by Dave Balcom
I nodded.
“You go inside and see your wife and your friends. Remember how close they could be to dead. You remember this night, and you forget everything about before. Now, go!”
I found Jan and the Nelsons sitting quietly in the living room. Their feet bound with wire ties; each was wearing a blindfold. I could see relief in Jan’s eyes as I pulled the rag with one hand, and cut her feet free with my pocketknife in the other.
“Nobody make a sound,” I whispered as I finished freeing the Nelsons. I took my phone from inside my shirt. “Pete?”
“I heard it all. Who was that?”
“No idea. I can tell you for sure it wasn’t Art Truman. I’m sure I’ve heard that voice, or one very similar before, but I can’t place it.”
“Who’s the ‘Lennon broad’ he was talking about?”
“Where’s your patrol car?”
“Corner of your road and I-84 as requested.”
“You in contact with them?”
“They’re on my wife’s phone in my other hand; they’ve not reported anything. They were told to observe anything but to take no action without further orders. Wait.”
I could hear him asking for a report on the other phone, but I couldn’t make out exactly what he was hearing.
“Nobody’s come out of your road since they arrived; could they have missed anything?”
I thought for a second, and asked Jack, “How did he arrive?”
“No vehicle, that’s for certain,” the older man answered quickly. “Musta hiked in?”
“Young or old?”
“No idea,” Jack said. “Wearing a hood with eye holes only.
“Older than young,” Shirlee offered. “His hands; they were more like ours than Jan’s.”
“Didn’t wear gloves?” I was surprised.
“Didn’t see any before he blinded us,” Jack answered.
“Could he have left prints here?”
I checked each of them; watched them consider the question. “I don’t think so,” Jan spoke for the first time.
“Musta touched the kitchen door latch, I don’t know; we were in here talking, and then he was in here too...”
I spoke into my phone, “Pete? I’d have your boys go up the frontage road to the overpass where the old road heads up and down the mountain, and see if they find a vehicle. It’s about a mile and a half cross country from this point; I could make that in 15 minutes or so if I was in a hurry...”
“I’m on it; call you later?”
“Roger, out.” I folded up my phone.
“This shit’s gettin’ old, Stanton,” Jan said as we returned to our house. “Which one of your old spook buddies do you think that was?”
I had no answer to that, just draped an arm over her shoulders and we strolled home that way.
Chapter 33
Bill Chance’s letter was in the mailbox the next afternoon. I had spent the bulk of the day immersed in summarizing my thoughts of the past three months and hadn’t heard the mailman’s arrival.
I had become cautious to the point that I was starting to scoff at myself as I carefully examined the box for possible booby traps, and at the same time I reminded myself that instead of scoffing, I should be doubling my wariness.
There were four pieces of mail in the box, and three of them never made it past the recycling bin in the garage.
I took Chance’s letter to the deck and took a seat in the shade of the pergola. It was four pages, single spaced, obviously printed out of his computer. The return address on the envelope was new to me, but the letter was pure Wild Bill.
It started with a summary statement: “You and yours are in real danger.”
Then, in the machine-gun pacing that reflected not only his speech patterns but his brain functions, he filled the first three pages with bulleted phrases:
Sleep armed;
Daily surveillance necessary;
Vary your pattern, break all behavior habits;
Known hired assassin has contract on someone in your area;
Collateral damage approved in advance;
PsyOps part of pattern, i.e. threats, feints, misleading clues
And so it went on until the final page where he seemed to want to share just how convoluted his search had been. “Jim, this is very confusing. Seems like there are unknown players involved for unknown purposes. It also seems as if three of our former teammates have gone over to the dark side of hatred – large files full of theories, conjecture – no proof or comprehensive summary – very weird for our cousins, weirder still for the folks we thought we knew back in the day.
“You’ve kicked over or stumbled into something ugly; the Lennon woman’s research into her family appears only peripherally involved here, but no one really knows at this point. Feds are very cautious; signs of interest go way up the chain of command, and I’m getting stern warnings to back off.
“Call if you need backup... WBC”
I shared the letter with Jan and watched the emotions flicker across her face like clouds flirting with the sun as she read the bulleted cautions, and then she relaxed as she read the final page. “You’d be paranoid, too...” She started.
“If somebody was after you.” I finished the old joke.
“Well, you’ve been warned now by friend and foe alike; whatcha thinking?”
“I need to talk to Elmo and Grace.”
“What about?”
“Benny Travis.”
“Benny Travis? You mean his suicide or murder, whatever it was?”
“Exactly. If we start with the premise that he was murdered, why? If we understood a motive like that, perhaps the rest of this – the shooting, the arrival of a paid assassin, the intimidation of hungry people, all of it – might make some sense, and might point us in a direction...”
She interrupted my thoughts, “By ‘us’ you, of course are talking about Rhodes, Williams, Boyd and their staffs, right?”
I nodded in resignation, “Of course, I meant everyone who has been involved, but that includes you, the Nelsons, Ahmed, Elmo and Grace...”
