Old Chaos (9781564747136)

by Simonson, Sheila

  Rob winced and avoided Meg’s eyes. He had reason to know the value of Native American artifacts. “I could call Chief Thomas. She told me there was no Klalo settlement out there, but she’ll know if there’s a history of corruption.”

  “Good idea. You said the state has my report on file, though. If Drinkwater’s man got his survey accepted, the county should have notified the state people of the change.”

  Rob whistled. “Somebody fucked up.”

  “Or somebody suppressed the original survey before it got to the commissioners.” Charlie rubbed his face. “Christ, what a mess. As far as the state is concerned, nobody built out there. I wonder how Drinkwater, or whoever, found out about the Class II designation.”

  “Maybe he called your supervisor and asked.” Rob watched his cousin.

  Charlie’s hands dropped and his eyes blazed. “If you’re claiming Joe took a bribe—”

  “Hey! I think like a cop. I doubt that Professor Knapp is on the take, but stranger things have happened.”

  “I bet you checked me out, too.” Charlie glowered. Then the steam went out of him. “I guess you had to.”

  “Knapp was complimentary. Why the army?”

  “Maybe I was following in your father’s footsteps.”

  Rob went cold.

  Meg said, “That was uncalled for.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie muttered. “I joined up after high school for the education benefits. Fortunately I didn’t join the reserves, or I’d be on my third tour of Iraq.”

  “Desert Storm?” Meg asked.

  He nodded. “Three wonderful months. Lots of rocks. Mostly I was in Germany. I liked that.”

  Rob had taken several long, calming breaths. He decided the best, and nastiest, course was to ignore both the insensitive wisecrack and the apology. “You’ll want to consider your next step carefully.”

  Meg was running a sink full of hot water. Like the stove, the water heater ran on propane. “You guys do the dishes. I’m going to bed early like our pioneer mothers.”

  “Me, too,” Rob said promptly.

  “Dishes first.”

  Charlie stood and went to the sink. Maybe he felt guilty. After a while Rob got up and found a towel. They worked in silence. Stiff-necked genes. Rob sighed. “So you’re teaching a class tomorrow. I hope you’re up to it.”

  “I’m fine.” Maybe Charlie thought that sounded surly. He described the course, adding, “I hope my students are up to it. They have a great excuse to cut class. Uh, Robert.”

  “What?” Rob dried a bowl.

  “I appreciate your efforts. I’ll call Joe Knapp tomorrow and see what he knows.”

  “He may not remember.”

  “I’m sure he will. We joked around about fools building at the foot of a slide. He’ll have the data.”

  “If he does and the state does, we can see what the commissioners have to say about the discrepancy. And we can talk to Maddie Thomas.”

  “We. Thanks.” He hesitated. “I’ll clear out of here as soon as the power comes on.”

  “I hope you’re not going back to that campground. The manager moved his family into a motel yesterday.”

  “I decided to rent a room from Kayla.”

  Rob suppressed a laugh in time. “Uh, if it doesn’t work out, you can always move into my house. There’s lots of space.” And I’m hardly ever there. He didn’t say that.

  “It’ll work out.” Charlie smiled dreamily at the saucepan he was scrubbing.

  It warmed up during the night. When Kayla came in from work at half past six, she announced that it was raining—rain, not ice. By eight the temperature outside had risen ten degrees, and the electricity had been restored.

  It rained hard for a week. By the second day the ice had melted, the schools reopened, and Maddie was planning the purification ceremony, really a ritual designed to avert bad luck, for the sheriff’s new house. Beth was polite about it. Maddie thought it was urgent and said so, several times. They settled on a date in early March. She hoped that wouldn’t be too late.

  Rob called the geologist in Vancouver again. This time a tired female voice answered over the din of children squabbling.

  He asked for Martin Woodward. “Your husband?”

  “Father-in-law. We’re house sitting. The lucky bastard’s in Yuma until March first.”

  Rob identified himself and asked for a phone number.

  “Latouche County. Not in trouble, is he?”

  “I want to ask him about a survey he did out here.”

