Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  My eyes found Winona first, and I fought back a lingering feeling of awkwardness over our aborted kiss. Her hair was down, her eyes radiant. She had on a simple, black dress with a delicate silver and turquoise necklace lying just above a hint of cleavage. Royce Townsend was standing next to his son with a glass of wine in his hand. He was as tall and handsome as Jason, although his shoulders were slightly stooped, and he had a full head of strikingly silver hair. His handshake was firm and his pale, gray eyes clear and alert. “Nice of you to join us, Cal. Let me introduce you to these folks.”

  It was an eclectic group. The couple with the Range Rover turned out to be a local advertising mogul and his wife. She was an artist, and judging from her denim work shirt and the paint under her fingernails, a genuine free spirit. Among Jason’s advisers were a black economics professor from Lewis and Clark, the CEO of a high-tech startup, and a Latina woman whom Townsend described as ‘a tigress on immigration policy.’ She and I were the only lawyers in the group.

  After I’d met everyone, Royce said, “We all read about the shooting, Cal. How are you feeling?”

  All eyes in the room were suddenly on me. It was clear something had been said before I arrived. “Oh, I’m fine, thanks. That story in the paper exaggerated what happened.” Winona started to say something, and I shot her a warning look. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was talk about the fiasco at the quarry.

  She caught my drift. “Cal has a charming old place in the hills above Dundee, in the wine country,” she said brightly.

  It worked. The conversation turned to a lively discussion of Oregon wines, which were being poured in generous quantities by a circulating waiter. When Valerie ushered us into the dining room, I found myself sitting between the artist and someone who looked familiar to me. The artist—sipping maybe her fourth glass of wine—was engrossed in a conversation with Valerie, who’d managed to match her glass for glass.

  The person who looked familiar was Sam DeSilva, Jason Townsend’s campaign manager. I remembered meeting him at the Celilo Falls commemoration. His shaved head shown in the overhead lights, and his deep-set eyes were definitely not beacons of warmth. I learned he was an executive on loan from Royce Townsend’s holding company, Townsend Enterprises. I sized Sam up as a tough-minded, no nonsense type—probably the ideal profile for running a Senatorial campaign.

  Another familiar face sat across from me. David Hanson was the Chief Counsel for Townsend Enterprises and was looking after the legal aspects of the campaign, he told me.

  So, Daddy Townsend was backing this campaign in a major way.

  Unlike DeSilva, Hanson seemed to remember me from the commemoration, at least that’s what he said when we introduced ourselves. Tall and thin, he wore sharply creased slacks, a black cashmere sweater, and a perpetually anxious look on his face. Glancing at Sam and then back to me, he said, “Tell us, Mr. Claxton—”

  “Call me Cal, David.”

  “Right, Cal. What brings you to us?” His eyes were skeptical, and I could feel the heat of DeSilva’s gaze on the side of my face, as well.

  I knew the drill. I was an unknown entity, and they felt obliged to check me out. I smiled affably. “Jason invited me. I like his stand on wild rivers. I’m here to help him get elected.”

  Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. I remembered him rolling his eyes when this subject came up at the commemoration. David smiled. “That’s great. We can use the help. What do you do, Cal?”

  “I practice law to support my fly fishing habit.” Then to get a rise out of Sam I added, “I’d like to see the Columbia, or at least the Snake, flowing free again before I die.”

  Sam puffed a breath, shook his head, and with sarcasm dripping from his voice said, “Oh, spare me. Not another dam bomber.”

  Hanson shot him a withering look, then forced an apologetic smile at me. “Excuse my colleague, here. He doesn’t think Oregon’s ready for a forward-looking position on dam removal.”

  Sam snorted. “Read ‘extreme’ for ‘forward-looking,’ and it doesn’t poll worth a shit, anyway. Oregonians like cheap power more than salmon.”

  “This is an environmental imperative for Jason,” Hanson fired back, as color began to puddle in his pink cheeks.

