Bitterroot

by James Lee Burke

  Bitterroot

  James Lee Burke

  When Billy Bob Holland visits his old friend Doc Voss, he finds himself caught up in a horrific tragedy. Doc's daughter has been brutally attacked by bikers, and the ring leader, Lamar Ellison, walks free when the DNA samples 'get lost'. Then Ellison is burned alive and Doc is arrested. So much for Billy Bob's vacation – Doc needs a lawyer, and fast. And that's not all. Newly released killer Wyatt Dixon has tracked Billy Bob to Montana, bent on avenging the death of his sister for which he holds Billy Bob responsible. And Wyatt is only one thread of a tangled web of evil that includes neo-Nazi militias, gold miners who tip cyanide into the rivers, a paedophile ring, and the Mob. As the corpses of the guilty and innocent pile up, Billy Bob stands alone.

  James Lee Burke

  Bitterroot

  The third book in the Billy Bob Holland series

  Acknowledgments

  ONCE AGAIN I'd like to thank my wife Pearl and our children Jim, Jr., Andree, Pamala, and Alafair for always being with me.

  I'd also like to thank Father Edmond E. Bliven for his insight into the historical and theological nature of Christian baptism.

  For Jack and Shelly Meyer

  Chapter 1

  Doc Voss'S FOLKS were farmers of German descent, Mennonite pacifists who ran a few head of Brahman outside of Deaf Smith, Texas, and raised beans and melons and tomatoes and paid their taxes and generally went their own way. When Doc got his draft notice his senior year in high school, a lot of us thought he might apply for exemption as a conscientious objector. Instead, Doc enlisted in the Navy and became a hospital corpsman attached to the Marines.

  Then he got hooked up with Force Reconnaissance and ended up a SEAL and both a helicopter and fixed-wing pilot who did extractions on the Cambodian border. In fact, Doc became one of the most decorated participants in the Vietnam War.

  The night Doc returned home he burned his uniform in the backyard of his house, methodically hanging each piece from a stick over a fire that swirled out of a rusted oil drum, dissolving his Marine-issue tropicals into glowing threadworms. He joined a fundamentalist church, one even more radical in its views than his family's traditional faith. When asked to give witness, he rose in the midst of the congregation and calmly recited a story of a village incursion that made his fellow parishioners in the slat-board church house weep and tremble.

  At the end of harvest season he disappeared into Mexico. We heard rumors that Doc was an addict, living in a hut on the Bay of Campeche, his mind gone, his hair and beard like a lion's mane, his body pocked with sores.

  I received a grimed, pencil-written postcard from him that read: "Dear Billy Bob, Don't let the politicians or the generals get you. I swim with dolphins in the morning. The ocean is full of light and the dolphins speak to me as one of their own. At least I think they do.

  "Your bud, the guy who used to be Tobin Voss."

  But two years later Doc came back to us, gaunt, his face shaved, his hair cropped like a convict's, a notebook full of poems stuffed down in his duffel bag.

  He worked through the summer with his father and mother, selling melons and cantaloupes and strawberries off a tailgate outside of San Antonio, then enrolled at the university in San Marcos. Before we knew it, Doc graduated and went on to Baylor and received a medical degree.

  We stopped worrying about Doc, in an almost self-congratulatory way, as you do when an errant relative finally becomes what you thought he should have always been. Doc never talked about the war, except in a collection of poems he published, then in a collection of stories based on the poems, one that perhaps a famous film director stole from in producing an award-winning movie about the Vietnam War.

  Doc ran a clinic in Deaf Smith and married a girl from Montana. When he lost her in a plane crash five years ago, he handled tragedy in his own life as he had handled the war. He didn't talk about it.

  Nor of the fires that had never died inside him or the latent potential for violence that the gentleness in his eyes denied.