  She yelled at her kids and eventually came up with a Yuma number. Woodward answered on the third ring.

  “Where?” the man asked when Rob had identified himself and described the problem.

  “Latouche County,” Rob said again. “County Road 12.”

  “Let me check. This will take a while. Have to boot up the computer.” He listened while Rob gave him the site specifics. “Can I call you back?”

  Rob agreed and hung up. It must have been a slow computer. He was just about to go out for coffee when Woodward finally phoned.

  “I checked it out. Class III, residential. Did the survey for Fred Drinkwater. What’s the problem?” He sounded bored.

  “Do you recall the site?”

  “Nice bit of open prairie, ideal for one of those upscale developments.”

  “What about Prune Hill?”

  “Never heard of it,” Woodward said. “Listen, I have a date to play golf in ten minutes.”

  Rob read out the plat numbers again. “If you know the site, Mr. Woodward, you know Prune Hill.”

  “Must be a local name.” The man sighed. “We surveyed the area, gave it the full treatment. What’s the problem?”

  “A little disagreement with an earlier survey.”

  “Joe Knapp’s kids. When a developer moves in on virgin territory there’s always disagreement. I took my team in, did the survey, crawled all over the hill, took core samples, read up on the history. There have been minor slides on the road, surface debris, but the slope’s stable.”

  “What was the weather like when you did your survey?” Rob was staring out his office window at sheets of rain.

  Woodward snorted. “How am I supposed to remember that? It was October, probably cold and clear. The state boys are always cautious. I’ve done half a dozen surveys for Drinkwater. Two of the sites were unsuitable for construction, and I told him so. This one was fine. Drinkwater was happy, said the commissioners okayed his plans. That’s all I know.” He hung up.

  Rob stared at the rain awhile longer, then sat at his desk and pulled up his calendar on the computer. He called Maddie and listened to her. She knew a lot about the Board of Commissioners past and present. Then he made two appointments, one to see the sheriff and one to talk with Catherine Parrish Bjork, the new commissioner.

  Mrs. Bjork was noncommittal, as Rob had expected, but he thought she might ask her fellow board members a few questions. He was careful to point out that she had nothing to lose. Mack was not noncommittal. He blew up.

  “Landslide hazard? That’s nonsense. Why are you wasting department time on cockamamie complaints from nonresidents? Who is this O’Neill character anyway?”

  “My cousin.” Rob watched Mack’s face. His indignation seemed genuine, but like most politicians, he was a good actor. “A geolo-gist.

  “Licensed?”

  “Not yet, but the man he was working for when the survey was done is not only licensed, he’s head of the WSU geology department. Look, Mack, I’m not trying to make trouble, and neither is Charlie. You’re living out there. I thought you should be warned.”

  “Thanks. You’ve warned me. Get back to work.”

  Rob said softly, “I intend to look into this. Somebody didn’t notify the state that the commissioners had accepted Drinkwater’s survey, and there’s no record that the matter came under discussion in the minutes of any board meeting. They just accepted the later survey without question. That bothers me.” That and Prune Hi
ll itself.

  “Drop it,” Mack growled.

  “Why?”

  “Because you are overloaded with serious investigations that matter to the people of Latouche County. I don’t want you wasting department time.”

  Rob said nothing.

  “That’s an order.”

  Rob rose. “What about Beth?” He didn’t wait for Mack’s response, but he heard the explosion as he closed the door. He was willing to bet money that Fred Drinkwater would know he had trouble within half an hour.

  Early March 2005

  IT WENT ON raining. Sluggish storms bred in the tropics kept the temperature in the fifties. Half the Pacific Ocean recycled through Latouche County in ten days.

  Meg and Rob bickered after Charlie moved out. Meg knew the investigation was under way, and she understood why Rob wouldn’t tell her what he’d found out about Drinkwater Enterprises, but the air of secrecy disturbed her. At dinner one night, she asked him when she could call Beth to warn her. He said he’d already talked to the sheriff.

  “Well, that’s good. Receptive, was he? Worried? Ready to move, lock, stock, and barrel?” She waved her fork.

  “Be real.”

