Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  I stifled a laugh but couldn’t help smiling. “Sure. Looks like you need chains for that buggy.”

  “Very funny. I was pruning the roses. My wife would kill me if she saw the shape they’re in.”

  I pushed him out onto the driveway, and then at his direction finished up the pruning, raked up the cuttings, and put them into a small wheelbarrow. I said, “I know a young man who could help put your yard back in shape. He might be interested in a job like this.”

  “Can’t afford it,” Dunn snapped, averting his eyes.

  After we cleaned up his wheelchair in the garage, I followed him into the house. He went straight to the kitchen and made himself a large gin and tonic. I declined his offer to join him. In the study, he swung his wheelchair around and took a healthy swig of his drink before speaking. “A contact at The Oregonian finally got back to me on the Gorge casino project. The deal’s got legs. The Department of the Interior has just approved the tribe’s revenue sharing proposal, a key step in the process, and the Gov’s not signaling that he’ll veto the damn thing.”

  “The Governor has veto power?”

  “Yep. And an outfit called Allies of the Gorge is lining up to block the deal. Hell, I’m no tree hugger, but a goddamn casino in the Gorge? Are you kidding me?” He chuckled. “But I digress. You asked me about Stephanie Barrett. Turns out she’s been quietly buying up land for Gage for some time. They have about fifty-eight acres amassed near Cascade Locks that they’re offering to the tribes.”

  “For big money?”

  “Oh, six mil or so. But that’s not the real payoff. My source tells me Gage wants a piece of the action going forward. Under the table, of course. The Feds would never allow that.”

  I was sure George Lone Deer hadn’t told his son about this twist. “Why would the tribes agree to something like that?”

  Dunn shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Sometimes you gotta go along to get along. Gage has enormous political clout, not so much in liberal Salem, but in the Gorge, where sentiment for the deal’s pretty mixed outside Cascade Locks. The tribes are going to need all the help they can get to convince the Gov.”

  “What about Barrett? Anything else on her?”

  “One thing—my source mentioned she’s got ties to the OPM.”

  “OPM?”

  “The Oregon Patriot Militia, a paramilitary group out in eastern Oregon. Her brother-in-law’s supposedly way up in the organization, but it’s very secretive. They’re arming for the government takeover or the invasion of the Muslim hordes, whichever comes first.”

  My ears pricked up. “Huh. How secretive are they? Could your source get photos of these guys?”

  He shot me a sly smile. “I like the way you think, Claxton. I’ll see what I can do. There’s something else. My source tells me the anti-casino group has some hotshot hacker, and they’re going after e-mail correspondence between Barrett and her brother-in-law. Stay tuned on that one, and keep it to yourself.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He took another pull on his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So what else you got?”

  “I’m wondering if you could search The Oregonian’s archives for old articles on Royce Townsend and anything having to do with his hunting exploits.”

  Dunn laughed. “Now it’s Townsend. Shit, you don’t mess around, do you? Well, this won’t be hard. Townsend’s always been a media darling. Anything specific you’re looking for?”

  “Yeah. Who he hunted with, both friends and guides and any hunting lodges he frequented, that kind of thing. I know he hunted with an Indian named Sherman Watlamet in the late fifties, but I’m more interested in what he did later, in the seventies and eighties, before he hung it up. The sniper’s considerably younger than Townsend.”

  Dunn nodded, put his wire rim glasses on, and turned around to face his computer. The archives covered nearly everything printed in The Oregonian and the newspaper that preceded it, The Portland Journal. Dunn quickly located and printed out three articles on hunting that mentioned Royce Townsend. Two articles in the late seventies described trips to Alaska. One article showed a picture of Townsend posing next to a huge bear stretched out on scaffolding. The caption read: “Local Hunter Bags Trophy Kodiak in Alaska.”

  “They don’t dare print shit like this anymore,” Dunn remarked. “They’d lose circulation.”