  Chapter 2

  Doc's deceased WIFE had come from a ranching family in the Bitterroot Valley of western Montana. When Doc first met her on a fishing vacation nearly twenty years ago, I think he fell in love with her state almost as much as he did with her. After her death and burial on her family's ranch, he returned to Montana again and again, spending the entire summer and holiday season there, floating the Bitterroot River or cross-country skiing and climbing in the Bitterroot Mountains with pitons and ice ax. I suspected in Doc's mind his wife was still with him when he glided down the old sunlit ski trails that crisscrossed the timber above her burial place. Finally he bought a log house on the Blackfoot River. He said it was only a vacation home, but I believed Doc was slipping away from us. Perhaps true peace might eventually come into his life, I told myself.

  Then, just last June, he invited me for an indefinite visit. I turned my law office over to a partner for three months and headed north with creel and fly rod in the foolish hope that somehow my own ghosts did not cross state lines.

  Supposedly the word " Missoula " is from the Salish Indian language and means "the meeting of the rivers." The area is so named because it is there that both the Bitterroot and Blackfoot rivers flow into the Clark Fork of the Columbia.

  The wooded hills above the Blackfoot River where Doc had bought his home were still dark at 7 A.M., the moon like a sliver of crusted ice above a steep-sided rock canyon that rose to a plateau covered with ponderosa. The river seemed to glow with a black, metallic light, and steam boiled out of the falls in the channels and off the boulders that were exposed in the current.

  I picked up my fly rod and net and canvas creel from the porch of Doc's house and walked down the path toward the riverbank. The air smelled of the water's coldness and the humus back in the darkness of the woods and the deer and elk dung that had dried on the pebbled banks of the river. I watched Doc Voss squat on his haunches in front of a driftwood fire and stir the strips of ham in a skillet with a fork, squinting his eyes against the smoke, his upper body warmed only by a fly vest, his shoulders braided with sinew. Then the sun broke through the tree trunks on the ridge and lighted the meadows and woods and cliffs around us with a pinkness that made us involuntarily look up into the vastness of the Montana sky, as though the stars had been unfairly stolen from us.

  Doc handed me a tin plate filled with eggs and ham and chunks of bread he had cut on a rock and browned in the ham's fat. He sat down beside me on a grassy, soft spot and leaned back against a boulder and drank from a collapsible stainless steel coffee cup and watched his daughter standing thigh-deep in the river, without waders, indifferent to the cold, fishing in a pool that swirled behind a rotted cottonwood. He took a tiny salt and pepper shaker out of his rucksack, then removed a holstered.44 Magnum revolver from the sack and set it on top of some ferns, the wide belt and heavy, square brass buckle and leather-snugged cartridges wrapped across the cherrywood grips.

  "Fine-looking gun," I said.

  "Thank you," he replied.

  "Fixing to shoot the rainbow that won't jump in your creel?" I said.

  "Cougars come down through the trees at night. They get into the cat bowls and such."

  "It's not night," I said.

  He grinned at nothing and looked in his daughter's direction. She was a junior in high school, her blond hair cropped short on the back of her neck, her denim shirt tight across her waist when she lifted her rod above her head and pulled her line dripping from under the river's surface and false-cast the dry fly on the tippet in a figure eight.

  Doc kept touching his jawbone with his thumb, as though he had an impacted wisdom tooth.

  "What are you studying on?" I asked.

  "Me?"

  "No. T
he rock you're leaning against."

  "The country's going to hell," he said.

  "People have been saying that for two hundred years."

  "You've been here eleven hours and you've got it all figured out. I wish I had them kind of smarts," he replied.

  He left his food uneaten and walked upstream with his fly rod, his long, ash-blond hair blowing in the wind, his shoulders stooped like an ancient hunter's.

  Fifteen minutes later I followed his daughter up to the log house that was planted with roses and hung with wind chimes. She stood at the sink, ripping the intestines from a rainbow trout, the water from the tap splashing on her wrists. Her eyebrows were drawn together as though she were trying to see through a skein of tangled thoughts just in front of her face.

  "What's the problem with your old man?" I asked.

  "Midlife crisis," she answered, feigning a smile, suddenly knowledgeable about the psychological metabolism of people thirty years her senior.

  "Why's he carrying a revolver?"