  They were glaring at each other when Jason Townsend tapped the rim of his glass with a dinner knife. Dressed in gray slacks and a maroon crew neck sweater, he beamed his trademark boyish smile. “You can all relax, I’m not going to give a speech tonight.” Chuckles rippled through the room. “I think you know where I stand on the issues. I just want to thank you all for coming. I realize it’s a lot to ask with the primary still a year away. But politics, being what it is today, requires lots of lead time and planning—”

  “And money,” Sam DeSilva interjected, causing an eruption of laughter from the well-lubricated guests.

  Jason laughed and gestured toward his campaign manager. “Yes, and that, too, Sam. But seriously, I’m humbled by the thought of running for the U.S. Senate and honored that you folks might consider getting in on the ground floor of my campaign. So, thank you again and bon appétit.”

  After dinner the group adjourned to the library, which looked like something from a movie set—floor to ceiling books, a three-foot diameter antique globe, and even a sliding ladder to reach the highest books. I’d been pulled away from the group by Jason to huddle with his father, where the subject turned to the politics of dam removal. Jason was animated, his eyes lit with obvious conviction as he ran through an argument it was clear his father had heard before. “Anyway, I think we’re facing a stark choice. Either dams or salmon, but not both. Trouble is, it’s tough to get people to take me seriously.” He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s why you caught my attention at the lunch out at Celilo, Cal. You seem to get it.”

  Before I could answer, Royce said, “Well, politics is the art of the possible, son. You may have to shelve some of that idealism. The primary race’s going to be a dogfight.”

  “Idealism?” he shot back. “Look what’s happening on the Sandy River. Marmot Dam’s coming out, thanks to pressure from environmental groups like the one Winona works for. Come October, that river’s going to start repairing ninety years of damage.”

  Royce put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I know, but that’s a small dam on a small river compared to the Snake or the Columbia.”

  Jason moved just enough to free himself from his father’s grasp and glared at him. “It’s a start.” Then he looked at me and said, “Excuse me, Cal,” before walking away to join another circle of guests.

  Royce turned to me and sighed, his pale eyes the color of fog. “Ah, to be young and idealistic again. I remember those days with fondness, don’t you, Cal?” He wore a self-satisfied expression, signaling he had me figured out, that I didn’t have the naiveté his son ascribed to me.

  I took a sip of brandy and nodded, not wishing to disabuse him of that notion.

  “Jason needs to accept the fact that a politician’s first duty’s to get elected,” He went on.

  I thought of the mountains of integrity sacrificed on that altar and stifled a sarcastic comeback. Instead, I shifted the subject. “Building The Dalles Dam as a young man must’ve been the experience of a lifetime.”

  He laughed heartily. “Oh, it was incredible. Hard work, but far and away the most satisfying job I ever had. All very heroic, too. You know, we needed cheap hydroelectric power for aluminum to build fighters and B-52s, and to make nukes at Hanford, all to fight the Cold War. He glanced over at Winona and lowered his voice, “It was a shame what happened there at Celilo. By the time my brother and I got the contract to build the dam, the die had been cast. Her people didn’t really have a chance.”

  “Jason may have mentioned that I’m looking into the disappearance of Winona’s grandfather, Nelson Queah. Would you mind if I abused your hospitality by askin
g you a couple of questions?”

  His face remained unchanged except for a slight narrowing of his eyes and a tighter focus on me. “By all means, Cal.”

  “I’m interested in a man named Cecil Ferguson. He supervised concrete pours at the dam. Do you remember him?”

  “Ferguson. Hmm. Vaguely. I worked with lots of people on that project.”

  “I have reason to believe he was skimming government money somehow. Did you ever hear of anything like that going on?”

  He stroked his chin and paused for a moment. “Yes. Come to think of it, I do remember something about that. Some cub reporter from Portland was nosing around. Nothing ever came of it, though. Didn’t Ferguson work for Braxton Gage?”

  “Yes he did. Could Gage have been involved in the scam?”

  He laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me. That man never saw a dollar he didn’t lust after.”

  “Is there anyone else I could talk to about this?”

