Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  “Tell me where and I’ll talk to the prosecutor.”

  Cal glanced at the door.

  “Nygard and Ferguson will kill me.”

  “I’ll do my best to conceal where I learned his location,” Brandon said.

  Cal frowned. “About half a mile past milepost 188.”

  “By the old sawmill?” Brandon asked.

  “Right. But it’s been shut down for years. You pull into the old parking lot but keep going. There’s a road that goes back into the woods.

  “Nygard made this road?”

  “It used to be an old logging track. Way back before the sawmill.”

  Brandon’s search for Nygard the last several months had led him miles outside of his own jurisdiction. Dammit if Nygard hadn’t been just a short drive south of Forks all this time. And within Brandon’s jurisdiction.

  “What’s he staying in?” Brandon asked.

  “There’s a couple of trailers. A mobile home, I think.”

  “You think?” Brandon said.

  There had been too many false leads. The case grew colder by the day. It had already been a year and a half since they’d laid Eli to rest.

  “You better be telling me the truth,” Brandon said. “In the meantime, I’ll have you taken back to your cell.”

  “I thought you were going to let me go.”

  “How would it look if I let you go but not Ferguson?”

  “Good point,” Cal said.

  “We’ll treat you the same until the hearing. Tell him a relative bailed you out. You refused to talk to me. You got family somewhere else?”

  “Down in Aberdeen. My mom.”

  “I’d suggest you give her a call,” Brandon said. “And make sure you leave her contact information once you’re released.”

  And if you’re lying to me, Brandon thought, I’ll drag your ass to jail in a heartbeat and you’ll be glad that’s all I do.

  Back in his office, Brandon flipped on his computer and honed Google Maps in on the old sawmill. Just as Cal had said, a path led back into the forest behind the abandoned mill. The trail opened to a clearing where a couple of trailer homes and an assortment of other vehicles littered the landscape.

  He wasn’t sure of the date of the satellite image, but the brambles and tall grass surrounding the buildings indicated the structures had been there for a while.

  After dozens of arrests and interviews, he had Jack Nygard’s location.

  No one would’ve thought to check the abandoned sawmill. Brandon scanned the image again. Several concrete barriers blocked the road-facing side of the property. In the image, one of the barricades had been dragged back, leaving an opening large enough for a truck to fit through.

  This had to be the place.

  Brandon glanced at the time. A quarter to nine in the evening. He wouldn’t be visiting Nygard tonight. It would be too risky to advance on the timber thief’s compound alone and in the dark. Nygard would be armed, and most likely monitoring the property with cameras. Some poachers, he knew, weren’t above setting up booby traps to protect their loot.

  He had another reason to call it a night. He’d skipped dinner at home again, something that had occurred more over the last few weeks than the last four months combined.

  Despite the relative peacefulness of Forks, Brandon didn’t like leaving his daughter Emma home alone. She was a junior, after all, and with each passing day he had become increasingly aware of how little time he had left with her.

  And working Eli’s murder hadn’t just taken a toll on his home life. He still had a police department to run. Not to mention the fact that his investigation had increasingly drawn him out of his own jurisdiction. A practice would eventually land him in hot water with the sheriff.

  But now that he had Nygard’s location, there was no turning back. Nygard was the key to catching Eli’s killers. After months of searching, he knew what he had to do: confront Nygard on his home turf.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, Brandon waited as Emma squeezed into the front seat of his Forks PD SUV, backpack resting between her feet.

  “You don’t have to drive me to school every day,” she said.

  “I like it,” he said.

  “Yeah, but…”

  “You don’t like it,” he said.

  “I do have friends, dad.”

  It was Emma’s first year at Forks High School. To Brandon’s surprise and relief, she’d made friends easily. The move to Forks for the school year had been Emma’s idea. The initial plan had been for Emma to stay in Seattle with Tori, Brandon’s ex, during the year and visit Brandon all summer and every other weekend. But Emma insisted she needed the change of scenery, especially after her best friend passed away back home.

  “I get it. My baby girl is all grown up.” He forced a smile. “Too busy for your old man.”

  Emma glanced sideways at him. “No, but…you seem stressed out, dad. More than normal.”

  “Don’t make this about me,” he said. “We were talking about how you’re getting home from school.”

  “I’m just saying,” she said. “Is it because of Eli’s case?”

  “It has nothing to do with that,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t believe him.

  “Okay, fine. Don’t talk about it,” she said. “And I can catch a ride home with my friends after school.”

  “Probably not a good idea,” Brandon said.

  “Why not? I got a ride yesterday.”

  “From Elsie’s mom. That’s not the same as driving with another kid.”

  “I have my license. If I had a car—”

  “When you get a job and can pay for your own insurance, we’ll talk about a car.”

  “Good. Because I applied down at Carl’s Pizza,” Emma said, pulling her backpack onto her lap.

  Brandon had encouraged Emma to find a job. He’d always worked, so had Tori. Work would prepare her for the real world, teach her how to manage her own money.

  He would always support her independence, within the bounds of safety. But as she approached another milestone—her first job—he had to fight back the urge to tell her she didn’t really have to, if she didn’t want to.