  "Somebody shot into our house down in Deaf Smith yesterday. It was probably a drunk hunter. Dad thinks it's the militia or these people dumping cyanide into the Blackfoot. He treats me like a child," she said, her face growing darker with her own rhetoric.

  "Excuse me?" I said, trying to follow the progression of her logic.

  "I'm almost seventeen. He doesn't get it."

  "What militia?"

  "They're down in the Bitterroot Valley. A bunch of crazy people who think it's patriotic not to pay their bills. Dad writes letters to the newspaper about them. It's stupid."

  "Who's putting cyanide in the water?"

  "Ask him. Or his friends who think they're environmentalists because they drink in bars that have logs in the walls."

  "Your old man's a good guy. Why not give him a break?"

  She scraped the dark and clotted blood away from the trout's vertebrae with her thumbnail, then washed her hands under the tap and dried them on her rump.

  "The only person he ever listened to was my mom. I'm not my mom," she said. She walked out the back door with a bag of fish guts for the cats.

  I found Doc beyond a wooded bend in the river. He was false-casting his line on a white, pebbled stretch of beach, then dropping his fly as softly as a moth in the middle of an undulating riffle. The light and water on his nylon tippet looked like liquid glass as it cut through the air over his head.

  "What's going on with you guys?" I said.

  "With Maisey? Just growing pains."

  "No, the gun. These militia guys or whatever," I said.

  "Wars don't get fought in New York or Paris. They get fought in places nobody cares about. Welcome to the war," he said.

  "Maybe I picked a bad time to visit," I said.

  "No, you didn't. See, a German brown is feeding right under that overhang. He's thick across as my hand. If I was you, I'd float an elk-hair caddis by him," Doc said.

  I hesitated for a moment, then waded into the stream. The coldness of the water surged like melted ice over my tennis shoes and khakis. I pulled my fly line out of the reel with my left hand and felt it feed through the eyelets on the rod as I false-cast with my right, the brightly honed hook of the caddis fly whipping past my ear.

  Chapter 3

  FAR AWAY, near Fort Davis, Texas, unbeknown to any of us at the time, a man named Wyatt Dixon was being released from a county slam. For the ride out to the railroad track on the hardpan he was chained at the ankles and wrists and waist. His bare feet had been stomped on so that he limped like an old man when he walked from the jail's back door, under armed guard, to the van that awaited him. Inside the van, a three-hundred-pound deputy hooked Wyatt Dixon to a D-ring in the floor, wheezing while he worked, avoiding Dixon 's eyes and the grin that shaped and reshaped on his mouth.

  Ten minutes later, as the sun was setting behind a low ridge of arid mountains, the van stopped at the railroad track and Wyatt Dixon stepped out and stood in the hot wind, his red hair lifting like silk, his nostrils dilating with the smell of freedom.

  He was lantern-jawed, his eyes as empty and as undefined by color as a desert sky, his skin brown from the sun and clean of tattoos. Four deputy sheriffs pointed their weapons at Wyatt Dixon, then a fifth one methodically unlocked all the manacles on Dixon 's ankles and wrists. When the net of chains fell from his body, the men around him involuntarily stepped back or extended their guns farther out in front of themselves.

  "That boxcar's gonna take you all the way to Raton Pass, Wyatt," the fat deputy said.

  Another deputy threw a sack lunch into Wyatt Dixon's hands. "You ain't got to get off to eat, either. Not in Texas," he said.

  "Y'all know where my boots is at?" Wyatt Dixon said, grinning as stiffly as a swath cut in a watermelon.

  The freight and cattle cars clanked together, and the wind blew chaff out of the flat-wheeler that Wyatt Dixon was supposed to climb into.

  "Better get on it, boy. The mosquitoes out here use soda straws on a fellow," the fat deputy said.

  "I'm moving, boss man," Wyatt Dixon said, and limped across the rocks like a man walking on marbles, then pushed himself inside the flat-wheeler as easily as a gymnast.

