No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  “It was simple. He’s a smart dog, right? If he’d gotten out on our side of the river, he would have come right back to the crash scene. He didn’t. So, he either drowned or got out on the other side. If he got out on the opposite bank, he would still come back to the crash site, right? It was the last place he’d seen us. While we went downstream looking for him, he came upstream looking for us. And we missed each other.”

  Claire rubbed Arch between his ears. “Why didn’t he swim across and wait for us at the crash site?”

  I laughed. “He can swim, but he still hates the water. It took seeing us to get him to go back in, I guess.” We rode in silence for a while, with Archie between us. My head still ached, but my daughter and my dog sat next to me, safe and sound.

  The world was right-side up again, and the shock of having almost lost everything dear to me was slowly replaced with a cold fury and a grim determination to find out who did this and how it related to the Kenny Sanders case. Vacation was over, and this would no longer be a part-time job.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The front moved on, and the slanting rays of the rising sun glittered on the water like schools of silvery bait fish. Claire was still asleep, and Archie and I were down on the beach for a slow walk the next morning. The swell had lessened somewhat and was now bearing in from due west, the waves breaking with sharp, crisp claps that carried in the morning air. I didn’t see any snowy plovers, so Arch was off leash. To his credit, he’d learned to ignore the gulls who were out in full force, squawking and cawing as they swirled around looking for breakfast. I watched my dog maneuver along the waterline, keeping his paws dry as usual. If he was traumatized by the car crash, he didn’t show it. That was no surprise. Archie lived in the moment, and at this moment he was enjoying a beach walk on a clear, brilliant morning.

  I, a less centered being, was deep in thought instead of relishing the beauty of my surroundings. The question of what the hell to do next was front and center in my mind.

  When I got back to the house, I was surprised when the landline in the kitchen rang. “How is the Oregon coast, my friend?” a familiar voice greeted me in a suspiciously cheery tone for this early in the morning.

  “It gets more interesting by the minute. Where did you get this number, Nando?”

  “Your daughter called me last night. She said your cell phones were lost in an incident. I am calling to learn more about what happened and offer my help. The people who did this to you need to be taught the severest of lessons. How is the head wound?”

  “It’s on the mend, and Archie’s good to go, too.”

  After I described in detail what happened, Nando said, “You are sure that the logging truck hit you deliberately?”

  I paused for a moment. “I’ve been mulling that question over all morning. But, yeah, I’d bet the Aerie on it. He waited till I braked for the curve, then came on like a guided missile. I looked at a map last night. That curve was the perfect spot to put us in the river, and it had no guard rails.”

  “You were coming back from the State Penitentiary. How did the interview with the young man go?” I gave him the highlights, and he said, “If this boy’s mother killed her lover and is now dead, why would someone want to kill you? It makes no sense.”

  “There’s obviously more to this, but right now I have no clue what that could be. I’ve barely scratched the surface here.”

  He chuckled again. “Judging from the response, I would say you have scratched more than the surface. I’m craving some time at the beach, Calvin. I can come tomorrow, and we can talk face to face.” I agreed, and he added in a serious tone, “Did you bring your Glock to Coos Bay?”

  “No. I was expecting a peaceful vacation.” The truth was that the weapon, which Nando gave me several years ago, sat gathering dust most of the time. I wasn’t good with a gun and in fact had never fired the damn thing. But he had a point. The beach house was isolated.

  “I will stop by the Aerie and pick it up for you. You keep it in a shoe box in your closet as I recall.”

  Archie and I turned around and headed back after the conversation ended. The sun had climbed in the morning sky and was warm on my neck. I was glad Nando was coming. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how long it would have taken me to ask for help. My daughter was clearly a step ahead of me.

  * * *

  After breakfast, we hired another Uber to get into Coos Bay and spent a frustrating hour and a half getting new cell phones. I walked over to Coffee and Subversion while Claire went on to run additional errands. By the time Rori arrived, I’d already had one of Anthony’s stellar cappuccinos. Rori came in through the back of the store, and when I turned at the coffee bar to greet her, she saw the bandage on my head. Her eyes widened. “My God, Cal, what happened to you?”