  “You be real. I bet he said nonsense,’ or words to that effect. And he was angry that you doubted his good buddy Fred. He probably told you to forget it.”

  Rob’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t contradict her.

  “Is he going to whisk Beth off to a nice safe motel? Not bloody likely. What’s likely is that he won’t trouble the little woman with bad thoughts about landslides. I think you should call Beth. And the neighbors.”

  “No. Don’t interfere, Meg. It’s not your business.”

  That frosted her cake. Ordinarily, Rob was open with her. At one point last fall, he had even sworn her in as a reserve deputy so he could talk a case over with her, and she had been able to help him in a material way. He knew he could trust her discretion. Since the ice storm, though, he’d been distant, preoccupied, unconfiding.

  When she let him know how she felt about being shut out, he left. The next morning he phoned to apologize, so she did, too. Calling him a macho jerk had been unfair. He was not a jerk, and her timing had been poor. Rob came back that night, but Meg’s uneasiness did not go away. The dreary weather was no help.

  Two small events convinced her to override Rob’s MYOB injunction.

  The first was a minor library problem. The bookmobile driver, Annie Baldwin, called to say that she couldn’t reach the community of Flume, because a landslide had blocked the road. Flume, at the north end of the county beyond Tyee Lake, was nowhere near Prune Hill, but a landslide was a landslide as far as Meg was concerned.

  She reorganized Annie’s schedule and called the county road crew to see how long it would take them to reopen the road. Several days, they said, during which the settlement would be cut off. North of Flume lay Mount Saint Helens, and there was no other way in because of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

  The second event was a half-heard news report that the mountain was on the verge of another steam eruption. The lava dome inside the crater was swelling. There had been a swarm of tremors associated with the build-up.

  It was after five, and Meg was on her way home. She stopped in the Safeway parking lot, sat in the car with the radio still on, and fiddled with the buttons. Its allotted four minutes of news over, the local station launched into a Conway Twitty retrospective. NPR was deep in commentary on lobbying scandals. Nobody cared about Mount Saint Helens.

  Frustrated, she got out, ran through the rain to the automatic doors, and went in search of fresh salad makings. In the produce section, she bumped into Beth, Beth smiled at her, and suddenly it was too much.

  Meg said, “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  Beth consulted her watch. “Just about.”

  As Meg poured two black coffees and pulled paper napkins from a balky holder, she considered what to say, but there was really nothing to do but come right out with it.

  The eating area had an ice cream parlor motif. Beth had nabbed a small round table. Meg handed Beth her coffee and sat on a wrought-iron chair. “Did Mack tell you about the landslide hazard at Prune Hill?”

  Beth started. Hot coffee slopped on her hand. “What are you saying?”

  Meg gave her a brief account.

  “We’re in danger?”

  “Charles O’Neill thinks you are.”

  “Rob’s cousin?”

  “Yes. He did the original survey.”

  “But how could Fred…” Her hands clenched. “I thought there was something wrong,” she blurted. “We don’t have that kind of money. We haven’t even sold the house in town…just making monthly payments on the new one…used my retirement to get a loan for the down…oh God, Michael! He said Fred contributed to his campaign fund.”

  Michael was the sheriff’s given name, Meg recalled.

  Tears welled in Beth’s gray eyes. “It couldn’t have been that much. Mack doesn’t have to spend a lot on campaigning.” She dabbed her eyes with a paper napkin.

  Meg touched her wrist. “I’ve been thinking about it. I can’t see him taking a bribe. He’s an honest man. Isn’t it possible Fred arranged the deal so he could go around saying the sheriff was living in his new development? That’s much more likely than a bribe.”

  “My husband, the loss leader?” Beth sniffed. “The dumb galoot. I’ll murder him.” She did not mean Fred Drinkwater. She took a couple of hot gulps of coffee and stood up, trembling visibly. “Thanks, Meg.”

  “I don’t mean to cause trouble.” Meg bit her tongue. She knew she was causing trouble. Beth would shoot the sheriff, and Rob would kill her. Still, by the time she got home she hadn’t learned to regret her impulse.

