No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  Nando pulled his brow into a frown. “I hope they do not work at cross-purposes.”

  I described my conversation with Walter Sanders next, and when I finished, Nando flashed a broad smile. “Ah, well done, my friend, a nice placement of the wedge. Either Max Sloat was planning a hit on Sonny, or Walter wanted you to think she was. And now we know the Brothers B could have played into the plot.”

  “That’s right. My gut says Walter’s telling the truth and wants to save his ass from being implicated. I think Max is our perp, and she probably used the brothers to actually kill Sonny.”

  Claire shot me a puzzled look. “Okay, I get the importance of finding the Barton brothers, because we have nothing tangible on Max, but after they’re caught, then what? I mean what can be done to get them to talk about a murder committed four years ago?”

  Nando showed a smile tinged with slyness. “The thin end of the wedge again, Claire. This time one brother is played off against the other. The younger brother, say, is offered leniency on the Howard Coleman and Sonny Jenson murders in exchange for testimony against the older brother and Max.”

  “Right,” I said, “in the absence of other evidence, that’s a route to prove Kenny didn’t kill Sonny. Rice and Stoddard have to be willing to reopen Sonny’s murder to make it happen.”

  Claire shot me another look. “Stoddard won’t like that. Even though he’s running unopposed, it’ll make him look bad.”

  “You’re right, Claire. Our only hope is that Rice will have enough courage to push it, despite what Stoddard says. He seems sympathetic to Kenny’s cause.”

  Claire’s face clouded over, and she shook her head. “Jeez, Dad, a lot of stars have to align.”

  “And some planets, too,” I answered.

  * * *

  The wind that kicked up the afternoon before was the precursor to a front that moved in off the Pacific, stalled at the foot of the Coast Range, and laid down a gentle spring rain, the kind that soaks in instead of running off.

  The last known address of the Barton brothers was a dilapidated rental house off Highway 101, just below the McCullough Bridge—a low, mile-long structure spanning the upper reaches of Coos Bay. Claire’s research had determined that the owners of the house lived next door, and we’d decided to pay them a visit.

  “Four years ago?” the owner asked, a Latina woman with a little girl clinging to her leg. “Oh, yes, I remember them. Two brothers.” She made a face. “I did not want to rent to them, but times were hard then. My husband got injured at the mill.”

  Claire nodded sympathetically. “Why did you dislike them?”

  The little girl whimpered, and the woman swept her up effortlessly before smiling a bit sheepishly. “No reason except they looked hard, you know? Have they done something bad?”

  “We just want to talk to them,” Claire said. “Did they leave a forwarding address or say where they were going?”

  The woman laughed. “No. They left one night, late, without paying the rent, almost a full month’s worth.”

  “Could you tell us when that was?”

  The woman invited us into her home, an immaculate ranch with smells of spices, maybe cumin and paprika, from something cooking in the kitchen. Claire offered to hold the little girl, and the woman handed her over without hesitation. Then she sat down at a small desk along one wall, and after leafing through a ledger for that year, said, “They left the night of May twenty seventh.”

  Claire looked at me, her eyes wide, and turned back at the woman. “Are you sure of that date?”

  “Yes, very. Is the date important?”

  “Yes, it is,” Claire answered, as she handed the little girl back. “Did you happen to notice any regular visitors during that time?”

  The woman paused for a moment, then shook her head. “One good thing—they were quiet, those two.”

  “How about their cars?”

  She squinted, as if trying to picture them in her mind, and stepped toward the kitchen, calling out a question in rapid-fire Spanish. A male voice answered in English, “A dark-colored Ford Explorer and a white Honda Civic.”

  That was the extent of what we learned, but it was enough. We thanked her, and as we were leaving Claire said, “Your home is lovely, and your daughter is very beautiful,” a comment that caused the woman to break into a smile.