  The second article covered a successful caribou hunt and featured a picture of Townsend and Sam DeSilva posing with their weapons. Both articles mentioned the trips were led by Alaskan Wilderness Guide Service, but no other information on them was included.

  The third article covered a hunt in Idaho in 1989. Townsend had shot a world record elk dubbed “Old Granddad” with the help of an outfit called Idaho Adventure Guides and Outfitters. The article pointed out the guide service used a spotter airplane and a small army of trackers to find the legendary animal, who’d avoided being shot by ordinary hunters for as long as anyone in that part of the Idaho could remember.

  Once Old Granddad’s location had been pinpointed, Townsend was flown in to make the kill. A world record was claimed. The piece included a photo of Townsend crouched behind and enveloped by the dead elk’s rack, which must’ve stretched a good eight feet across.

  “What a shameless prick,” Dunn said after taking a long pull on his drink. “How could anyone shoot an animal like that? And they flew him in, for Christ’s sake.”

  I swallowed back a lump of something, anger tinged with disgust. We sat in silence for a few moments before I said, “Not much to go on.”

  “What the hell did you expect?”

  “A picture of the sniper with his name under it would’ve been nice. Short of that, names, I guess, someone to talk to.”

  Dunn logged out of the archives and onto Google. We found nothing on The Idaho Wilderness Guide Service. “Probably gone out of business,” he said. On the other hand, Idaho Adventure Guides and Outfitters had an elaborate website, which included a map showing the location of their hunt camps. I jotted down the name of the owner and the telephone number, although I didn’t have a clue how I might use the information.

  I leaned back, stretched, and watched as Dunn drained his gin and tonic.

  I must have telegraphed my concern, because Dunn said, “What? Why do I always get the feeling you’re judging me, Claxton?”

  I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “No offense. I just need you to stay with me, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he shot over his shoulder as he motored off to the kitchen. When he returned, he held up his glass and said, “Half the usual gin. Satisfied?”

  Next, I explained how I had struck out with Lydia Voxell, and Dunn agreed to scan the archives for anything on the blues singer, Sheri North. He found several articles. Dunn expanded a photo of her on stage with a piano, drum, and upright bass trio. “You can see what all the fuss was about. She could sing, and she was one gorgeous woman.”

  I had to agree. She had a willowy body, long, flowing black hair, and a set of cheekbones that would have made Lauren Bacall envious. But all the articles were written in the fifties about her singing engagements in Portland. Nothing after that.

  Her deceased manager, Harry Voxell, appeared in a smattering of articles over the years. But only his 1996 obituary contained anything useful. The piece mentioned that Sheri North had sung a moving rendition of “Amazing Grace” to end his memorial service.

  “So all I’ve got is that Sheri North was living in ’96, but there’s no record of her anywhere.”

  “Must be her stage name,” Dunn said.

  “She used her stage name at the funeral?”

  “Sure. She was performing again. Show biz habits die hard.”

  I nodded. “Maybe so.”

  “The only way you’re going to find her is through a detective agency. Or maybe y
ou should try talking to Voxell’s niece in person. You know, turn on the charm, if you can find any.”

  “Very funny.”

  A few minutes later, Dunn saw me to the door, and as I was about to step outside said, “That kid you mentioned who does yard work, can you set something up?”

  “Sure. I’d be happy to. And thanks again for the help, Fletch.”

  ***

  Back at the Aerie around four, I was thumbing through the mail out on the road when I noticed a car coming from the direction of Dundee. It was a black Hummer with deeply tinted windows and a gleaming chrome grill that looked like the bared muzzle of a pit bull. Its nose dipped as it began to brake, and I stepped off the road warily, putting a fir tree between me and the oncoming vehicle. It stopped in front of me, and the back window came down, releasing a cloud of blue smoke.

  “Are you Cal Claxton?” a voice said from within the car.

  I nodded. “Yes I am.”

