrong to think I didn’t know anything about survivor’s guilt. I was drowning in it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Getting chewed out by a drunk shouldn’t be grounds for introspection, but when I left Fletcher Dunn’s place, that’s exactly what I found myself doing. I couldn’t figure out why I was so stung by his tongue lashing. Could it be that his reaction reminded me of my behavior? How many times had I cut off Philip and Claire when their advice hit too close to home? Too many to count. Was I protecting my guilt and shame just like he seemed to be doing? Perhaps. How else could one assure the punishment continues unabated?

  These insights demanded more thought, but I found it easy to push them back. Flush with new information and not that far from where Winona worked, I called to see if I could catch her. She told me to stop by, and she would squeeze me in.

  The waiting room at Pacific Salmon Watch was empty, and the receptionist said Dr. Cloud was expecting me. Winona’s hair was pulled back, and a piece of uncut turquoise hung on a slender silver chain against a black cotton blouse. The color of the stone brought out the hint of green in her hazel eyes. But she looked distracted and had a half moon below each eye a shade darker than her mahogany-tinted skin.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She managed a weak smile. “Trying to cope without a computer’s no fun. I told everyone here my computer crashed. I’m kind of embarrassed about last night.”

  “You shouldn’t be, and don’t worry. I doubt anything will get out before this is all resolved,” I said, trying to convey more conviction than I felt.

  Another weak smile. “I hope so. What’s up?”

  “I just finished talking to the reporter, Fletcher Dunn. It was pretty interesting.”

  I began sketching in the key points of my conversation, and when I told her about Ferguson working for Braxton Gage, her eyes flashed. “Could Gage be trying to cover something up?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s certainly a possibility. Your grandfather definitely called Fletcher Dunn and set up a meeting to talk about the theft that was going on at the dam. Dunn confirmed that. And he drove out to the village from Portland the day after the flood, but your grandfather wasn’t home. He’d already disappeared.” The muscles in Winona’s face tensed noticeably. I said, “Do you know anything about this guy, Gage?”

  “He’s the darling of the extreme right in this state. You know, the folks who swear global warming’s a hoax, old growth forests need to be clear cut, and salmon are a nuisance.” She made a face. “You get the picture. He bankrolled a string of right wing candidates over the years, but hardly any of them got elected, so he started playing with ballot initiatives, capping tax rates, mandating prison sentences, that sort of thing. He’s made himself felt.”

  I nodded. “Do you know Royce Townsend?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “He’s at the other end of the spectrum, on the good side of environmental and global warming issues. He’s got money, too, and donates to a lot of nonprofits, including my employer, Pacific Salmon Watch. That’s how I met Jason, through his father, at a fundraiser.”

  “Did you know Royce managed The Dalles Dam project back in the fifties?”

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” I took her through what Dunn had told me about the elder Townsend and then said, “How does Royce feel about dam removal?”

  She shrugged. “I assume he’s supportive.” Then the irony hit her, and she raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my. The son wants to tear down what the father built.”

  I nodded. “It was a long time ago. Attitudes change.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She glanced at her watch. “Uh, I’m getting a little tight on time, Cal. What’s the next step?”

  I stood up to leave. “I’m going to let Grooms and the Portland cops know what Fletcher Dunn told me. Let them work it from their angle. Meanwhile, Philip’s still looking for Timothy Wiiks, the only other witness we have. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  When I got in my car, I sat there thinking for a while. Sure, Ferguson worked for Gage, but then again, as a contractor at the dam Gage worked for Townsend. That fact got glossed over in our conversation. If somebody put Ferguson up to killing Nelson Queah, then Townsend was as good a suspect as Gage. I fished the card Jason Townsend had given me from my wallet and called him. I caught him on the road—I could hear traffic noises—and told him I’d be delighted to join his volunteer staff, an offer he enthusiastically accepted. As I pulled away in my dusty Beemer, a shiny new Prius cruised in to take my slot. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a familiar profile. It was Jason Townsend. He hadn’t recognized me, intent as he was on not being late to pick up Winona Cloud.

  ***

  That night I read until well past midnight, then slipped into a fitful sleep. At first I thought the short, high-pitched sound that woke me came from the phone. I sat up, snapped on the light, and started to answer it. But the sound didn’t repeat. And it wasn’t the phone.

  I heard the noise again and realized it was the alarm down in the laundry room. I snapped off the light and rolled out of bed.

  No red-tailed hawk this time, not in total darkness. An owl, maybe? A possibility. But I had a feeling it wasn’t an avian creature that had tripped the alarm this time.

  In any case, I’d planned for this, and now I was going to check it out.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Jake

  Two and a half days lying around that hell-hole of a campsite really sucked. But finally the text came through—“loose end” had a name and an address. It was now up to Jake to finish the task. Clean up your mess, he was told. Don’t disappoint the Old Man this time.

