Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  BROTHER’S KEEPER

  A Chief Mattson Mystery

  Copyright © 2020 by Richard Ryker

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons living or deceased, establishments of any kind, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Richard Ryker:

  (Chief Mattson Series)

  Dead by Sunrise

  (Other books)

  Dark Sky Falling

  https://www.facebook.com/RRykerAuthor

  www.richardryker.com

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Thank You

  Also by Richard Ryker

  Chapter 1

  Brandon pulled his rifle out of the SUV and headed for the roar of the chainsaws. Their rumble and growl echoed off endless trees as he abandoned the isolated forest service road and plunged into the untamed wilderness. He had a hunch the poachers were over a ridge to the south of where he’d parked.

  An October chill had settled over the coastal forest as the sun made a quick descent behind the scowling swirl of storm clouds brewing over the Pacific. In just a few short weeks, autumn winds would ravage the Olympic Mountains. The slight breeze bending the tips of the evergreens was only the calm before the storm.

  As he crossed into the woods, he stood waist-high in sword ferns and huckleberry, the wet soaking through his pants. He trudged forward, maneuvering around a thicket of young maple. The still-green shoots snapped under his boots.

  He peaked the ridge, surveying the ravine below. The chainsaws choked silent.

  Brandon fell to a crouch.

  He was outnumbered and most likely outgunned. It could take anywhere between twenty and forty minutes for help to reach him this far into the wilderness—if his call reached dispatch.

  A man shouted, “We’re done for today.”

  “We can carry more than this,” a younger voice replied.

  “You’re not as strong as you think you are,” the first man said. “Besides, I need a drink.”

  “You always need a drink.”

  “Shut up, boy, or I’ll make you haul every damn piece out of here.”

  Brandon sat up, scanning the scene.

  The maple grove lay in a level area about one-third of the way down the slope. From his perch he had a decent view of the moss-covered trunks of the impressive big leaf maples that were the poachers’ target.

  Following a tip that a band of local timber thieves had targeted the grove, Brandon had traveled the unpaved track five miles up a steady incline. This group of poachers, his informant claimed, had come across a grove of big leaf maples with the rare figured pattern that could earn thousands of dollars for a few hours work.

  All around the region, timber thieves would search for the maples and, finding one with the pattern, mark the tree as a future target. Public lands weren’t their only victim. He’d heard stories of private property owners returning from vacation to find a favored tree felled and gutted.

  There were two types of figured maple: flame and quilted. The rippled quilted maple, found primarily in the Pacific Northwest, was prized for use in everything from high-end musical instruments to gun stocks. Companies like Gibson could sell figured-maple guitars for upwards of ten thousand each.

  As chief of police of Forks, WA Brandon’s department covered a wide area across the western end of Clallam County. This particular acreage didn’t fall within his authority. But he had other reasons for rounding up as many timber poachers as he could. Reasons that superseded jurisdiction.

  A year before Brandon’s return to Forks to take the chief of police position, his brother had been murdered during a routine traffic stop. The killers, Brandon believed, were tied to a local timber poaching operation. Despite Eli’s longtime position as a local law enforcement officer, the detectives up in Port Angeles hadn’t done due diligence on the case. At least in Brandon’s opinion. As a former homicide detective, he figured his opinion mattered.

  So, just months into his stint as chief, Brandon had taken matters into his own hands. On his own time—mostly. He had more than a full schedule running the growing Forks PD, keeping the southwestern county safe. But like Brandon’s father reminded him almost daily, he owed it to his family, and the community, to make sure Eli’s killers were brought to justice.

  Brandon had set out to hunt down, arrest, and interrogate every last poacher in the region until he solved Eli’s murder.

  If he helped save a few trees in the meantime, so be it. This was public land and poaching timber a felony.

  A rustle cut through the underbrush behind him.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Brandon swung around, cursing himself. He knew better than to let his guard down. He swiveled the barrel of the rifle, searching for the source.

  About twenty feet away, a racoon stood on its hind legs, reaching for a clump of wilted berries, the last of the season. The racoon spotted Brandon and their eyes met. It hunched down, slinking back into the undergrowth.

  He touched his hand to his side, making sure he’d remembered his bear spray.

  Brandon returned his attention to the maple grove.

  He caught a flicker of neon yellow off one of the men’s coats as they faded into the trees, back toward the forest service road entrance.

  Brandon started the SUV and made a sharp U-turn and headed back down, the whole time scanning the woods to the right for any sign of the men. When he passed their truck—he’d seen it on the way up—he rounded the next bed in the road and pulled out of sight.

  He rolled his window down and waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ursa Major had crept above the mountains to the east as night tucked the last glimpse of sunlight into the horizon.

  Had they headed the other direction? Or back through another route? Brandon had scouted the area for weeks. There was no other way out.