  “It’s a long story. Grab a coffee, and I’ll fill you in.” A few minutes later, after we sat down in her cluttered office, I took her through what happened to Claire, Archie, and me coming back from the State Prison. When I finished, her eyes were even wider, her face horror-stricken.

  “You think it was attempted murder? I mean those truckers drive like there’s no tomorrow through the Coast Range.”

  I ticked off the reasons, adding, “And whoever did it must have known we were going to be on the Umpqua Highway that day. Walter Sanders knew about the trip, because I mentioned it to him the other day. And Anthony asked me how Kenny was when I walked in this morning, so he knew, too.” I looked at her and waited.

  “Yeah, I did mention you were going back to see Kenny. I didn’t think that was any big secret, and besides, Anthony’s like family.”

  I absently ran my fingers along my bandaged stitches. “He said he mentioned it to his drinking buddies at his favorite watering hole. They’re all caught up in this thing, rooting for Kenny, you know.”

  Rori’s expression turned guilt-tinged. “Oh, God. So half of Coos Bay–North Bend knew about your planned trip. I’m sorry, Cal.”

  I waved the apology off. “I screwed up, too, but tight lips from now on, okay?”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Did you and Walter Sanders work something out?”

  Her expression grew resolute. “He offered to pick up half your expenses. I thanked him but said no. I couldn’t do it, Cal. His money’s dirty.”

  “That’s a generous offer, Rori. Are you sure?”

  She nodded emphatically. “Positive.”

  “Well, I’ll, uh, work with you on my fee.”

  “That’s kind of you to offer, Cal, but I’m good for every cent. Walter asked a lot of questions about what you’re up to, and he got pretty frustrated when I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “Good. He’ll probably keep trying, you know.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. As he was leaving, he said he cared about Kenny and wanted to be kept in the loop.” She smiled with bitterness. “You arrive on the scene and suddenly he cares about Kenny? What a crock.” She paused for a moment. “How’s my grandson?”

  When I finished describing the beating he’d taken, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Can anything be done to protect him?”

  I shook my head. “Not as long as he won’t cooperate. He told us that seeking legal help for protection was considered worse than snitching. He wanted no part of it.”

  She buried her head in her hands. “Oh, Kenny, my baby boy,” she uttered between sobs.

  I let her cry for a while, feeling helpless. Finally, I said, “There’s more, Rori.”

  She looked up at me, wiped tears from her eyes, and seemed to gird herself. “Sorry. What else did he say?”

  “He admitted that the librarian, Ellen Dempsey, told the truth—he did stop at the Jiffy Mart. He was on his way over to Sonny Jenson’s.”

  Rori flinched like she’d touched a live wire. “No.”

  “Yes. He said he was going the
re to apologize at your behest.”

  Her face registered fear and disbelief in equal measure. “Did he…did he go in?”

  “No, because someone pulled out of Sonny’s drive just as he arrived—your daughter, Krysta.”

  Color drained from her face. “Krysta? Oh, no. That can’t be.”

  “What do you know about this? I want the truth, Rori. Kenny said Krysta and Sonny were having an affair.”

  She seemed to gather herself, then exhaled deeply, reminding me of Kenny when he finally unburdened himself. “Krysta was seeing Sonny, that’s true.” A wan smile. “She always told me the truth, that girl. I said it was a stupid mistake, but she didn’t listen. I kept her secret and figured I’d take it to my grave. But I didn’t know she’d been with Sonny that night, I swear.”

  “Where did you think she was?”

  She paused and tapped her lips with a finger. “I thought she was home. She was supposed to go to yoga that night but said she wasn’t feeling well. I was in an LNG meeting and stopped by afterwards to see how she was. She was home and seemed fine.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, near eleven o’clock.”

  “So, you can’t dispute Kenny’s account.”

  Rori hesitated. “No…I guess I can’t. But Krysta never told me she was with Sonny that night.”