  When we got into the car, Claire let out a little squeal of excitement. “Oh my God, Dad. The Brothers B skipped out three days before Sonny Jenson was murdered.” Archie, who’d been patiently waiting for us in the back seat, picked up on the excitement, matching Claire’s squeal with a couple of his own.

  I nodded. “If you were planning a hit, maybe leaving the place you’d been living in and finding a hideout would make sense.”

  “Yes,” Claire answered, “perfect sense. These aren’t the kind of crooks who would hide in plain sight. That takes a certain amount of intelligence. These guys would opt to get the hell out of Dodge until the heat died down.”

  “Without paying the rent,” I said as I pulled back onto Highway 101 and headed south. “The Ford Explorer fits, too, and maybe they’re still driving the white Civic.”

  Claire leaned back in the car seat and laughed. “Well, one thing’s for sure—they don’t drive very gangster-like cars.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The unincorporated community of Woodell lay twenty miles east of Coos Bay, at the top of an S-shaped bend in the south fork of the Coos River. Once a thriving logging town, where the Weyerhaeuser Corporation processed and deposited cut logs into the river and floated them down to Coos Bay for export, it now consisted of a Mobil gas station, a general store called McKnight’s, and a very large and thoroughly abandoned sawmill. It was also the town where—according to the packet of information Harmon Scott sent—the elder Barton brother, Darnell, lived prior to his incarceration, and it was a good bet younger brother, Robert, lived there as well.

  Buoyed by our success at the rental house, Claire and I decided to drive out to Woodell.

  We had another, more strategic reason for the trip. In her search at the library the day before, Claire found one of Howard Coleman’s credit card receipts from McKnight’s General Store. Why was Coleman visiting this place, where the Brothers B once lived, just a few weeks before he died?

  Southbound traffic on Highway 101 was light, and by the time we’d turned off at the base of the bay and crossed the bridge at Catching Slough, the rain had let up. Claire said, “Gabriel called last night.”

  “Oh?”

  She sighed and focused on something across the narrow waterway for a moment. “It was good to hear his voice, I admit that.” I waited. “He just started in like nothing happened between us. Maybe he just wants to be friends now, I don’t really know.”

  “How would you feel about that?”

  She puffed a dismissive breath. “No way I could stand being his friend. It’s either all or nothing with him, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, that he was enjoying his parents’ visit from Argentina but that it was taking a lot of his time to show them around.” A slightly bitter laugh. “I think he was counting on me to shoulder some of that burden. You know, what I’m doing’s not as important as his start-up.”

  “Careful that you don’t assume more than what’s there.”

  I caught her nod out of the corner of my eye. “Good point.”

  “Did he ask about what you’ve been up to?”

  She laughed. “Oh, yeah. I laid it out for him, and he was shocked, to say the least.” I winced inwardly. I could only imagine what kind of father Gabriel thought I was, exposing my daughter to such risk. “You know what he said?” she went on. “He said, ‘I’m worried about you, but I think that what you’re doing is courageous, Claire.’”

  “Well,” I said, “that soun
ds like he’s extending an olive branch.”

  Another bitter laugh. “It’s what he said next that got me. He said, ‘I understand a little better, now.’ A little better? That’s as far as he was willing to go, Dad.”

  I kept my eyes on the road. “What did you say to that?”

  “I thanked him for calling, and when he asked when I thought I was coming back to Boston, I said, ‘When Kenny Sanders’ case is wrapped up, and not a day sooner.’” She sighed again. “It was a frosty goodbye.”

  We drove for a while with nothing but the sound of our tires sluicing through the standing water on Coos River Road. I could have offered words of advice, but I kept them to myself. I knew instinctively this was her issue to sort out, and, besides, she hadn’t asked for my opinion. One thing was clear—despite a deep reservoir of feeling between Gabriel and my daughter, it was a standoff with neither one willing to blink. Claire’s response didn’t surprise me. She was a strong woman, to be sure. Was Gabriel up to it? That remained to be seen.