  He turned his head at the crackle of tires over gravel.

  Headlights swept over the treetops as the truck rounded the bend. Brandon had parked several feet off the road, but even now the truck’s beams glinted off Brandon’s SUV. The truck skidded to a stop.

  They’d spotted him.

  The truck backed up, brights landing on Brandon.

  Squinting under the glare, he pointed his spotlight at the vehicle and switched it on. The truck didn’t move.

  Brandon started the engine and flipped the police lights. He stuck it in drive and lurched forward, aiming to block the road.

  Gravel flew as the driver floored the truck, narrowly missing the SUV. Brandon pulled onto the road behind them.

  Then Brandon remembered: he’d left the forest gate open.

  “Dammit.”


  Involving other law enforcement would make things messy. People would ask questions. But he couldn’t risk losing the poachers and any leads they might offer.

  He put out a call for backup. A deputy to block the entrance to the forest road near milepost 215 on Highway 101.

  The SUV swayed and rumbled over the uneven road. Up ahead, the truck jerked to a stop before crossing over a deep gash in the road. The poachers knew the terrain better than Brandon.

  Brandon slowed too, guiding the SUV through the ditch.

  His targets had already gained more ground.

  He checked with dispatch. A deputy was on the way.

  Brandon swerved around a bend, headlights illuminating the eyes of a possum stooped at the edge of the track.

  Another curve in the road and they began the final descent to the highway.

  Up ahead, a semi sped by on Highway 101, its bright lights cutting through the gloaming. They had almost reached the gate.

  The poachers floored it as they neared the bottom of the hill.

  Then, the truck’s brake lights glowed bright, twisting sideways as it slid to a stop. Brandon shoved his boot into the brake. The SUV careened toward the truck.

  His push bumper came to a rest against the driver’s door.

  Brandon threw his door open, rifle pointed at the truck.

  “Out of the vehicle!”

  The passenger door creaked open.

  The two men made a run for it.

  Brandon sprinted around the front of the truck.

  Someone had shut the gate. Both men hopped over it now.

  “Sheriff’s office!” a man shouted from the highway.

  One of the men stopped short, raising his hands.

  The other sprinted back toward the forest, to Brandon’s right.

  “Stop,” Brandon shouted.

  The man turned, and seeing Brandon’s rifle, he obeyed.

  “Hands where I can see them. Nice and high.”

  “We weren’t doing anything,” the man said as Brandon cuffed him.

  “Except evading police, poaching timber on public lands—”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  Brandon gripped the man’s shoulder and led him to the pickup. He popped the tailgate and unhooked three bungee cords holding a frayed blue tarp in place. He yanked the tarp free and focused his flashlight on the truck bed, revealing at least a dozen cuts of high-value figured maple.

  “That proof enough?” Brandon asked.

  The man didn’t respond.

  “That’s what I thought,” Brandon said.

  Brandon led him to the back of his SUV and headed for the sheriff’s deputy. He’d already cuffed and stuffed the second man.

  “You’re that police chief from down in Forks,” the deputy said.

  “Brandon Mattson,” he replied. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Figured seeing the gate shut would scare them enough to stop.”

  “Good thinking,” Brandon said.

  If they hadn’t stopped before slamming into the gate’s massive metal bars, their chances of survival would’ve been slim to none. Forest service gates only opened one direction: inward.

  “Thompson,” the deputy said, shaking Brandon’s hand. “What are you doing all the way up here?”

  “Following up on a local situation,” Brandon said. “Maple thieves. I tracked them up here.”

  The deputy stared back at him. He didn’t believe Brandon. It didn’t matter. Brandon worked for the sheriff, and he outranked the deputy.

  “What do you need me to do?” the deputy asked.

  “Call for a tow truck. I’ll take these two to Forks.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to transport them up to Port Angeles? This isn’t your area—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brandon said, ending the conversation.

  The deputy’s gaze fell away. “Okay, Chief.”

  Deputy Thompson, Brandon sensed, wasn’t the kind of guy to keep a secret from his superiors. Eventually, Brandon would hear from the sheriff about his out-of-jurisdiction forays. Sheriff Hart had already made it clear he didn’t like Brandon second guessing the detectives assigned to Eli’s homicide. The case was off-limits to Brandon. When the sheriff found out about Brandon’s involvement, it wouldn’t bode well for him.

  It was a price he was willing to pay. Brandon had a murder to solve. It was time to find out what these two men knew about Eli’s killers.

  Chapter 2

  The two men were Nord Ferguson and Cal Landenberg. A couple of unemployed timber workers who’d resorted to drug dealing and poaching. The two industries had experienced a well-established connection in previous decades. Profit from the illegal maple trade funded drug habits and, for those more economically minded, investment in drug dealing operations.

