Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  Fishing’s a lot like life—things happen when you least expect it. I was well below the oxbow, my thoughts drifting with my fly in a soft riffle when a steelhead hit with an adrenaline-releasing jolt. The big fish ran downriver as line tore off my reel, causing the handle to spin into a blur. Afraid all my line would be stripped off, I grabbed at the knob on the crank and got my knuckles rapped for the trouble.

  “Ouch!” I cried, and this started Archie barking and spinning in circles.

  I thrust my hand in again and managed to catch the knob without further damage. The steelhead slowed down and then stopped. I inched it around to face me, the current magnifying its strength, my rod bent at a worrisome angle, my leader taut as a bridge cable. Archie could barely contain himself on the bank. I worried he might actually swim out to help me.

  The fish allowed me a couple of cranks on the reel before breaking for deep water. I pulled up, and it became airborne in a writhing, athletic leap. For an instant it seemed to freeze in front of me like an iridescent sculpture, jaws agape, pink-edged gills flaring. Then it casually tossed my fly with its barbless hook halfway to the bank. As the fish fell back into the river, I could have sworn it looked at me in amusement.

  I fished on for another hour, but that was my only strike of the day. Actually, I was glad I didn’t hook another fish, since the fight had left my knuckles raw and the stitches in my left arm aching.

  Arch and I hiked out on a high trail through the trees that Philip suggested. We stopped above Marmot Dam for a look. The river slid over the spillway in a laminar sheet that shattered at the base like a wave breaking on a beach. A bypass stream around the dam still roared, but the turbines it drove for ninety years were gone. Like a clogged artery, the river above the dam had built up a century of silt and debris. I imagined touching off the blast that would obliterate the structure and wondered how long it would take for the free-flowing river to heal itself.

  As Arch and I stood watching, a shaft of sunlight turned a section of water upriver from gray to slate blue. I wondered about the fish down there. I had to believe breaching this dam would stop their decline and give them a fighting chance. I kicked a rock into a swath of sword ferns and started down the trail thinking about Winona and Jason, how they could work together to free rivers like this. Suddenly the idea of their engagement seemed to make a lot of sense.

  We were nearly back to the trailhead when my phone rang. It was Philip.

  “Cal, where are you?”

  “I just hiked out of the Sandy. I’m at the trailhead.”

  “Do any good?”

  “One nice fish, but it got off. Damn near tore my stitches out.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “Better.”

  “Listen, my father says he’ll talk about the casino with you, but only in person. You’re halfway here. Why don’t you come out to the Rez and join us?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Rain pummeled the car until Arch and I cleared the Cascades and met the high desert, where Route 26 stretched out in front of us like a tapered black ribbon. To the southwest, the snow-clad peak of Mount Jefferson seemed to levitate above the flat plain. I rolled down the windows so we could taste the sage and wildflower scented air. I parked just inside the Reservation, and we hopped into Philip’s truck for the drive to the family hunting cabin, which sits on the Warm Springs River near the junction with the Deschutes.

  Philip told me once that the land has been in the family since the first Paiutes staggered onto the reservation in 1879 after being ravaged by disease and hounded by the U.S. Calvary. The original log cabin had been torn down and replaced with a modest frame structure after the family received its reparations check in the 1950s for the flooding of Celilo Falls.

  George Lone Deer was shorter and stouter than Philip, with close-cropped, silver hair. I could see Philip in his face, although the father’s nose was broader, the eyes darker, more brooding. When Arch and I got out of the truck, he smiled with warmth. “Welcome, Calvin.” Then he dropped to one knee, and greeted Archie like an old friend. “Philip told me about this one. He helps you fish, huh?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “He’s a little disappointed in me right now. I lost a nice steelhead this morning.”

  “I’ll bet he can herd some sheep, too,” George Lone Deer added, thumping my dog on the back.

  “Sheep, cars, deer, you name it.”

