Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  I exhaled a breath and tried to clear my head. “Uh, I don’t know if I can get away.”

  “Aw, come on, Cal. The weather looks great.”

  My mind started to clear. “Is the salmon fly hatch on?”

  He chuckled at my fishing naiveté. “No. It’s too early, but the fishing’s still good, man.”

  “I, uh, would have to rearrange some things and get Gertie to feed Archie.”

  “No problem. I’ve got some repairs I can work on, so I’ll just hang here until you arrive.”

  He left me no out. Philip had a way of doing that. “Okay. See you in three hours.”

  After sending off a volley of e-mails to clear my schedule, I began to pack my gear. When the inevitable feelings of guilt and anxiety arrived, I took a breath and told myself my business would be there when I got back. After all, this was the Deschutes River. It occurred to me that my old self—that uptight prosecutor lusting for glory down in L.A.—would have never, ever agreed to something this spontaneous.

  Apparently, I was starting to get the hang of this Oregon thing.

  ***

  We put in at the Warm Springs Reservation, which stretches better than twenty miles down the west side of the river, a pristine section of the Deschutes off limits to all but tribe members and their guests. Our plan was to amble downriver with the intent of catching some native rainbows, called redsides for the hue dominating their iridescent sides.

  It turned out Philip had exaggerated a bit—the fishing wasn’t that great, at least for me. The fish were “looking down,” as they say, meaning they weren’t looking up for bugs on the surface of the river, where we hoped to fool them with Philip’s hand-crafted flies. But that was okay. There would be plenty of time to talk, something Philip and I hadn’t done face to face since I discovered Jacob Norquist’s body in his mother’s beach house.

  I was back at the boat after working what looked like a good stretch of water but without any luck. I poured myself a cup of coffee and watched as Philip fished his way upstream along a grassy bank. Meanwhile, an osprey across the river was busy building a nest atop a bone white, forty-foot snag. I turned back to Philip just as his four-weight rod bent double. It was the second redside he’d taken along the bank. Apparently the fish were only looking down for me. He held the fish up for a moment before releasing it.

  I called across the water, “You gave me your defective flies, didn’t you.”

  He shrugged, showing his palms. “They were free, weren’t they?”

  I laughed. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  We found a place to eat out in the open, the spring sun warm on our skin. “So how does it feel not to have to watch your back?” Philip asked as he took a bite of sandwich.

  “Good. There’s something about the threat of getting your head blown off that wears on you. By the way, I forgot to give you your Magnum. It’s in my car. Thanks for the loan.”

  He shot me a look bordering on exasperation. “You know, you really ought to get yourself a gun.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why? The damn things make me nervous. Actually, I ought to feel a lot better than I do about having Norquist off the board, but this isn’t over. And he didn’t kill himself, either.”

  “The gun that killed him was found in his hand. What more do you want?”

  “Oh, right. A cheap thirty-two with the serial number filed off. No way Norquist uses a street gun like that, even to kill himself. You, of all people, should understand that. I mean, they found his rifle in the house, meticulously cleaned and oiled. No suicide note, either.” Philip flashed me a skeptical look that annoyed the hell out of me. “I talked to Norquist’s mother at length afterwards. She’s not buying the suicide, either.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “Someone shot him, then put the gun in his hand and squeezed off a second round. That way he’s got powder residue on his hand.”

  “And then they replaced the bullet to make it look like only one shot was fired?”

  “Something like that. It’s done on TV all the time.”

  “Where’d the second round go?”

  “Who the hell knows? They didn’t find anything at the cabin. The killer probably opened the French doors and popped one into the woods behind the cabin.”

  Philip nodded and paused for a couple of beats. “What about his truck? They ever find it?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. He stole another one in Spray. Drove it right through their roadblocks. Go figure.”

  We ate in silence for a while, and then I said, “At least the evidence proving he was the shooter is tight. I saw him leaving Watlamet’s ranch, the boot tracks you picked up there and in that canyon matched the boots he was wearing when they found him, and the bullet that killed Watlamet was fired from his Remington. The one you found in Grooms’ vest was too flattened for a match, but it was the right caliber. By the way, Bailey said that was the slickest tracking job he’d ever seen.”

  Philip allowed himself a modest smile. “That wasn’t much. My grandfather tracked a wounded elk in a rainstorm once.” He sipped his coffee. “You identified the body, I guess.”

  I exhaled. “Yeah. Funny thing about that. I didn’t feel the anger I expected when I saw him. Just pity. He, uh, looked like he was at peace, you know? And I got this feeling—it just came over me—that he’d been manipulated somehow. It was weird.”

  Philip nodded knowingly. “The dead speak to us sometimes, Cal.” He paused to unwrap another sandwich. “So, what are you going to do about the rich dude in Portland and Braxton Gage and the whole mess at the dam fifty years ago that started this?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Truth is, there isn’t much I can do. Everything I have is hearsay or came from someone who’s dead now. I told the cops everything I dug up.”

  “And they’re stymied?”