  “I’m Braxton Gage. I understand you want to talk to me.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  I felt exposed but wasn’t about to show it. “Mr. Gage, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “George Lone Deer tells me you’re a man with a problem. Why don’t you get in and we can talk about it.”

  There it was—one of those put up or shut up moments. I could either get in and chance being abducted or play it safe and miss out on talking to someone who might help me blow this thing open. I decided to risk it but not before buying myself some insurance.

  I put my mail back in the box. “Just give me a minute to make a call.” With Gage watching, I flipped open my cell phone and speed-dialed Philip Lone Deer. I got his voice mail, but that didn’t matter. I said in a voice that Gage could hear, “Philip, this is Cal. I’m here in front of my place talking with Braxton Gage. I just wanted to thank you and your father for making this possible. We’re going for a ride in his Hummer to talk things over. Talk to you soon.” It wasn’t much of a deterrent, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice. If I went missing, Philip would know Gage was the last person to see me alive. And Gage would know he knew.

  Gage wore a burgundy golf shirt with some sort of logo on it, cream colored slacks and expensive, hand-tooled shoes. Not the attire of your typical abductor. He must have been in his eighties, but he looked much younger. He had fleshy jowls, an off-kilter nose, and moist eyes from either age or cigar smoke, I couldn’t tell which. I had a fleeting sense that his face, around his eyes, looked familiar, but it passed. His chest and shoulders were thick and raised veins lay on his stout forearms like snakes.

  “You want a cigar?” When I declined his offer, he said to his driver, “We’re going to talk for a while, Jerome. Just drive through the vineyards, please.” Jerome—the guy who had trouble finding jackets big enough to fit him—nodded and swung the big Hummer back onto the road. A faint, metallic beat began to bleed out from speaker buds stuck in his ears, assuring me Jerome wouldn’t be eavesdropping on our conversation.

  Gage flicked the soggy remnant of his cigar out the window and turned to face me. His eyes had narrowed a bit, and the tight line of his lips formed the faintest of smiles. “I understand you drove all the way out to The Dalles to see me, but Stephanie threw up a roadblock.”

  I nodded. “She told me you were tied up in a conference call.”

  He chuckled. “God save us all from bossy women. Steph’s afraid some skeleton from my closet will rear up and bite my ass.” He laughed again. “I told her not to get her panties in a bunch. I know what I can say and can’t say.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Guess I can’t blame her. She was convinced I was going to screw up your casino deal with the tribes.”

  “She means well, but nobody can screw up the deal except the Governor.” His eyes narrowed again. “Now what in the hell’s on your mind, son?”

  I started at the beginning. “A Wasco Indian named Nelson Queah went missing the day The Dalles Dam floodgates were first closed and the falls at Celilo flooded. Queah was an influential member of the tribe there and an activist in the effort to stop the dam construction. I have reason to believe he was murdered and thrown into the lake that night. I also believe he was killed by a man named Cecil Ferguson, a man who worked for you at the time.” As I said this, I watched Gage closely.

  The muscles in his face remained relaxed, and his expression didn’t change for a couple of beats. Then he smiled knowingly and shook his head. “Ferguson,” he said with derision. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he did what you said. Where is the old fart, anyway?”

  “He’s dead. Someone beat him to death in Portland a couple of weeks ago. The day before, someone shot a friend of his, a man named Sherman Watlamet. Watlamet had told Ferguson that he was going to talk about some things that happened fifty years ago at the dam.”

  Gage’s eyebrows moved up a few notches. If he knew about the killings—and I’m sure he did—he didn’t show it. “I figured that’s the way it would end for Cecil, just not so late in life. I cut him loose after we finished The Dalles Dam. He was a good worker, but I got tired of bailing him out of jail for drinking and brawling. Why would he have killed this Indian fellow?”

  “An employee of Ferguson’s, a young man named Timothy Wiiks, discovered he was somehow siphoning money off at the dam. Wiiks father was Scandanavian, but his mother’s a Umatilla. He went to Queah for help. Wiiks was found dead in the Deschutes River the night before Queah disappeared. I believe Ferguson killed him, too.”