  A younger man standing behind George stepped forward and introduced himself. Isaac Minishut’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail like Philip’s. His eyes hovered like dark moons behind horn rim glasses with thick lenses.

  “Isaac’s chief legal counsel for the Rez,” Philip said, patting the shorter, thinner man on the shoulder. “He keeps my father and the Tribal Counsel out of trouble.”

  “More like damage control,” Isaac shot back with a droll smile that made me like him instantly.

  “We’ve got the sweat lodge fired up, Cal. Care to join us?” Philip said, his eyes dancing with delight at the knowledge that I hated what he was proposing but couldn’t say no.

  I winced inwardly and snapped him a dirty look. I’d taken a couple of “sweats”—the homemade steam baths practiced by Native Americans—with my friend, and he knew full well I found them about as fun as a trip through hell with a sunburn. But it would be an insult to say no. “Sure,” I answered with false enthusiasm that made Philip snort and swallow a smile.

  But I lucked out this time. Once inside the lodge—a rickety half-dome of bent branches covered with canvass and old woolen blankets—Philip’s father controlled the ladling of water onto the rocks which had been heated to a dull red. He took pity on me. Every time the steam hissing off the rocks threatened to displace the last molecule of air in the lodge, he would back off and allow me to gulp a breath. The elder Lone Deer mumbled and chanted prayers in his native language, but I really didn’t care that I was witnessing a ritual that hadn’t changed in eons. I did try to conjure up some spiritual thoughts of my own, but it’s hard to think when your brain is melting.

  The Warm Springs River is misnamed, because its water is always ice cold. Nevertheless, when the sweat was over I made a dash for the river and when my scorched body hit the water, the shock snatched every ounce of breath from my lungs. But fifteen minutes later up in the cabin with a hot mug of coffee with two shots of whiskey in it, I felt damn good.

  Philip had quickly steered the conversation my way, and I was sketching in some of the information surrounding Nelson Queah’s disappearance and Timothy Wiiks’ accident. I was anxious to see if they could help me in any way but was not anxious to tell them too much.

  George Lone Deer was wrapped in a thick robe sipping a beer, his bare feet propped on a stool. He said, “I can’t speak about Timothy Wiiks, but as a young man I knew of Nelson Queah. He was a strong man. If he had lived, he wouldn’t have taken a dime in reparations. No one believed that he got drunk one night and stumbled into the river. He was a sure-footed fisherman and not a heavy drinker. He had fought long and hard to save the falls. Some thought the loss was just too much for him, that he killed himself. Others were not so sure.” He shook his head slowly and studied his feet. “It is good that you’re helping his granddaughter find the truth. The truth is important, even after the passage of time.”

  I met his eyes and nodded in agreement. “I think Wiiks was killed because he discovered a financial rip-off at the dam. Someone was skimming money from the government. Wiiks worked for Ferguson, and Ferguson reported directly to Braxton Gage.”

  “Gage worked on The Dalles Dam?” Isaac interjected.

  “Yeah. He owned a gravel and cement company with his father back then.”

  Isaac shot George a quick glance and then looked back at me. “Holy shit. You think he’s involved in this?”

  “Call it a working hypothesis. We may never know exactly what went on at the dam, but
it looks like the fear that the cover-up murders might be discovered set somebody on edge.”

  Philip pointed at my left forearm, which was still wrapped in the same crude waterproof bandage I’d used when I was fishing. “Cal took a bullet from the same guy that got Watlamet.”

  Isaac’s mouth dropped open, but he said nothing.

  I looked at him and then at Philip’s father and said, “I need to talk to Gage. Can you tell me anything about him that might help me do this?”

  “Isn’t that risky?” Isaac asked.

  “Not the way I see it. If he’s in on it, he already knows about me. If not, he might be able to help. It’s worth a shot.”

  “The old bastard won’t see you unless you have something he wants,” Philip’s father said. “He’s surrounded by bodyguards and greedy people.”

  “What about this casino deal?”

  Isaac’s eyes got bigger. He glanced at Philip’s father, then back at me. “How do you know about that?”