  “Completely. Bailey told me they’re taking a hard look at Royce Townsend, but he has an ironclad alibi for the night Norquist died, and nothing else has turned up showing any recent contact between him and Norquist.”

  “What about Ferguson? He made that first call to someone, right? No record of that?”

  “No, and that fits because Ferguson bragged to me that he used a pay phone.”

  “But he wouldn’t tell you who he called, even though Waltlamet was his buddy?”

  “Right. His screwed-up code of honor wouldn’t let him. Anyway, Townsend admitted to using Norquist as a hunting guide numerous times over the years. But there’s no law against that. I told Bailey he could be Norquist’s father, but Shirley Norquist isn’t talking about that, and there isn’t probable cause to force a DNA test. I assume they’re also questioning Townsend’s son, Jason, and his political team, but that’ll take some time.”

  “What about that son of a bitch Gage? Maybe he was the one Watlamet was going to expose. That kind of publicity, even if it came from some hermit Indian, would ruin his chances at doing a casino deal with the Tribes. My father tells me the Governor’s on the fence. A piece of bad publicity about one of the players would help kill the deal.”

  I nodded, thinking not only of Braxton Gage, but his business manager, Stephanie Barrett, and the fire in her eyes when she warned me about making trouble for them. “You’re right, the stakes are high for Gage, too, but there doesn’t seem to be any connection between Norquist and him, except that he knew Norquist’s mother back when the dam was being built.”

  Philip smiled, but his face turned grim. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see that bastard go down in flames and take the casino deal with him. I have the greatest respect for my father, but a casino in the Gorge is the worst idea I’ve ever heard of.”

  We kicked this around for a while, and then Philip changed the subject, saying out of the blue, “What’s going on with you and my cousin?”

  I shot him a look. “Nothing’s going on. S
he’s engaged to be married.”

  He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I meant your business arrangement. You still working for her?”

  I managed to suppress a sheepish smile. “Uh, not officially. But I’m worried about her because of her proximity to Royce Townsend. She’s going to be a member of his family, for Christ’s sake. I don’t like it.”

  “Have you told her what you suspect?”

  “Well, she knows about the connection and all, from the newspaper accounts. She called me, and I filled her in on the details but didn’t connect any dots. She seemed relieved that the sniper was dead, but that was about it. I think she’s in denial, what with the engagement and the Senate race and everything.”

  Philip considered this for a long time. “Maybe you’ve done enough, my friend. You’ve brought Winona the peace of knowing what really happened to her grandfather. You figured out who the sniper was and where he was holed up. Maybe it’s time to let it go, and besides, Winona’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  At the time I think I really meant it.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  I found myself buried in court appearances and depositions during the following week. I was locking up my office after a particularly busy day when the phone on my desk rang. I dashed back in and caught it on the fourth ring.

  A familiar voice said, “Cal? I’m glad I caught you. It’s Jason Townsend. How are you?”

  He went on to invite me to what he described as an important meeting of his closest advisors for that Friday night. I told him I hardly qualified as an advisor, let alone a close one, but he insisted I come. He was evasive about the purpose of the meeting but managed to pique my curiosity. I told him I’d be there.

  ***

  The meeting was at his father’s estate on the Willamette River. It was seven in the evening, and the horses were in the stable, although stable seemed an inadequate term—‘palatial equine structure’ would be more accurate. Plum trees in full flower lined the drive, and the manicured pasture to my left looked like a fairway at the Masters, even in the fading light. I parked my car on cobblestones, followed the murmur of voices around the side of the house, and let myself onto the patio through a gate covered with English ivy.

  I knew some of the players by now, but the throng of supporters had grown considerably. The professor from Lewis and Clark was huddled with the emigration activist and the Portland artist. They were speaking in low, conspiratorial tones. The rest of the group, including Winona, was gathered around Sam DeSilva. I didn’t see Jason Townsend or his father, Royce. When DeSilva saw me, he broke from the group and came toward me like a heat-seeking missile.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face here, Claxton.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Sam.”

  The color in his neck deepened a shade, and the healed scratch marks on his face turned purple. “You’re the one who suggested to the police that Royce might’ve had some connection to that crazy bastard Norquist, aren’t you?”

  “What I told the police is none of your business.”

  “Well, we kept the lid on the publicity, but it could have crippled the campaign. Why don’t you just turn around and get the fuck out of here?”

  “I’m an invited guest,” I answered and brushed past him.

  Winona saw the encounter and came up next to me. “What was that all about?” She looked anxious, but there was a fragment of something new in her eyes as well, something I couldn’t read.

  “Oh, just Sam being Sam. So, this doesn’t feel like another political strategy meeting. What’s up, anyway?”

  Her smile turned bittersweet. “I’ll let Jason tell you.”

  As if on cue, Royce Townsend and his wife came out of the house with Jason Townsend walking between them. The gathered supporters of the campaign turned to face them and fell silent. Obviously, they’d sensed the same vibe I had. Winona took her place beside Jason, taking his hand.