  He wrinkled his brow and ran his fingers through his silver hair. “Fifty years is a long time. I can’t think of anyone except Gage. Hell, I’d talk to him if I were you. He was probably up to his eyeballs in the scam.” Royce’s eyes started to wander, indicating the discussion was over.

  “One more question,” I pressed. “Can you tell me anything about Sherman Watlamet, the man who was gunned down out on the John Day River? He was apparently a friend of Cecil Ferguson’s.”

  He winced at my words. “Grisly thing, that murder. No, can’t say that I ever knew him back in the day.” Then he nudged me with his elbow and nodded subtly toward Winona, who was deep in conversation with Jason, the immigration activist and the professor. “She’s a gorgeous woman, don’t you think, Cal?”

  I smiled and nodded in agreement.

  “Jason was asking me about family rings the other day. We have a beauty that belonged to his grandmother. I think he’s going to ask Winona to wear it. Wouldn’t that be something?” With that, he walked off, not waiting for an answer.

  Makes sense, I told myself. A real power couple. I drained my drink and stood there for a while, alone. The room seemed to shrink, the buzz of conversation became annoyingly loud, and the air went stale, like someone had taped off the doors and windows. Not wishing to be the first to leave, I hung around until the couple in the Range Rover said their goodbyes. As I was walking out to my car a few minutes later, I heard voices from the other side of a hedge that separated the path I was on from an outdoor patio. The sharp tone of the voices caused me to stop, and when I heard, “Damn it, Jason, I don’t care what they say,” I slipped into the deep shadow of a large oak and listened shamelessly.

  “For God’s sake, David, you’re just going to have to deal with it.” I heard someone moan. “Don’t. Not now. We need to get back inside before they miss us. You don’t know the pressure I’m under.”

  The noise of their shuffling feet caused me to miss David’s reply, although the tone of his voice came through. It was plaintive, laced with emotion.

  When I got in my car, I sat there for a long time in silence. First the news from Royce Townsend about his son’s intentions toward Winona and then the weird conversation I’d just overheard. What the hell’s going on?

  Finally, as I pulled onto the Townsend’s driveway and my headlights bored a tunnel across the darkened pasture, I said aloud, “That sounded like a lover’s spat.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  That night I had a strange dream. I was sitting in a dark room facing the illuminated outline of a door. The thin ribbon of light was unnaturally bright and strangely alluring, as if something desirable burned on the other side. I got up, and as I searched like a blind man for the door knob, the light went out. I awoke with an overwhelming sense of loss. The digital clock showed four twenty, and after tossing around for another half hour I got out of bed and called Phillip.

  “What’s going on, Cal?” he answered warily. It wasn’t like me to call him at the crack of dawn.

  “Not much. Couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m on the way to the Deschutes to meet a couple of developers from Bend. They want to experience the Zen of fly fishing for steelhead. I can’t wait.”

  “You’d better include some deep breathing instructions for when you give them the bill.”

  “Hey, with the money they’re raking in, they can afford me. Real estate in Bend’s like a feeding frenzy, man.”

  “It’s called a bubble.”

  “Yeah, well there’s something not right about it. What goes up comes down. But I’m sure you didn’t call at five to discuss real estate.”

  “Actually, I’ve got a couple of things on my mind. First, what do you know about the Tribes trying to put a gambling casino in the Gorge?”

  Philip laughed with derision. “Oh, that. Yeah, the Tribal Council’s actually considering it. Can you believe it?”

  “Is your father involved?”

  “Up to his eyeballs. I think it’s a stupid idea. Ranks right up there with flooding the falls.”

  “I heard Braxton Gage’s involved in the deal. The guy keeps popping up in this mess you got me into.”

  Ignoring the dig, Philip said, “Uh, I’m not getting the connection here.”

  I chuckled. “There probably isn’t any. But I need some way to approach Gage. I figured your father might be able to help me. You know, give me some sort of introduction so I don’t have to make a cold call.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “Thanks. The other thing is, I need to go fishing to get my head straight.”

  “What’s wrong with your head?”