  McKnight’s General Store sat well back from the highway, a weathered single-story building with a front porch running the width of the structure. A large sign, courtesy of the Pepsi Corporation, rested on the roof, promising Groceries, Sundries, and Fishing Supplies. After taking Archie for a short walk, we went in, a bell announcing our entrance. Claire took the lead at asking the questions, having clearly demonstrated her chops at that particular art form. She introduced us to the man behind the counter.

  “We’re investigating the murder of this man.” She handed him a picture of Howard Coleman. “He was murdered on the east fork of the Millicoma River two and a half weeks ago.”

  Harney McKnight—an octogenarian with clear brown eyes, a drooping mustache, and a mane of silver hair—squinted at the picture. “I heard about that. Tied him up and threw him in the river.” He shuddered visibly and looked up at Claire. “That’s no way to die.”

  Claire nodded with a look of sympathy. “Back in April he bought some fishing leader and flies from this store.” She handed him a copy of the credit card receipt. “Do you remember, by any chance?”

  McKnight put his glasses on and looked at the receipt, then the picture again. “Well, I’ll be. I was here that day—always am—but I don’t remember. I’m not too good with faces.”

  Claire smiled. “That’s okay, Harney, neither am I.” She handed him pictures of Darnell and Robert Barton next. “He could have been with these two men.”

  McKnight looked at the pictures, then beamed a smile. “Oh, Lordy, those are the Barton brothers. I remember them coming in, and yes, they were with another man.” He looked at Coleman’s picture again. “That could be him, for sure. They were going steelheadin’ upriver at a place the brothers knew. They’re from around here, you know.” His face darkened. “Are they mixed up in this?”

  Claire shook her head. “No, we’re just retracing Coleman’s steps, is all. What can you tell us about the Barton brothers?”

  “Well, not much to tell. They moved in here with their daddy after their mother died. Josiah Barton worked at the mill before it closed down completely. He was a monster. Always drunk, always brawlin’ and beatin’ up on his boys. Story was, Darnell tried to intervene once when the old man was wailing on Robert and got put in the hospital for his trouble. The hospital staff wondered how a sixteen-year-old kid got that beat up. When the sheriff came to investigate, Darnell claimed he fell off the roof, and Robert backed him up.”

  “Any idea where the brothers might be now?”

  He shrugged. “Not the slightest. Their place up on Coos River Lane has been vacant for, what, thirteen years or more?”

  “What became of Josiah?”

  “Cheap booze ate his liver. I heard tell both sons cried at his funeral.” McKnight chuckled and shook his head. “Go figure.”

  “What about other family members?”

  He stroked his mustache and paused for a moment. “Nobody I know of on their daddy’s side. The mother’s maiden name was Gunderson, but I don’t know where her people live.”

  After a few more questions, we bought some bottled water, thanked him, and left. At the car, I said, “So Coleman fished with the Barton brothers a couple of weeks before they murdered him.”

  Claire made a grim face. “It was probably a trial run.” We got in the car, and she added, “Let’s go look at where they lived.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just curious. I mean, we drove all the way out here.” She looked at me. “You don’t think they could be there, do you?”

  “Nah. They wouldn’t hide out in a known address, and Rice has probably sent deputies out here already. I’m surprised they didn’t talk to McKnight.”

  The address Harmon Scott supplied led us to a narrow lane running north from the highway a mile past the general store. After passing a half dozen houses, the pavement ended abruptly and the lane, now heavily rutted, narrowed even further before dead-ending at an overgrown driveway. A rusty mailbox riddled with bullet holes stood at twelve o’clock, with “Barton” and the street number barely legible on its side. The house was visible through a scattering of second growth firs. The roof was nearly rotted through, and all the windows were blown out. A small shed adjacent to the house leaned at a thirty-degree angle, seeming to defy the law of gravity, and a rusted-out carcass of an old car squatted beneath a large alder. Affected by a blight of some kind, the alder was half dead.

  “The Barton homestead,” Claire said.

  “What’s left of it.”