  The elder Lone Deer raised his hand in a calming gesture. “It’s okay, Isaac. We can trust Calvin.”

  Isaac nodded faintly. “First of all, there’s no deal. There’ve been some exploratory talks. Gage has an ideal piece of land and the ear of the Governor, to say nothing of his influence in the Gorge. But he wants more than we’re willing to give him.”

  Philip stood up abruptly and scowled at his father. “Tell Gage to get stuffed. Why do we want a casino in the Gorge, anyway? We’re acting like white people. What’s next, a new dam on the Columbia?”

  His father set his beer can down and massaged his forehead with big, rough fingers. In a low voice he said, “You know the answer to that, Philip. Jobs, schools, roads, bridges, that’s why.”

  Philip stomped across the room, kicked the screen door open and went out on the porch. His father smiled wistfully and shook his head as Isaac dropped his gaze and began studying a knot on the plank floor. The room fell silent and so did my hopes of learning anything useful about Braxton Gage. Finally, I said to both men, “Are you sure there’s no way I can get in to see Gage?”

  Isaac said, “It would be easier to get in to see the President at the Whitehouse.”

  My gaze shifted to Philip’s father, almost in desperation. He smiled at Isaac’s remark like he had after his son’s blow-up, as if to say these were things to be expected from younger men. He said, “I will talk to Gage. He wants this deal as much as we do. I will—”

  Isaac interrupted, shaking his head emphatically. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, George.”

  Philip’s father put his hand up again, his mouth set in a firm line. “We will do this in honor of Nelson Queah.”

  I thanked Lone Deer and went out on the porch to join Philip. “Come on,” I said, figuring he needed to cool off, “let’s hike down to the junction and see if any trout are rising.” We were half way to the Deschutes when my cell chirped. It was Deputy Sheriff Grooms. “Hey, Big C.” I greeted her. “What’s happening?”

  “Thought you deserved to hear the latest. I got a probable on the composite sketch. The perp went grocery shoppin’ at a gas station out near Clarno last week. A guy who pumps gas there was pretty sure it was him. Didn’t see a car. Said he walked out of there with a backpack, headed east on the Shaniko Fossil Highway.”

  I stopped dead on the trail and Philip eyed me intently. “Nice work. Any idea where he was headed?”

  “I’ve got a hunch. There’s a narrow canyon a few miles up from there, runs north off the highway. Used to be a vermiculite mine up in there pretty far. That’d be a good place to hide a campsite. It’s a long shot, and the trail’s probably cold, but I figured it’s worth a look. Listen, any chance you could call your friend, Lone Deer, and persuade him to meet me out there? He might see somethin’ I’d miss.”

  I looked at Philip. “You’re in luck. Philip’s right here. Hang on a sec.” To Philip I said, “Grooms thinks she might know where the shooter camped out. She wants you to come over to Clarno to help her check it out. You up for that?”

  “Hell yes,” my friend answered.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Jake

  “Shit. Out of water again?” Jake tossed his Sierra cup, and it clattered against the rocks. There was no one else to blame and no one else to make the hike along the canyon rim to the spring and back. And the stupid question only underscored how much he wanted to finish up and get the hell out of Oregon. He’d been promised a simple job. But it hadn’t worked out that way. He’d botched the hit on that lawyer, Claxton, but once again the Old Man told him to stay put and wait for further instructions.

  Further instructions? Are you kidding me? This job’s snake-bit.

  What could they say if he cut and ran? Nothing. Well, he wouldn’t see the rest of the money for the Watlamet hit, but that might be a price worth paying to be out of this nightmare.

  Jake picked up the plastic jug, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and started up the ridge. Twenty minutes later he reached the spring. It burbled up through a bed of mossy rocks, dropped over the edge of the ridge, and flowed noiselessly down the hillside, across the road, and into a dry creek bed. He knelt down and scooped up some water with a cupped hand and drank. It was pure and cold, and its taste brought a rush of memories of his first back-country trip with Amy. They weren’t married then, but those five days sealed the deal. She took a big buck on that trip, too. Nailed him from fifty yards. He pushed the memories aside, but the effort blurred his eyes with tears.