She was shaking her head; “We’re victims, Jim, not part of the ‘us.’ The ‘us’ refers to people who are trained and paid to take action. You ask questions, it’s what you do, and I love that about you, but you need to share the answers to those questions with the ‘us-team’ and let them take appropriate action. I’m afraid you’re too old to take part in the action, my love. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
I started to speak and realized I had nothing to say that would calm her fears. I rose to go for a walk, but she put a hand on my arm, “You’re not too old for loving, dear heart.”
I gently touched her cheek, let my thumb trace her jaw, and whispered, “And I’m not old enough to settle for being a victim.”
Chapter 34
“What are you asking?” Grace said, a tinge of anger in her voice.
We were sitting in the Table of Grace just after 1 that afternoon. Jan and I had shown up at closing time and pitched in for clean-up duties, and now we were poised over coffees.
“Grace, we are surrounded by a mystery here, and it seems to me that mystery stems from the day Benny failed to show up for work.” She started to speak, but I held up my hand for her to stop, and when she did, I continued, “It makes sense to me that when confronted with a series of events that don’t seem to be connected, that if we go back to the beginning and focus on that initial event – its causes – then we have a chance of discovering a motive, and with a motive in hand, the rest of the events might fall into some sense of order.”
“Benny had been a friend of mine for thirty years,” Grace started. “With Elmo even longer. The two of them used to drink and carouse together, didn’t you Elmo?”
“We did,” the old man said with a rueful shake of his head. “We were a pair, we were; but I saw the path we were on wasn’t the path to real happiness. I gave up the booze; Benny had a bigger challenge in that area, and was ge
tting more and more involved in other drugs of the times.
“We remained friends, but he had to work those things out with his Lord just as I had. He came around, but not before he’d spent time in rehab, prison, rehab, another stint with the state, and then he had a heart attack.
“You know, at AA they talk about reaching rock bottom before recovery can even strike a chord, and that’s how it was with Benny. Divorced from his wife, estranged from his children, no job, he was a ward of the state waiting to see if his ticker was up to the job facing him; he finally reached out to his God for help and forgiveness.
“He had been sober for twenty years when we opened the Table, and he was the first volunteer who showed up. Took real pride of ownership in being part of this ministry. Clients loved him, and he loved them back full measure.”
I knew Jan was making notes, and I let a silence drag out so she could catch up. When I heard her stop writing, I moved forward, “So, if we presume he didn’t kill himself, why would anyone else kill him?”
“We were afraid it might have been his elder son,” Grace whispered.
“Really? There had been trouble between them?”
Elmo answered, “’Bout the only thing between them was trouble. Young man never passed up a chance to hurl hatred at his father; couldn’t forgive or forget. Came in here from time to time and never left without a tirade about the ‘Jesus-loving hypocrite up to his elbows in dirty dishes’ and other taunts. A visit from that boy could shut down the Table’s love and kindness like nothing else we’ve experienced.”
“Would he have the background to stage a murder that would pass as a suicide?”
Both of them shook their heads at the same time.
“Would he have the resources to hire it done?”
Again, they shook their heads. Elmo spoke, “I have no idea how much something like that might cost, but if it were a dollar, it’d tax that boy’s resources.”
“So what else could Ben have been involved in that might attract the evil intentions of someone with the requisite skills or the funds to hire it done?”
“Jim,” Grace said with some impatience in her voice, “you have to understand that the only thing he did was work for us. He had a disability check and we helped him when he needed something that he couldn’t afford. But his every waking moment was focused on the Table and atonement for past bad acts...” She ran out of gas, and a tear worked its way down her cheek.
“I’m sorry, Grace, but I need to ask; we need to understand...”
“I know, but this is like ripping my heart out after trying to put the pain behind me...”
Elmo put a comforting hand on her shoulder, “I think, Jim, you need to focus on the Sheriff’s department. They – at least some of them – were really upset with Ben’s work with the folks without walls.
“Somebody over there held him without charges and left him in his apartment smelling of whiskey. I sat with Ben that first morning, just as I had too many other mornings when he was stinking, but I saw a difference. He wasn’t hung over; he was miserable, true; but mostly he was angry and embarrassed. He had bruises all over his body. I undressed him and put him into the shower, and he was a sight.
“When he was dried and into bed, I called a doctor friend of mine, and he called on Ben that evening.”
“The doctor’s name?”
“Walt Regis. He and Dr. Hicks run that one-hour clinic on Tuesday nights.”
“What’s a one-hour clinic?” Jan asked.
“The clinic opens the door at 6 p.m. and everyone who gets through the door in the first two minutes gets free medical treatment. It’s amazing to witness.”
“It’s an abomination that a service like that is needed in this country,” Grace said.
“Is Dr. Regis in the book?” I asked.
“Internal medicine. He checked Ben over, gave him some pain medicine and a couple of sleeping tablets. Ben was good as new after a couple of days; the bruises took weeks to fade away.”