  “So, both you and Kenny concealed information that would have made her a prime suspect. Why shouldn’t I conclude that she killed Sonny?”

  Rori stared off at the wall for a few moments, then swung her gaze back to me. “Krysta wanted to come forward, admit she was having the affair. Maybe she was trying to work up the nerve to admit where she was that night. But I talked her out of it. I figured it would just slide by and not be a factor in the trial.”

  “That’s what Kenny thought, too.”

  “But did Krysta kill Sonny? No. Not a chance in hell. Krysta had a hard time swatting flies. And I saw her that night. She didn’t seem the least bit upset. Trust me, if my daughter had just finished beating a man to death, I would have sensed something.”

  We sat in silence for a long time, both of us wrapped in our own thoughts. I said, “Is there anything else you haven’t told me, Rori?”

  She dropped her gaze, scratched at her desk with a fingernail, then looked up. Her face was placid, but her eyes burned with conviction. “I’m deeply sorry about this, Cal. No, there’s nothing else. And considering what happened to you and your daughter, I won’t blame you if you decide to walk… But I hope you don’t.”

  We sat looking at each other, the only sound the faint hissing of the espresso machine in the other room. Finally, I got up. “I’ve got things to do. I’ll be in touch. Keep the faith.”

  I left Rori Dennison with a relieved look on her face. Yes, I was angry that she and Kenny hadn’t been square with me, but she needn’t have worried about my dropping the case. I had skin in this game now. Getting run off the road into a river does that to a person.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I found Claire in the book stacks when I came into the front of Coffee and Subversion after talking to Rori. Carrying a couple of books, she looked at me skeptically. “You don’t look so hot, Dad. How do you feel?”

  “Still got the headache. Did you get us a car?”

  “Yeah. A Subaru, four-door sedan. Solid as a tank. Got a new laptop, too.” She shot me a stern look. “Our next stop’s a medical clinic. I want you to get checked out, Dad. There’s one on Woodland Drive in North Bend.”

  She paid for her books, and as we got underway I told her about my discussion with Rori, and how she had confirmed the affair between Krysta and Sonny Jenson. “I’m not that surprised,” Claire said. “Kenny’s a perceptive kid. That changes things, doesn’t it.”

  “Right. But neither one of them thinks Krysta Sanders was the killer.”

  “No surprise there. But she had means and opportunity. And, of course, anyone involved in an illicit love affair can easily acquire a motive.”

  “Such as?”

  “Rejection, betrayal, jealousy. Any one of those would do the trick.”

  “You think Krysta would let Kenny take the fall for her?”

  Claire shrugged. “I would hope not, but I don’t know what kind of mother she was.”

  “Walter Sanders would have a motive, too, if he knew about the affair,” I added.

  “Of course, and don’t forget Twila Jenson.” She gave me a conspiratorial grin. “The plot’s thickening, Dad.”

  It was great working with such a bright colleague, but to be honest, my daughter was obviously enjoying this sleuthing more than I would have liked.

  * * *

  “Mild traumatic brain injury,” I said to Claire as we left the clinic. “Nothing to do for it except rest. I’m not tired, and my headache’s easing off some, so I’d like to stop at Sloat Trucking on the way back.”

  “Okay,” Claire said with some reluctance. “Sissy Anderson called while you were with the doctor. I told her what happened on the Umpqua Highway, and she wanted to talk at her place. I’ll drop you off and swing by to see her. You can text me when you’re done at Sloat.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we waited while a logging truck hauling two empty, full-length trailers pulled onto the road, its diesel engine whining, its twin exhaust stacks on either side of the cab belching dark smoke. “Just drop me here. I can walk in,” I said to Claire. We were just off the Cape Arago Highway on Grinnell. A sign above a wide entry gate proclaimed, “SLOAT TRUCKING, PROUDLY MEETING THE SOUTH COAST’S TRUCKING NEEDS FOR THREE GENERATIONS.” As the truck cleared the gate, I spotted a dispatcher in a booth inside the gate eyeing me. “Better wait to see if I can bluff my way in.”