  “You got an interview yet?”

  She paused. “No.”

  “Let me know when you do. Then we can go car shopping.”

  She mumbled under her breath.

  “What was that?” Brandon asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Driving down Forks Ave. almost every storefront display conformed to the mayor’s official Halloween theme. Mayor Kim had outlined her plans for a Moonbeam Darklove themed holiday at a recent community meeting and had somehow convinced the shop owners to coordinate their decorations. The Moonbeam series, creation of popular author Tiffany Quick, had turned Forks into a tourist destination almost overnight. Mayor Kim had made capitalizing on the popularity of the Forks-based vampire novels the focus of her term in office.

  “You excited about the Halloween festival?” Brandon asked, hoping to steer the conversation in a more positive direction.

  Emma shrugged her shoulders.

  They’d arrived at the high school.

  “Bye,” she said, slamming the door before he could reply.

  “Love you too,” Brandon said to no one.

  Isabel Jackson was waiting for Brandon in the department’s bullpen.

  Brandon had brought Jackson on as a full-time officer after her involvement in solving the Lauren Sandoval murder earlier that year. Prior to that, she’d been on hiatus, staying home to raise her two children. A seasoned cop in her early thirties, Jackson had some detective experience down in Portland. She’d agreed to take lead on property crimes or other situations requiring actual detective work.

  Technically her position remained that of a regular officer. The mayor had put Brandon off when he’d asked for an official detective position. The mayor’s heart beat for tourism, not solving property crimes.

  Jackson followed Brandon to his off
ice.

  “What’s up?” he asked, landing in his chair. Somehow the piles of papers on his desk had doubled since the night before. He’d ask his admin Sue about organizing the mess for him.

  “Lots of big-time crime,” she answered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Lost cats. Someone stole a twelve-year-old’s bike.”

  “You want to sit?” he asked, motioning to the chair in front of his desk.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You know, it takes a true detective to find a missing feline.”

  She checked the bobby pins holding her black hair in place. After a few adjustments, she said, “Don’t be a cabrón.”

  Although she’d been born and raised in Florida, Jackson’s father had immigrated from Cuba. Piss her off, Brandon had learned, and her accent thickened with each word.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Brandon asked.

  “Forget it,” she said. “I found the cat. All it took was a call to the roads department. They scraped fluffy off the side of the road two days ago.”

  Brandon cringed. “Yuck.”

  “Speaking of cats,” Jackson said. “Have you heard about the pet scam going on in our county?”

  He stared back at her, waiting for her to continue. He wasn’t particularly interested in the topic. Cats weren’t his thing. They were so…pretentious.

  “Someone’s been putting up ads online,” Jackson said, “claiming they work for a non-profit dedicated to adopting out pets.”

  “What’s the name?”

  Jackson crossed her arms, leaning against the door jamb. “Changes every time. Anyway, they say they have several abandoned animals. Cats, dogs, all that. They’re asking for homes for the pets.”

  “Don’t tell me. For a small fee you can adopt one.”

  “They arrange to meet in a public place, instruct the interested party to bring cash. When the potential adopter arrives, there’s no animal at all or one with no papers, no history of shots. Most likely someone’s pet stolen from another town.”

  “This is happening here?”

  “A couple of times already.”

  “Sounds like a job for my lead detective.”

  Jackson wrinkled her nose at him. “Thanks. Boss.”

  She shoved herself off the doorjamb.

  “How’s it going with Eli’s case?” she asked.

  Brandon wasn’t sure how much Jackson knew about his off-duty involvement in researching Eli’s murder.

  “Give me some credit,” she said. “I do notice things. Like how we’ve suddenly had an influx of petty thieves booked into jail.”

  “Illegal harvesting of timber is not a petty crime.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “There’s a connection between Eli’s killers and the timber trade,” Brandon said.

  “How?”

  “The owner of the vehicle—”

  “Jack Nygard,” she said.

  “How’d you know?”

  “It was in the original story. Local timber thief. Ringleader. Car was in his name,” she said.

  “Nygard took off after the murder.”

  “You think he did it?” Jackson asked.

  “There’s a connection. Last night, one of the men I busted snitched on Nygard. I think I’ve found him.”

  “He stuck around?” she asked.

  “South of town. By the old saw mill.”

  “I don’t know where that is, but, Brandon,” she corrected herself, “Chief. You’re not thinking of taking this on yourself, are you? I mean, you have officers to do that sort of thing.”

  “This is an unofficial investigation,” he reminded her.

  “Not when you arrest people.”

  She was right. He was walking a fine line. But an unsolved homicide was still a homicide, whether the victim was his brother or not.

  “I plan on involving the original detectives up in Port Angeles once I’m sure what I’m dealing with.”

  Jackson cast him a wry smile. “Right.”

  He waved a hand at her. “Isn’t there a cat that needs saved or something?”

  Brandon checked his voicemail. The mayor had left a message asking him to send over a budget for police staffing of the upcoming Halloween festival. She had planned a big shindig, purchasing advertising as far away as Seattle and Portland. While friendly residents and shop owners would hand out candy to eager children, the mayor had promoted a stay-the-night Moonbeam Darklove themed Halloween for adults.