  A cruiser pulled behind the van, and a tall man in a gray suit, wearing a Stetson and shades and a wide, flowered necktie, got out and carried a cardboard suitcase to the boxcar. A badge holder with a gold sheriff's star pinned to it hung from his gunbelt.

  "Don't be telling yourself you got a reason to come back," he said, and flung the suitcase into the boxcar.

  It burst apart on the floor, spilling out clothes, a white straw hat, a tightly folded American flag, a box of clown makeup, a pair of football cleats, an orange fright wig, and a plastic suction device, like a reverse-action hypodermic, that was sold through comic books to remove blackheads from facial skin.

  "Why, thank you, sir. Y'all treat a fellow in princely fashion. God bless America for such as yourselves," Wyatt Dixon said.

  "Get this piece of shit out of here before I shoot him," the sheriff said.

  A deputy began waving at the engineer in the locomotive.

  A few minutes later, when the sun was just an ember among the hills, the freight train made a wide loop on the hardpan and passed in front of the van and the sheriff's cruiser at the crossing guard. Wyatt Dixon stood in the open door of the boxcar, his white straw hat cocked on his head, his American flag flapping from an improvised staff. He drew himself to attention and saluted the men down below, his bare feet discolored like bruised fruit.

  On a foggy dawn, three days later, Doc, his daughter Maisey, and I sat in my truck at the foot of a broad, green mountain that rose into ponderosa pines that were stiff and white with snow that had fallen during the night.

  Doc opened the cab door quietly and leaned across the truck's hood and focused his field glasses on the tree line. Then he gestured rapidly at his daughter.

  "Here they come," he whispered.

  With feigned resignation she took the glasses from her father and looked up the slope toward the spot where he was pointing, her mouth twisted into a red button.

  "Lord, you ever see anything that beautiful?" he said.

  When she didn't reply, I said, "That's something else, Doc."

  The herd of elk, perhaps over one hundred head, moved out of the trees and down the slope, their hooves pocking green holes in the snow, the mist glistening on the bony surfaces of their racks. They fanned out over the bottom of the grade and flowed like brown water across the two-lane road, their numbers and weight and collective mass knocking down a rick fence without any interruption in their momentum or even recognition that an obstacle was in their path.

  They swelled into a meadow channeled with wild-flowers and grazed into the tall grass by cottonwoods that grew along a copper-colored stream. Their humps were coated with crusted snow, and the heat of their bodies melted the snow and made the entire herd glow with a smoky aura against the sunrise.

  "What do you think,
Skeeter?" Doc asked his daughter.

  "My name is Maisey," she replied.

  We drove into Missoula and ate breakfast in a cafe across the street from the courthouse. Through the café window I could see the crests of the mountains ringing the city and trees bending in a wind that blew down an arroyo. Deer were feeding on a slope above the train yard, and the undersides of their tails were white when they turned their hindquarters into the wind.

  I left Doc and Maisey in the cafe, crossed the street to the courthouse, and went to the sheriff's office. The sheriff had called Doc's house up on the Blackfoot the previous night and had left the type of recorded message that not only irritates but leaves the listener vaguely unsettled and apprehensive: "Mr. Holland, this is Sheriff J. T. Cain. Got a bit of information for you. Eight-forty-five, my office. You can't make it, be assured I'll find you."

  I took off my hat and opened his office door. "I'm Billy Bob Holland. I hope I'm not in trouble," I said.

  "That makes two of us," he answered.

  He was a big, crew-cropped, white-haired man, who wore a suit and black, hand-tooled boots. His skin was deeply tanned, his neck and face as wrinkled as a brown leaf.

  A folder full of fax sheets was spread open on his desk blotter.

  "You recall a man named Wyatt Dixon?" he asked.

  "Not offhand."

  "He got out of a county lock three or four days ago in West Texas. He left behind a sheet of notebook paper with a half dozen names on it. Also a drawing of human heads in a wheelbarrow. Yours was one of the names."

  "Who contacted you?" I asked.

  "The sheriff down there ran your name through the computer. You were a Texas Ranger?"

  "Yes, sir."