  The water jug was nearly full when movement down in the canyon caught his eye. It looked like a dust devil scurrying along the hardpan road next to the creek bed. Through the Swarovski he saw it was a Wasco County Sheriff’s car with a single deputy behind the wheel. He froze for a moment then shook his head in disbelief that quickly turned to fear.

  What the fuck next?

  Jake watched through the scope as the patrol car came to a stop. The deputy got out of the car and with a hand up to shade the sun, followed the path of the spring up to where he was crouched behind a line of boulders at the top of the ridge. The deputy’s face and upper body were now full-on in the scope and Jake crouched even lower, although there was no chance of being spotted at three hundred yards.

  He groaned out loud. “Jesus. It’s a woman.” Big and tough-looking, but a woman.

  She’d stopped where the spring crossed the road in a dark, narrow band. The woman walked around, got down on her haunches for a while and then got up, went to the car and came back with some papers in one hand and a small object in the other.

  What the hell’s she doing?

  She crouched down again and laid one of the papers on the ground and seemed to study it for a while. Then she laid a thin, shiny ribbon on the road using the small object, which he now realized was a tape measure.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said out loud, “she’s found my tire tracks.”

  The woman retracted the tape, picked up the sheet of paper—which he now guessed was a photograph—and began to scan the steep walls of the canyon. He instinctively hunched down again. A panicked thought of running back to get his truck flashed through his mind, but that was stupid because the only way out was the way he came in. He could bushwhack from where he was, try to reach Clarno on foot and steal a car, but they’d have his truck and know who he was in no time at all.

  Fuck. He was trapped.

  Cop or no cop, woman or no woman, he saw no choice. I can’t let her get back in her car to use the radio. He levered a cartridge into the chamber of the Remington, took a deep breath and began sighting-in on her in earnest. The round would sink about three inches at her range, so he would aim to compensate. His pulse rate dropped and a deathly calm came over him as the cross-hairs of the scope steadied on the woman’s bulky frame.

  “God forgive me,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

 
Chapter Thirty-two

  Philip and I left Archie with George Lone Deer and were on the road in ten minutes. Before we left, Philip came out of the cabin with a rifle and a box of cartridges and stashed them in the back seat of the extended cab of his truck. I must have looked surprised because he said, “Borrowed the rifle from my dad. We’re headed for rugged country, and I don’t care if Grooms thinks the trail’s cold, I’m not going in unarmed.”

  We didn’t talk much on the drive over. Philip was still fuming about the spat with his father, and I was thinking about the possibility of picking up the sniper’s trail and trying not to get my hopes up. Ninety minutes later we rolled to a stop at the turn-off leading into the canyon. The intersection was deserted.

  “Huh,” I said. “She said she’d meet us right here.”

  Philip pointed down the dirt road and squinted. “That could be a car in there. Maybe she drove in a ways.” He turned his rig onto the road, and we started in. The washboard surface hammered the truck’s shocks as we left a plume of fine dust in our wake. A hundred and fifty yards in, Philip said, “That’s her cruiser for sure.”

  My gut began to clench. “Yeah, but where is she?”

  We both saw her at the same time. At least we saw what looked like a body on the ground in the middle of the road, next to the patrol car. “Is that her?” We drove a little farther. “She’s down,” I cried. Philip gunned the truck, and when we slid to a stop we both jumped out and knelt down next to the body.

  She was sprawled on her back with her legs pointed in the direction of the west canyon wall like a couple of accusatory fingers. One boot heel lay in the shallow runoff of a small stream angling across the road, and several photographs and a tape measure lay scattered near her body. Her neatly pressed uniform top had a hole punched in it at the center of her chest, her eyes were closed, and blood leaked from her mouth and nose.