  If Mayor Kim knew anything, it was how to throw a party. And thanks to the popularity of the Moonbeam series, the town risked being overrun by more vampire fanatics than the local hotels could handle. That meant some festival goers would hit the highways after several hours at one of the event’s makeshift beer gardens.

  Brandon sent her an all-hands-on-deck budget. If she wanted to invite outsiders and alcohol, there would be more patrols and more arrests.

  He closed his email and clicked on the image of Nygard’s encampment again. Jackson was right. It wouldn’t be smart to head into his home turf alone. Cameras or some other form of alarm surveillance were the norm when dealing with backcountry tweakers and dealers.

  Still, it was too early to involve the larger sheriff’s department.

  The old sawmill fell within Brandon’s jurisdiction. And he’d received a tip from a credible source that Nygard’s operation hadn’t missed a beat, buying and selling stolen timber. It was time to pay him a visit.

  Chapter 4

  The sun had scarcely peaked the Olympic Mountains when Brandon reached the stretch of Highway 101 leading to the old sawmill. He slowed to 35 as he passed by. There was no point in stopping in front of the property, announcing his presence.

  Another of the concrete barriers blocking the entrance to the mill had been dragged open. With two of the obstacles out of the way, the gap was wide enough to fit a trailer through. Maybe even a single-wide mobile home.

  About two-hundred feet back from the road, a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire encased the sawmill. Beyond the fence, the mill loomed stark against a sharp blue sky. Whole chunks of the gray metal roof had blown away in some long-past winter storm. A rusty sawdust silo stood near the main mill, balanced tenuously on four thin legs. Grass and weeds poked through the cracked parking lot. From his viewpoint on the highway, Brandon couldn’t spot the path that led back to the forest.

  He drove a half mile down 101 and pulled over to let a logging truck pass him, then flipped the SUV around and headed back north. Light glinted off a windshield on the left as a pickup lurched to the edge of the old sawmill parking lot, where the barrier had been moved. The truck must have come from Nygard’s encampment. Brandon pulled onto the shoulder, hoping the driver hadn’t noticed him.

  The midnight blue Chevy Silverado paused before heading north toward Forks. Brandon slid back into the lane and followed the truck from a distance. The speed limit was 50. The Silverado topped out at around 65.

  As Brandon crept up on him, the truck’s brake lights lit up. He’d spotted the police SUV.

  Brandon flipped his lights on and the driver pulled over.

  He approached the passenger door, keeping an eye on the driver through the back of the cab. He tapped on the window. It slid down.

  “Engine off,” Brandon said.

  The young man twisted the ignition off. A can of Pepsi and a bag of chips lay on the divider next to him.

  He handed his license to Brandon. According to his ID, his name was Erik Olson, aged 22, and had brown hair and hazel eyes. Five foot eleven.

  Definitely not Jack Nygard.

  Brandon compared the picture to Erik’s appearance. His hair had grown since the photo, curly tufts spilling out from a pristine Seahawks cap. Erik’s winter coat looked to be straight off the rack of one of Seattle’s upscale camping stores. The kid wasn’t hurting for money.

  “Insurance and registration, Erik,” Brandon said.

  Erik glanced at the glove box.


  “It’s not my truck.”

  When Brandon didn’t reply, he added, “I’m borrowing it.”

  Brandon motioned toward the compartment. “Just get me the papers.”

  Erik scrounged through the glove compartment and found the recent registration. He handed it to Brandon.

  The registered owner was Jack Nygard.

  “What’s your relation to Nygard?” Brandon asked.

  “I do work for him.”

  Brandon’s work phone buzzed. He ignored it.

  “What kind of work?”

  “Ask him yourself,” Erik said.

  “I’m asking you. And if I need to take you to the station to continue this conversation, I will.”

  “I haven’t done anything. You can’t take me anywhere—”

  His eyes caught on Brandon’s name tag. The color drained from his face. The sudden change surprised him.

  “What?” Brandon asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Brandon’s radio screeched. He’d recognized Jackson’s voice, but just then a semi sped by, whooping him with a blast of wind and road dust. He hadn’t understood her.

  His phone buzzed again.

  “I’ll be back.”

  In the SUV he checked his cell. Jackson had called. He hit redial.

  “What’s up?”

  “Chief, I need you over here. We got a death.”

  “I’m in the middle of something,” he said.

  “Looks like homicide.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Dunn out on Filbert Road.”

  “Who the hell would want to murder Mary Dunn?”

  He’d known Mrs. Dunn as far back as he could remember. Her property was just half a mile from his dad’s house.

  “That’s why I need you out here.”

  “I promoted you to detective, Jackson.”

  “Okay. I thought you’d want to know,” she replied.

  Jackson had a point. If it was a murder, he should be there.

  “I know the place. I’ll be by.”

  Brandon contacted dispatch to do a check on Erik. In the meantime, he read over the registration. Nygard’s address was the location he’d lived before disappearing. Brandon would let Erik go for now. He had what he came for: confirmation that Nygard was, in fact, stationed behind the old sawmill.