  I put a faded ball cap on to hide the bandage covering my head wound. “See you soon. Be careful.”

  “Me careful?” she said, her face pinched with concern. “You could be going into the lion’s den, Dad.”

  “No worries. I just want to walk around, look at some trucks in the yard, maybe pop in to see Maxine Sloat, if she’s available. I like unexpected visits, and if someone working for her was in on the attempted murder, our cover’s blown anyway.” I got out and waited on the curb as two more trucks lumbered out.

  “Can I help you?” the dispatcher called out from the booth.

  I walked over to him, wearing my best smile. “I’m a truck nut. Have been my whole life. Just wanted to walk around for a while, check out some of these beauties.”

  Gray-haired with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, the man smiled back. “I’m the same way about trucks. I’m really not supposed to let you in but go ahead. Don’t be too long.” He handed me a visitor’s badge. “Watch your step in there. And be sure to check out the new T-340s at the end of line. They’re somethin’.”

  “Wow, you have a T-340? Thanks. I owe you one, buddy.” I flicked a thumbs-up to Claire, then sauntered in, not having the slightest idea what a T-340 was and wondering what it was about boys, men, and trucks.

  The yard spanned several acres, with a gleaming row of massive trucks parked on one side and an industrial-sized wash station and maintenance building on the other. The door to the maintenance building was wide open, and inside I saw mechanics in blue coveralls swarming over trucks on hydraulic lifts and in various stages of disassembly. A two-story office building, with cars parked in front and on the side, sat toward the back of the lot, and the area behind the building looked like the place where old trucks went to die.

  The line of trucks was a mixed bag—bright red trucks made by Freightliner, with the Sloat logo on the side, and others of various makes and colors with the name of the owner on most of them. The latter were contracted to Sloat, I figured, and parked in the yard by their owners when not in use. I stood next to the hulking machines, feeling like one of the Seven Dwarfs. No wonder we wound up in the river, I said to mysel
f, as the crash played back like a bad dream, and the ache in my head went up a notch.

  I worked my way through the trucks, standing in front of the various makes, and when I came to the first one made by Peterbilt, I stopped dead and the back of my neck began to tingle. I closed my eyes, and it all rushed back in crystal clarity—the huge radiator sectioned by a half dozen vertical dividers, the broad steel bumper, and the narrow rectangular headlights mounted on the fenders. An unmistakable geometry. A Peterbilt hit us. I was positive. I pulled my cell phone out and called the deputy who’d interviewed me after the crash. He didn’t pick up, so I left him a message. Now they’d know what make of truck to look for.

  I went through the rest of the trucks, but there wasn’t a dark blue or black Peterbilt to be found. I cut across the yard to the maintenance complex and wandered along, smiling to the mechanics with my visitor’s badge displayed on my chest. No dark blue or black Peterbilts were being worked on, either. I asked a mechanic working next to a bottled water dispenser for a drink, figuring it would ease my headache a bit. He said sure and after I drained a paper cup, I saw something that caught my eye—a big spool of fine gauge, multifilament steel cable. I walked over and examined it. “What’s this used for?” I asked him.

  “We use it to tie flags on, hold tarps down, all kinds of things. It’s flexible but strong as hell.”

  “Damn, I need to get some of this stuff for my workshop. Could you cut a piece off for me?” The mechanic obliged, I thanked him, putting the coil of cable in my pocket.

  It looked damn familiar.

  I walked over to the office complex next, noting the hulking, cherry red Dodge Ram truck parked in a slot reserved for “Max Sloat.” I was on a roll, so I wasn’t surprised when Max’s assistant told me she’d be free in a few minutes if I wanted to wait.

  When you’re hot, you’re hot.

  I remained standing in the outer office and browsed the pictures on the wall, mostly early nineteen-hundreds-era shots of spindly logging trucks and men standing around felled old-growth Douglas firs, smiling like they’d just bagged a big-game trophy. The pictures, like those of the bountiful salmon harvests of that era, always gave me a twinge of sadness. Those resources were harvested like they were in endless supply. It turned out they weren’t.