  “Nothing. I just need to think some things through is all,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t pry. I felt my deck had been shuffled by Winona’s visit coupled with that night at the Townsend estate, but I sure as hell didn’t want to talk about it.

  “What about your arm, man?”

  “I’ll use Saran Wrap.”

  “Duct tape might work better.”

  “What’s the Sandy doing right now?”

  “Actually, the Sandy might be a good bet. I heard there’s a run of native steelies in there right now. I don’t know whether they’re early summers or late winters. Your best bet’s probably below Marmot Dam. It’s a pretty good hike in but worth it.” He hesitated for a moment. “Uh, you ready to go steelheadin’ on your own?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve had a good teacher.”

  Philip laughed. “By the way, you can say goodbye to the dam while you’re up there. They’re going to breach it in October. You can thank Winona for that. She and the outfit she works for were key in convincing the power company to take it out, and they finally agreed. It’ll make the Sandy free-flowing from Mount Hood to the Columbia.”

  Philip’s comment surprised me. Apparently, Winona was as modest as he was. “She didn’t mention it to me. I think I’ll go have a look.”

  ***

  The next morning I stood on a boulder with my back to the sun on the edge of the Sandy River. I was looking for steelhead. They’re hard to catch, and it never hurts to know where they are, although you’re damn lucky if you ever see one. Sluicing off the glaciers on the southwest side of Mount Hood, the water was fast, cold, and clear. The fish would appear as dark shadows against the river bottom. I saw none.

  After a hike through the trees, this was my first good look at the river, which swept around a broad oxbow and came rattling at me over a mantle of volcanic basalt covered with loose, gray gravel—prime habitat for steelhead. The firs and cedars still dripped from a rain the night before, and fast moving clouds threatened more weather. Archie was behind me on the bank with strict orders to stay put. There was plenty of wild life up there, even cougars. I didn’t want him getting into any mischief.

  I waded downriver and stopped about forty feet from a spot where the ri
ver darkened, indicating the presence of a depression deep enough to hide fish. I tossed a fly called a Red Rocket at a forty-five degree angle to the bank, watched it sink below the surface, and then worked it across the depression using the tip of my rod. The fly must work by shock value, since the red and pink fluff hiding the hook looked more like something from a Vegas chorus line than any insect on the planet. The water was refreshingly cool against my waders, and the faint scent of fir needles and water hemlock drifted downriver with the breeze.

  As I worked the hole, the rhythm of my casts began to relax me. Nothing stirred, which was fine. I’d come here to gain a little perspective. Fly-casting on a spring day—fish or no fish—was my newly discovered way to relax and think. I had to admit I was a long way from the uptight prosecutor I used to be down in L.A. Maybe there was hope.

  That damn kiss, I said to myself as I snapped the line forward. Never should have happened. I couldn’t seem to get my mind off it, which brought up the question of why I’d chosen to live like a monk. I had good reason. Not just the shock of Nancy’s death, but the fact that I wasn’t there for her when she needed me. My self-imposed exile was driven as much by guilt and shame as by pain. I swung the fly through another lazy pass across the hole without incident. Nothing doing, so I moved downstream, letting my line drift in the current as Archie followed along on the bank.

  A hundred and fifty feet downriver I cast the Rocket into a promising looking series of eddies formed by a line of submerged boulders, a good place for a steelhead to rest and feed. My body continued to relax, but my mind still churned. So, I meet this woman, and suddenly my resolve starts to falter, I mused. What had it been, a year here in Oregon? Come on, you can do better than that, I told myself. The Red Rocket continued to bob along unmolested. I retrieved it and replaced it with a Sandy Blue—its toned-down first cousin—and moved on.

  I lost track of time as I worked my way downriver. I thought of the fragment of conversation I’d overheard between Jason Townsend and David Hanson. With the passage of several days, I realized I was no longer so sure what the hell they were talking about. Despite this, a part of me—the self-serving part, I suppose—wanted to say something to Winona. I laughed out loud when I tried to imagine how I would do that. No, I would keep my mouth shut. Jason Townsend’s sexual preferences and what he chose to tell Winona about them were clearly none of my business.