  Jason cleared his throat, let go of Winona’s hand, and stepped forward. “Good evening, folks. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” He glanced back nervously at his father, who stared straight ahead like a stone statue. His stepmother had a glued on smile that hinted something awkward might be afoot. In contrast, Winona looked serene. “I also want to thank you for the support you’ve given me over these past months. The advice, the hard work, the campaign contributions, it’s all been incredible. I’m deeply honored that you find me worthy to represent you in the U.S. Senate, and that’s what I want to talk about tonight. I, uh, have an important announcement to make and wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sam shift his feet nervously, a puzzled look on his face.

  Jason focused on something behind the group, and the easy, boyish charm he’d always exuded seemed gone. In its place was the look of a man who’d come to terms with a difficult decision. “I believe it was Plato who said, ‘The life which is unexamined in not worth living.’ Well, I’ve examined my life and decided to make some changes and own up to some things.” He paused for a moment and brought his gaze back to the group. “Effective immediately, I’ve decided to drop out of the race.”

  The group gasped in near perfect unison and then went silent. I heard a horse whinny out in the barn. “What?” Sam DeSilva said, stepping forward. Smiling in disbelief, it was clear he hoped what he’d just heard was a joke. The smile disintegrated as he and Jason stood looking at each other. “You can’t do this,” he said, shifting his eyes to Royce Townsend. “Royce, what the hell’s going on? Tell him he can’t just up and quit. He’s a lock to win this damn thing. Tell him, Royce.”

  Royce Townsend looked straight ahead and didn’t answer.

  “What about the money these people donated? Have you thought of that?” Sam’s face was flushed. A glistening thread of spittle dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  Jason wrinkled his brow and shook his head as if he were dismissing the antics of a small child. He said, “Sam, would you be quiet, please? You know very well we haven’t spent that much from our war chest. We’ll be glad to refund people’s donations. But I’m not finished.” He turned and offered his hand to Winona, who took it and stepped forward, a nervous smile on her face.

  My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard.

  “Winona and I have made a joint decision to end our engagement.”

  A collective groan rippled across the group. The Hispanic activist cried out, “Oh, no!”

  Jason raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Please, it’s the best thing for both of us. We remain the best of friends.” Then he turned to Winona and added, “We both know now that we entered into the engagement for the wrong reasons.”

  Winona smiled and nodded her encouragement.

  The economics professor said, “What are you going to do now?”

  Jason stood there for a moment as if he’d been waiting for that particular question. His lips traced a faint smile. “I plan to serve out my term in the Oregon Senate and then decide what’s next. I, I’m really not sure I’m cut out for politics.” He paused for a couple of beats. “And I plan to live my life as an openly gay man.”

  The room went completely silent. Jason continued, “I want to be clear about one thing—I’m not dropping out because I’m gay. I’m just not sure politics is what I want to do the rest of my life.”

  By this time, Sam DeSilva looked like a balloon with its air let out. He stepped unsteadily up to Jason and said in a low voice, “After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? I was handing you a Senate seat on a platter, and this is how you react? You’re going back to that little faggot Hanson?”

  A collective groan rose from the assembled guests. Jason stood his ground, regarding Sam with a look of pity. Then another voice said, “Sam, I think it would be best if you left now
.” It was Royce Townsend. His tone left no room for misinterpretation.

  Sam spun on his heels and walked out, muttering to himself.

  I looked around just in time to see Winona disappear into the house with the Townsends. I stayed around, hoping she’d come back out of the house. I wanted to reassure myself she was okay. None of the others left right away, either. There was a need to talk, the jarring news seeming to forge a new level of camaraderie among Jason’s spurned supporters. It was safe to say no one saw this coming.

  I gave up after fifteen minutes. I was fumbling for my keys next to my car in the darkness when I heard a voice behind me. “Cal, is that you?”

  It was Winona.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  I turned and saw Winona’s silhouette backlit by a landscape light. I said, “Oh, hi. I was just leaving.”

  She wove her way through a bed of rhododendrons, and when she stopped in front of me I caught a hint of lavender from her hair. “I’m glad I caught you, Cal. Jason and his father are having another, um, discussion. I came with him tonight, and I’m exhausted. Do you suppose you could give me a lift home?”

  When we got out to the road, I said, “Look, we’re closer to my place. Why don’t you come to the Aerie? You can sleep in my guest room, and I’ll take you back in the morning, after I feed you a proper breakfast.”

  “Do you make pancakes?”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “Okay, the Aerie it is.”

  She was asleep before we reached the Pacific Highway. When we got to the Aerie, I nudged her gently to wake her and led her up the stairs to the guest room. I started to leave, but she turned and put her arms around my neck. I kept my distance for a few awkward moments as my resolve left me like so much smoke in the wind. She tugged softly on my neck, and our bodies met, tentatively at first, and then full on with a hungry urgency. I could feel her heart pounding, her breath entering and leaving her lungs. I began kissing her face, her hair, her eyes, the soft hollows of her neck. We rolled on our sides and undressed each other, flinging the clothes on either side of the bed, and then we were joined. I abandoned any hope of slowing myself down, the end coming like the breaking of a dam on some river in my mind.