  It felt good to have a job, to know what you had to do. Even a nasty job needs doing. Get in, get it done, get the hell out. That’s the way he worked. But at the same time Jake felt like he was carrying a lead brick in his chest. There was that damn little voice, too, the one that kept saying this isn’t right, you should stop right now and get the hell out of Oregon.

  He wanted to talk to Amy so bad he could taste it. She had more common sense in her fingernail than he had in his entire body. Amy. His mind drifted, as it always did, to their best times, their times in bed. He pictured her lying naked, the curve of her ample hips, the gorgeous tits, the eager look in her eyes as he came to her. The image burned in his head, arousing him.

  But he pushed those urges away along with the desire to talk to her. No way he could ever tell her about this. She would never understand. No, this was his secret, and he would take it to his grave.

  Jake left his campsite in the canyon around midnight and headed toward Portland. He stopped at a twenty-four hour coffee shop off I-84, just west of the Gorge, that advertised Wi-Fi. He took his laptop inside, ordered coffee, and when he booted up, was encouraged by what he saw. The satellite image of Loose End’s location looked damn good. Quick access in and out, and like Watlamet’s place it was isolated with only a single neighbor well to the north and separated by a line of trees. Best of all, there was some sort of excavation site immediately south of the house, and it looked like there was a single stand of trees maybe eighty or ninety yards to the east that might provide cover while he waited for a shot. He studied the excav
ation site carefully and saw no sign that it was active.

  After sketching a detailed map, he downed a second cup of coffee and left.

  This was supposed to be a reconnaissance run, a quick drive through to scope out Loose End’s location. But the layout looked so good that he was tempted to go for it. He glanced at his watch. He could be in place and waiting when the sun came up. His Remington was behind the seat, right where he’d left it.

  Why not? Get it over with.

  He took off the baseball cap he’d worn low over his face in the coffee shop and put on his cowboy hat. He had a pretty good plan, and he should’ve felt good. Instead, he found himself fighting that small voice again, the one that kept saying you don’t have to do this.

  But Jake knew better. A man does what he has to do. That’s what the Old Man always told him.

  ***

  Travelling in the early morning meant little or no traffic, but the flip side was that he’d be more noticeable to a passing cop. Damn lucky the description of his truck in the newspaper was vague. A dark, late model pickup probably described more than half the trucks on the road. Still, he drove well within the speed limit and tensed up every time he came near another car.

  Where to park was another problem. The satellite image of the road leading up to Loose End’s spread suggested there would be few places to park, and that’s exactly what he found. He saw a gap in the trees maybe a quarter-mile below the excavation site and pulled in. He could walk in from there, and his truck would be out of sight. But judging from the beer cans on the ground, the spot was too popular to risk parking there.

  The next spot looked a little iffy, too—a narrow space in behind a large patch of blackberries. He pulled in and got out to take a leak while he considered the spot. Good cover from the road, but the path dead-ended. He’d have to back out of there after the shot or go out and back in now. Either way, he didn’t like it.

  The road leading into the excavation site came up next. Jake slowed down, and as he turned in his lights picked up a series of deep potholes. Looked like the road was no longer in use. He switched off his headlights and used his fog lights as he eased through the potholes and down the road until a gate appeared in front of him. He managed a Y-turn in the tight space, parked facing the main road, and checked his watch. An hour and half to sunrise. Plenty of time to get set.

  He removed his rifle—a bolt-action Remington 700 with a Swarovski scope—from its leather case, levered the bolt back, slotted four 7 mm Magnum cartridges into the box magazine, and placed another four shells in a front pocket of his vest. The Remington always felt good in his hands, like an old friend. And he prided himself on knowing its specifications. At twelve pounds, the rifle spit a half ounce of lead at a muzzle velocity of twenty-eight-hundred feet per second, and with its Swarovski scope he was pinpoint at four hundred yards. He’d never tried it, but he was sure he could break the rifle down, clean it, and reassemble it blindfolded. A man needs to know his weapon.

  The site was fenced off and the gate at the end of the road locked with a large padlock. The fences on either side would be a tough climb, but the gate had a set of steel crossties that promised good hand and footholds. He slid the Remington under the gate as gently as he could and climbed over. The stand of trees on the rocky ledge of the excavation site was straight in from the gate and maybe a hundred feet to the east. Low in a clear sky, the moon provided just enough light for him to quickly find the trees, but it took a while to pick his way through the twisted trunks to the abrupt edge of a quarry. Loose End’s house lay to the west, a faint outline in the shadows.

  When Jake looked in that direction, a light came on in the house. It stayed on a few seconds, then went out.

  What the fuck was that?

  He was in a perfect position, and he wanted to believe that the blinking light was just coincidence. But as he sat there, uneasiness stirred in his gut like a worm. This spot was goddamn convenient, he told himself. Maybe too convenient?

  He looked around his perch in the near darkness but saw nothing that looked out of place. He watched in the direction of the darkened house for a long time and saw no other lights or movement of any kind.