  Information had been scarce, making each interrogation more important than the one before as the news spread that the chief of police of Forks was scouring the region for poachers.

  Ferguson refused to talk, opting for an attorney.

  No news there. Most of the half-dozen timber thieves Brandon talked to had kept quiet.

  Brandon took a crack at Cal Landenberg next. Cal was the younger of the two, twenty-five and scared by the look in his eyes. He sat across from Brandon in the station’s second interview room. Brandon slid his chair closer, moving in on Cal’s personal space.

  “How long you been working with Ferguson?” Brandon asked.

  “About six months.”

  The kid had a quarter-inch scar gracing the corner of his mouth, like he’d bitten down on a knife. The wound was old, and Brandon almost asked him how he’d gotten it. His black hair was matted from the Mack Truck cap he’d been wearing when Brandon arrested him.

  “How much did he promise you?”

  His eyes rose to meet Brandon’s. “Twenty percent.”

  “You willing to do time for a couple thousand dollars?”

  “It’s a job,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” Brandon said. “It’s theft.”

  Cal’s eyes sank.

  The crimes associated with stealing timber ranged from depredation and theft of public property to trafficking in unlawfully harvested lumber. A 2008 amendment to the Lacey Act tightened the rules around the timber trade, putting pressure on mill owners to prove they engaged in “due process” to ensure they weren’t moving stolen wood. Still, plenty of mills were eager to take a man’s word that the timber had been cut with a permit on private land. The draw of quick money, selling the maple to greedy musical instrument makers, overwhelmed any legal attempts to dissuade the black market.

  “Help me out, Cal, and I might be willing to ask the prosecutor to go easy.”

  A flicker of hope crossed Cal’s face, then quickly faded.

  “Don’t ask me to narc on Ferguson,” Cal said. “He’ll kill me.”

  Brandon waved a hand at him. “Nothing like that. You heard about the police officer killed last year, up on 101?”

  “Yeah, they put up a statue in the park. He’s supposed to be a hero or whatever.”

  “He was a hero,” Brandon said. “And my brother.”

  Cal’s eyes widened as his gaze ran to the corner of the room, avoiding Brandon.

  “Sorry.”

  “Me too,” Brandon said.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “The people who killed Officer Mattson. They found figured maple in the abandoned car. The vehicle was connected to a man named Jack Nygard.”

  Brandon’s search for Jack Nygard had led him to a dozen dead ends. False leads proffered by poachers too scared to reveal Nygard’s true location.

  The two individuals who had shot Eli had been driving a late model Honda. The dashcam showed the shots fired through the passenger side window. Not far from the scene, a passerby had spotted a man and a woman abandoning the vehicle, fleeing into the forest.

  Crime scene techs had found four .45 shell casings. Three in the car and one at
Eli’s feet where he’d been slain. They hadn’t been able to obtain fingerprints from the casings.

  The car’s title had been traced back to Jack Nygard. But Nygard didn’t look anything like the two individuals described as fleeing the scene. Nygard’s fingerprints were all over the vehicle. He’d claimed he’d sold the car to an unknown individual weeks earlier. The best evidence they had were two sets of prints on a receipt from the Frugals burger stand up in Port Angeles and the ice-filled soda cups that detectives found in the car. The two sets of mystery prints weren’t in the database. The suspects had paid cash at Frugals, and the drive through lacked any video surveillance. The employees couldn’t recall serving the Honda that morning.

  The fact that they’d discovered at least $5,000 worth of figured maple in the trunk of the vehicle, and that Nygard was the area’s leading black-market trader, convinced Brandon that Nygard knew the suspects.

  Detectives from up in Port Angeles had subjected Nygard to a few rounds of interviews but cleared him. Soon after, he disappeared.

  “I’ve heard of Jack Nygard,” Cal said. “He’s the big shot in the timber trade.”

  Everyone knew Nygard was the ringleader in this part of the state. Brandon needed more info if Cal expected him to go easy on him.

  “Where can I find him?” Brandon asked.

  Cal shrugged his shoulders. “Hell if I know.”

  Brandon stood, startling the young man.

  “Okay, Landenberg. It’s been nice knowing ya.”

  “Wait.”

  Brandon let his hand rest on the door handle for a second before facing Cal.

  “Don’t waste my time, Cal.”

  “I haven’t met him,” Cal said. “But I’ve been to his property.”

  “When?”

  “Last week, week before. Everyone sells to Jack Nygard. He takes it and sells it to the buyers. Like I said, I didn’t see him there.”

  “How’d you know it was his place?” Brandon asked.

  “That’s what everyone said.”

  Brandon didn’t like the sound of that. To make a move on Nygard, he had to be sure. Striking too early would alert Nygard that Brandon was closing in on him.