  We stood there for a while, silently taking in the scene. Claire sighed. “Depressing. Doesn’t look like anything happy ever happened here.” She looked at me. “Can you imagine that kid, Darnell, saying he fell off the roof to cover for his father?” She crossed her arms across her chest and shuddered. “It makes me see him differently, Dad.”

  I nodded. “He probably knew nothing but violence growing up.”

  She sighed again, more deeply, her eyes suddenly bright with a film of moisture. “There but for fortune.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But it’s no excuse in the eyes of the law, right?” my daughter added, showing a sardonic smile. “We haven’t evolved to that state of understanding yet.”

  She was right about that.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  On our way back to Coos Bay, I checked in with Chet Rice. “We dispatched a couple of deputies early this morning to have a look at the property in Woodell,” he told us. “The Bartons weren’t there and hadn’t been. We’ve circulated their names and photographs to law enforcement. I’m saying they’re wanted for questioning.” He paused for a moment and exhaled audibly. “I’m taking a leap of faith here, Cal. I don’t have any evidence these guys have done a damn thing.”

  “I know. Pick them up. Trust me, you won’t regret it. Incidentally, we can confirm they’re not in Woodell,” I said, and explained what Claire and I had been up to. “You might want to talk to the guy who runs the general store there—name’s Harney McKnight. He told us Howard Coleman and the Bartons stopped in there on their way to steelhead fishing up the South fork of the Coos a couple of weeks before Coleman was murdered.” I gave Rice the date but didn’t tell him how I knew it.

  His soft chuckle was audible. “Thanks, again. Why is it you’re always a step ahead of me, Cal?”

  “Hey, we’re in this together,” I answered. “If you catch these guys, you’re a hero for solving two cases, and I have a shot at getting an innocent young man out of prison.” I went on to describe how the Bartons skipped out of their rental in North Bend three days prior to Sonny’s murder.

  “Interesting,” he responded. “But I’m taking it one step at a time. I’m set to interview Maxine Sloat later this afternoon. Maybe she’s got a current address for our boys.”

  Claire eyed me after I tapped off the call. “Interesting? One
step at a time? That sounded pretty noncommittal to me, Dad.”

  I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the road. “Chet Rice’s got integrity. He’ll come around. It’s a simple quid pro quo, and he knows it.”

  At least, I hoped that was the case.

  * * *

  Back in Coos Bay, we stopped at Mingus Park to give Archie a much-deserved exercise break. At seventy pounds, Arch was on the large side for an Australian Shepherd at seventy pounds, but he still had enormous energy and a work ethic to match. His job that day was to drag Claire and me around the tree-lined trails in the park and then retrieve a tennis ball no matter how far it was thrown or how difficult it was to find. Four young boys on dirt bikes stopped to watch him go after the ball, cheering each time he made a leaping, twisting catch.

  Such a show-off.

  Claire dropped me at the hospital next. “Tell Nando I love him and that I’ll see him tomorrow.” She was off to the library. “I want to investigate the Barton and Gunderson families,” she’d said. “Maybe that’ll give us a lead to where the brothers are holed up.”

  I thought it was an excellent idea.

  Rori Dennison was in Nando’s room when I arrived. Her magenta-streaked hair didn’t look quite as windblown as it usually did. There was a large bouquet of spring flowers next to Nando’s bed, along with a hardbound copy of Cien Años de Soledad, Márquez’s masterpiece in the original Spanish. Nando looked good, although there still seemed to be a hint of worry around his eyes.

  “Calvin, my friend,” he greeted me. “Catch them yet?”

  “No, not yet.” I hugged Rori and turned to my friend. “How are you feeling?”

  He flashed his trademark smile but avoided my eyes. “Better. I am negotiating my release date with the doctors here.” He glanced at the flowers and book. “The bouquet is from the gang at my PI office in Portland. They all wanted to come visit, but I said, ‘Who will do the work? I might not be able to pay you next month.’” He smiled with a hint of slyness. “They decided to stay.”