  But the worm in his gut continued to turn.

  He finally sighed, got up, and began backtracking. When he reached his truck he sat in the cab in the darkness, drumming his fingers on the stalk of his rifle as he battled with himself over what to do. Should I get the hell out of here, or am I overreacting?

  Each time he started to turn the ignition key a voice would kick in. You’ve come this far, man. Don’t use that light for an excuse. Get this over with.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  That high-pitched alarm, so out of place in the dead of night, woke me like a sharp slap to the face. I popped out of bed, and working quickly in the dark put on a black knit cap, a dark sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots. I used a small flashlight to navigate the pitch-black back staircase. I kicked myself for hitting the light when the alarm sounded, but it was only on for a second or two. Archie followed me down in a state of barely-contained excitement. It looked like an early jog or hike to him, but his ears fell when I told him to stay as I let myself out the front door.

  I stopped at the garage and grabbed an ice pick out of my tool box before heading out the gate. That gun Philip offered me would have been nice, but I wasn’t going to need it. My plan was straightforward: while the shooter waited in the trees for the sun to rise and for me to present a fat target, I was going to find where he’d parked his truck, note his license plate number, and use the ice pick to let the air out of one of his tires. That would provide enough time, even for Sheriff Talbot and his deputies, to pick the shooter up.

  Simple and rather elegant, or so I thought at the time.

  I let myself out of the gate, jogged down to the mailbox, and took a left on Eagle Nest. I took another left at a narrow path that meandered downhill, parallel to the main road, and well out of sight. The firs along the path shaded the waning moonlight, and the going was slow. When I reached the dirt road that led into the quarry, I stood in the shadows and watched the section I could see, ahead of where it curved around and led to the locked gate. There wasn’t a sound and nothing moved. I figured the shooter probably parked his truck lower down the hill and walked in. I crossed the road and kept going.

  I knew there were only two spots on the main road in the next mile and a half where a truck could pull off and be out of sight. Both were within the next quarter mile. The first was a pullout behind a low berm that had been overtaken with a thicket of blackberry vines. I went off the path and into the trees in order to come up on the spot with maximum cover. It was empty. The detritus littering the second spot, a turn-off through a row of firs, signaled it was a popular place to park. No truck there, either.

  Disappointed, I turned around and headed back up hill. Probably a false alarm, I told myself. But there was one more spot I could check. Could it be that the shooter had actually turned onto the quarry road and parked around the curve near the locked gate? I wouldn’t have chosen to do that, but maybe he was most interested in having quick access to his truck for a fast getaway.

  I wasn’t anxious to go in there, because the cover was spotty and the road was bordered on either side by a six-foot fence. At the same time, I’d come this far, and if the shooter was in there, I wanted to know about it. And besides, by this time, I felt pretty sure there was an owl in a tree nearby having a good laugh at my expense.

  I stayed low, worked my way around the curve in the road, and took refuge behind a huge oak, the single deciduous tree the mining company had apparently seen fit to spare. The locked gate lay at the end of the road, but I couldn’t see it yet. I peered into the darkness. Nothing moved in or around the narrow corridor.

  I could just make out the next bit of cover, a shadowy blur on the other side of the road maybe twenty yards further in. A line
of scrawny pines, I recalled. At that point I’d be able to see to the gate and anything parked this side of it. I would go to there and no further.

  I moved across the road and took maybe twenty or thirty more steps when a blinding light came on directly in front of me. I froze as every adrenaline gate in my body slammed open. An engine roared to life a few beats later. The back wheels of a truck spun in the gravel before taking hold and hurtling forward, right at me. I turned around and dashed for the oak tree. I ducked behind the oak just as the truck roared by, missing me by inches. As the truck’s brakes slammed on and it spun into a U-turn, I realized I was trapped in the corridor. I broke into a dead run for the gate, my only means of escape. The U-turn took the truck two tries, giving me just enough time to reach the gate.

  I was bathed in the truck’s headlights as I climbed the gate. I heard the truck skid to a stop and a car door slam. The shooter was right behind me, and he’d left the headlights on. I ducked behind a stack of rotting timbers just as he fired. The round thumped into a four by four post next to me. I heard the gate rattle, looked over my shoulder, and saw his silhouette as he scaled the gate. I had no choice but to keep running, and there was only one direction—toward the lip of the quarry. I ran in a zigzag pattern that would have been the envy of any NFL running back. The shooter snapped off two more shots, and I felt a stinging in my left arm.

  The only cover ahead of me was the lone copse of cedars where I’d rigged the alarm. Even in my panicked state, I got the irony.

  I wiggled through the stunted tree trunks and edged out onto the rocky lip of the quarry, my lungs exploding. I heard the shooter’s footsteps, then the metallic click of the bolt on his rifle as he chambered another cartridge. “Come on out, Dude. You got no place to go.”

  He was wrong. As I stepped off the ledge, I wondered how deep the quarry lake really was.