  Gage fished a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket and went about the obscene ritual of wetting it with his lips and tongue before he lit it. His expression had gone pensive. “I don’t remember anyone named Wiiks or Wat-the fuck, and I can tell you that no one in my organization was skimming anything. I watched my books like a hawk back then. Still do. If there were any financial shenanigans going on, it came through Royce Townsend’s organization, that hypocritical little fucker.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Gage pinched a fleck of tobacco from the tip of his tongue and rested his eyes on me. I sensed he was gauging how much to divulge and waited for him to continue. After what seemed an interminable pause, he said, “Townsend ran The Dalles project on a pay to play basis. If he awarded a contract, he expected a kickback, a generous one, and not any one-time payment. He liked regular installments. He and his older brother were the golden boys as far as the Corps of Engineers was concerned, so none of the subcontractors dared fuck with him.”

  “Did you pay Townsend a kickback?”

  He lit his cigar, blew a cloud of smoke through a gap in the window, and shot me a satisfied smile. “Nope. There was no way in hell I was going to kowtow to that son of a bitch.”

  I smiled with what I hoped looked like admiration. “How did you manage it?”

  “Pretty simple, really. See, Townsend was supposed to be the devoted husband and father, but it was common knowledge that he was banging a babe from Portland. I hired a private detective to follow him around and get some nice pictures of the two of them.” He laughed. “The rest was easy. Matter of fact, I sent Ferguson to see Townsend with an envelope full of pictures. No siree, we didn’t pay any kickbacks.” He leaned back and smiled with pride. “Pretty creative solution for a young buck just starting out in business, don’t you think?”

  I stifled a laugh at Gage’s take on business ethics. “Creative, for sure.” He’s talking, I told myself, keep him going. “Uh, so maybe what Wiiks observed was Ferguson working the deal with Townsend?”

  Gage took a puff and shrugged. “It was a long time ago, Claxton. I can tell you no money exchanged hands in my deal.”

  “Okay, suppose for minute that Ferguson was working a scam. How would he do it if he worked for you?”

  Gage fingered his cigar absently and gazed out the window. “How sure are you about this money being st
olen?”

  “Very. The story from my source was confirmed by a newspaper reporter who’d been contacted by Queah. I talked to him a few days ago.”

  He brought his gaze back inside the Hummer, still pensive. “Maybe Ferguson and Townsend were playing me.”

  “How do you think they worked it?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Ferguson probably billed our work out at an inflated rate and then kept the difference between that and the lower amount he deposited in my account based on the actual invoices. So, I probably didn’t lose any money, but they would’ve made out like bandits.” He shook his head. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

  “How can you be sure it was Townsend working with Ferguson?”

  Gage studied the rows of newly leafed grapevines passing by outside while he considered my question. “Can’t say for sure, but I sent Ferguson to cut the deal with Townsend. Maybe that slimy bastard found a way to turn Cecil. Cecil was no tower of virtue, you know. And it would have taken someone high up in Townsend’s organization to grease the skids on a scam like that. Who better than the boss himself?”

  We drove for a while in silence. Then Gage turned to Jerome and told him to turn around. I said, “The woman Townsend was involved with—she was the blues singer, Sheri North, right?”

  His eyes got bigger for an instant. The question had obviously caught him off guard. He inhaled deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke slowly out the gap in the window. “Where in God’s name did you dredge that up?”

  “Sorry. I have to keep my sources confidential.” He nodded slightly, and I continued, “Do you think she would know anything about this?”

  Gage looked down at his big, gnarled hands and then back at me. I saw a depth and softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He exhaled and said in a low, suddenly weary voice, “I don’t know what she knew. I suppose there could’ve been pillow talk between her and Townsend about his business dealings. I can tell you one thing, though, she’s a good woman and Townsend didn’t deserve her.”

  I nodded. “Do you know where she is now?”