  Rob was going to be late—a meeting with his investigation team. She ate a solitary dinner, read her e-mail, talked to her daughter in Palo Alto, and had a long bath. Then she trailed off to bed to doze over a book. Artemis Fowl. Some anxious parent had challenged it. Meg thought it was funny. She dreamed she was conducting a public hearing with lots of angry patrons. Nobody listened when she spoke.

  After a while she woke with the light shining in her eyes and a strong sense that she was not alone. She blinked her vision clear and saw Rob, like a ghost in his gray sweats, doing a karate exercise over near the window. Light glinted on his cropped silver-sandy hair.

  Rob had been a student of karate since childhood, though he was not a fanatic. He often did the breathing exercises, which were similar to tai chi, at home or here in her bedroom, but he usually did them in the early morning. A form of meditation, he said. She liked to watch him, all quiet and inward, moving with excruciating slowness, but this night session puzzled her. If he needed the solace of meditation, something must have upset him. She glanced at her clock. It was only eleven.

  Abruptly she remembered that she had told Beth about the landslide hazard, contrary to his advice. She sank back against the pillow and awaited his wrath.

  At last he sighed and straightened, wriggling his shoulders, and padded barefoot to the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  He smiled. “Hey, you didn’t break my concentration. Scoot over, lady. It’s cold.” He flicked the light off, slid under the covers, and gave her ass a friendly tweak.

  It would have been honorable to confess then and there. She didn’t. She pulled him close, and they engaged in another kind of exercise, skin to skin, that sent them both into heavy sleep.

  When Rob’s cell phone started ringing, he mumbled something and dug deeper into the covers. Annoyed, Meg grabbed her nightgown, yanked it over her head, and walked to the dresser, one sleeve straggling. Rob left his phone across the room, so he’d be awake by the time he answered.

  “H’lo.” She thrust her arm through the errant sleeve.

  “Meg, it’s Teresa Morales. Put Rob on, please.” Teresa was the night dispatcher. She sounded flustered and not because Meg had answered.

&n
bsp; “Mnn. Okay.” Meg carried the phone to the bed and shook Rob awake.

  Eyes still closed, he took the phone and muttered his name. Meg glanced at the clock. After five. Almost time to get up. As she found her slippers and robe, Rob sat up. He was frowning but said nothing. Time to make coffee.

  She stumbled downstairs while he was giving Teresa brief, coded orders. Grateful for electricity, she pressed the button on her coffeemaker and hunted around for fast food. She found a bagel, sliced it, and popped it into the toaster. Turning from her dish cupboard with two mugs, she saw that a cop car had drawn up outside with its blue light revolving slow and steady. The shower was running.

  When Rob clattered down two minutes later she was pouring the coffee into a Thermos.

  “What happened?”

  He pulled his heavy jacket on. His hair was wet and he hadn’t shaved. “You were right.” His voice sounded thick, as if he had a cold. “Commuter called in.” He drew a long breath and took the Thermos, cradled it against his chest. “He was driving down from the north and couldn’t get through. Prune Hill just slid across the county road.”

  Meg gasped.

  “That’s all I know.” He turned to leave.

  “Rob, I warned Beth. Yesterday.”

  He whirled, eyes blazing. “You did? Thank God!” He strode to her and kissed her on the mouth. “I love you. You ought to know that.”

  “I love you, too.” Relief made her breathless.

  He yanked the door open. “Call Charlie for me, will you? Ask him to drive out to the site. I’ll tell the uniforms to let him through.” Then he was gone.

  Meg poured herself the dregs of the hot coffee and ate the whole bagel to calm down. She called Charlie’s cell phone. He answered on the tenth ring. She explained what she knew and told him Rob expected him at the site.

  “No way. I’m going to warn Kayla, and Bellew at the campground.” He sounded grim and wide awake.

  “Well, after that.”

  “They’ll have to evacuate the nursing home if the creek’s dammed.”

  “But you don’t know it is. Go find out.” Silence. She had taken the cordless phone down the hall to the front door, and she could see lights coming on in Kayla’s house across the way. “Isn’t her shift about over?”