“Anything else you might be able to tell me about Ben’s, say, last month?”
“I know he had been spending time with a woman he met on the route. He didn’t say much about it, but I knew he was,” Grace said in a far-off voice. “I was so thrilled for him. Everyone needs someone they can care for...”
“A name? Location?”
“Willow-Something.”
“Willow?”
“Native American?” Jan interjected.
“Probably,” Grace said. “We have several shut-ins on the reservation. We hear from them, or about them, and put them on the route. Then we drop by with food, analyze the situation, and if they’re truly in need, we serve them five nights a week.”
“Is Willow on the route still?”
“You’d have to ask Ahmed; it’s not like we keep a list that could be subpoenaed.”
I’d pried deep enough. We thanked them for the time, and promised to be there on Monday as usual.
Jan wasn’t giving me much slack line, so she was with me when I stopped at the offices of Regis and Hicks. The office was the ground floor of a house in the same block as St. Anthony Hospital.
“May I help you?” A young woman greeted us as we entered the office. There were three people waiting.
“Hi! We’re the Stantons. Live up on the mountain, and being we were in town, we decided just to stop by and try to make an appointment with Dr. Regis...”
“Of course, what’s the nature of your condition?”
“It’s not a medical issue, actually. I’m fine as far as I know. But I have a friend who Dr. Regis treated some time ago, and I would like to discuss the doctor’s impressions from that experience.”
“I’m not sure the doctor is going to discuss another patient with you, sir...”
“Well, the other guy has since passed away. I’m not going to ask Dr. Regis to violate patient confidentiality, but I’m sure his visit left him with impressions about the man’s life, and that’s what I’d hope he can discuss.”
“One moment, please.”
She pushed a button on her phone, and with her back to us spoke, listened, and hung up. “If you can wait; he’s with his last appointment of the day...”
“Thank you,” Jan said, as she pointedly studied the other folks waiting.
“Oh,” the receptionist caught Jan’s look. “They’re waiting for the patient he’s with now.”
Fifteen minutes later a young woman and a child came from the back and stopped at the receptionist. They departed, the room emptied, and we waited.
What seemed like an hour later but was more like ten minutes, a man in white smock with a stethoscope hanging around his neck approached us, “Walt Regis, Mr. and Mrs. Stanton; can you come back to my office?”
We followed him, and entered his office as he waved us to two chairs facing a cluttered desk. He sat in his chair and smiled at us, “Just hung up with Elmo Williams. He tells me you’re interested in Ben Travis. Perhaps you can explain your interest?”
I recapped my thinking just as I had for Grace and Elmo.
He didn’t take notes, but he listened intently. I saw him pondering and we waited him out. “I reported the finding of my one and only visit with Mr. Travis to the Pendleton Police Department as would any emergency room worker who had confronted the evidence I found in Mr. Travis’ room... I don’t make house calls as a rule, but our one-hour clinic wouldn’t be up and running if not for the support, guidance, and investment of Elmo Williams. He called; I responded.
“Can you share the nature of the report you filed?” I asked.
“Normally, no; I wouldn’t. But Elmo has been convinced since day one that Ben Travis didn’t kill himself, and while I find that a normal feeling by a non-professional friend of the deceased, I also know that something truly unnatural happened to Mr. Travis prior to his death.”
“And?”
“He was thoroughly and methodically beaten. Bruises and some muscle hemorrhaging were extensive... from his shoul
ders to the soles of his feet; I have never seen anything like it on a living person.”
“Couldn’t have been in a car wreck?”
“It would have taken hours – days – to inflict what I saw.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“I took a blood sample at his request. He was pleading with me, swearing he hadn’t had a drink despite smelling like a distillery. The results were negative for any drugs or alcohol.”
“Other impressions?”
“He was a healthy, 60-something man with a genuine love of his Lord. When I asked him to explain what happened, he said he had been snatched off the street, hooded, and taken to an unknown location where he had been held for days.
“When I pressed him on his treatment during that ordeal, he would only say, “I forgive them if God will; they’ll not be judged by me.”
“Did you see,” Jan asked, “any hint that he might – from the pain or other psychological reasons – be a candidate for suicide?”
“No, I did not. I gave him a sample four-day supply of a non-opioid pain killer, some Aleve PM tablets to help him sleep; I saw him five days later driving the Table’s van and he smiled and waved at me. No, if he was harboring thoughts of self-destruction, they weren’t apparent.”
At home that evening Pete Boyd called. “Jim, you know that request you made this afternoon about a Native American named Willow?”
“What’d you find?”
“I called the folks at the rez, and here’s her address and phone number.” He recited it.
“What’s the word on her?”
“Willow Close. Lifelong resident of the region; mother was a Umatilla; father a rancher up north. Folks split up when Willow was a teenager. She and her mom – with help from Dad – bought the house she lives in and she’s been there ever since. Her mom died two years ago; Willow has never held a job; volunteers at the rez school, attends church religiously. Not much to tell.”