He stood at the entrance to the encampment. Nygard had lowered the tailgate and opened the canopy but hadn’t started unloading yet. There was movement in the mobile home as someone flipped a light on. Nygard slid onto the tailgate. Leaning back, he pulled out a bottle of beer and shouted to someone in the mobile home.
“Hand me an opener,” he said.
A man opened the screen door and tossed one to Nygard. In the glare of the porch light it was impossible to make out the man’s features. Was it Olson?
Brandon waited while Nygard took a couple of swigs of his beer, stood, and pulled a piece of wood out the truck bed, examining it. Brandon could make his move now. With the poached timber, he had enough to drag Nygard in for questioning. Another piece of evidence to convince a judge—anyone but Gillman—that they needed a search warrant.
But what he wanted was Olson.
The other man exited the mobile home, descending the stairs. He approached Nygard. The man looked a hell of a lot like Olson.
But he wasn’t sure.
“Good stuff,” the man said.
Brandon squinted in the dark. It had to be Olson. He’d been the one living here, Nygard’s righthand man. It made sense he’d crawl home to his former boss.
Nygard mumbled something to the man, who’d just opened a beer. The man had his back to Brandon now.
Brandon knew what Will would say, Jackson too. It was a stupid move, coming alone. But he’d rather keep them out of this, especially considering the connection between the judge and their boss, Sheriff Hart.
Brandon cocked his head. He’d heard Nygard say the name Olson.
The man replied, but Brandon couldn’t hear the response.
All he needed was Olson’s fingerprints and a few hours in the interview room, and he’d have enough to put Eli’s case to rest. Their dad could be at peace about Eli. Brandon could go back to doing his job. Eli would be remembered as the hero he was, not just another unsolved case.
Brandon pulled his pistol out and pointed it at the two men. He crept calmly, quietly forward, waiting for them to notice his approach. He was just ten feet away when the grin dropped from Nygard’s face.
“What the…”
“Forks Police. Hands up. Both of you.”
Nygard scowled. “You.”
The man complied, his back to Brandon.
Brandon reached for his handcuffs to detain him. The man tossed the bottle of beer aside and bolted past Nygard.
The man fleeing Nygard’s compound could be Olson.
“Stay here,” Brandon told Nygard.
“Screw you.”
Brandon sprinted to the far side of the encampment as the man disappeared into the forest.
“Stop!” Brandon shouted, following the rustle of footsteps.
He trudged ahead, the woods closing in on him, the undergrowth wet with the recent rainfall. He came upon a thicket of blackberry brambles. There was no way the man had gone through there.
Brandon held still, listening.
In the distance, Nygard’s International roared into gear as it drove away.
“Dammit,” Brandon said.
He scanned the area with his flashlight, hoping for a reflection, anything.
Brandon swept the light across the path. It was impossible to make out any footprints. He backed away from the brambles, his pistol readied in case the man returned.
A few minutes later, Brandon reached the encampment again.
As expected, Nygard’s truck was gone.
But Nygard wasn’t.
He sat on the front porch, opening his second beer.
“You have a nice hike, Chief?”
Brandon kept his pistol out.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Olson,” Brandon said.
“Olson?” Nygard howled, his belly rolling with laughter. “How the hell would I know where Olson is?”
“He works for you,” Brandon said.
“Used to work for me,” Nygard said. “Before he killed my daughter.”
“I thought you blamed that on me,” Brandon said.
“I do. You’re the dumbass that chased him for no good reason. He’s the fool that didn’t slow down to let her out.”
If Nygard was telling the truth, and Olson knew what Nygard thought of him, this was the last place Brandon would find the fugitive.
“Olson knows you think this about him?” Brandon asked.
“He called me the day after Alisa died. Son of a bitch got my truck impounded, too. I told him next time he shows his face I’ll chain his ass to a tree ten miles from the nearest road and leave him for the coyotes.”
“He’s wanted in connection with the killing of Eli Mattson,” Brandon said.
“Don’t know anything about that,” Nygard said, taking a swig of his beer.
“You had no idea you were hiding two fugitives—murder suspects?”
“Nope,” Nygard said. “And Alisa was no murderer. Our family leaves the killing up to the cops.”
“Is that why your son Matthew threatened my daughter?” Brandon asked.
“Matthew? He wouldn’t do that. Besides, he’s not around anymore.”
That confirmed the rumor Josiah had heard that Matthew had left the state to stay with relatives.
“Unless you want to lose another child,” Brandon said, “I suggest you have him lay off. That goes for you too.”
“You threatening me, Chief?”
“Yep.”
Nygard chuckled. “You’re not the first cop to come after us. You know that, right?”
Brandon didn’t respond.
“And you and me, we’re not even. I still owe you for what you did to Alisa.”
“Too bad you’ll be in prison by the time I’m done with your family,” Brandon said.
Nygard shrugged his shoulders, took one long pull of beer and tossed the bottle aside. Brandon lifted his gun an inch.
“Don’t worry, big shot,” Nygard said. “I’m unarmed.”
“Who drove the truck away?”
“A friend. He’s running an errand for me.”
“And the man you were talking to? The one you claim wasn’t Olson.”
“What man?” Nygard asked.
Brandon pursed his lips. He hated it when people played dumb.
“I’ve been watching you,” Brandon said. “I saw you bring the haul in. I know it’s maple.”
“Yet here I am, a free man. And you don’t have one splinter of evidence.”
He was right.
“Why did Judge Gillman allow you to stay on his wife’s property?”
Nygard jerked his head Brandon’s direction.
“How’d you know about that?”
“Guess I’m not such a dumbass, after all.”
“Like I said, I don’t know anything,” Nygard replied, standing. “It’s cold out, Chief. I’m heading inside.”
He turned his back on Brandon and disappeared into the mobile home, locking the door behind him.
Chapter 28
Brandon had three voicemails when he got to the office the next morning. The first from the sheriff, demanding a call back even though he was still on vacation. He couldn’t rely on Sheriff Hart, considering what he’d learned about the sheriff’s connection to Judge Gillman. The second was from Nygard’s attorney, trying his hardest to sound calm but tough. He wanted a word with Brandon in preparation for a potential lawsuit to address the department’s harassment of his client.
The last message was from a Detective Moodenbough with the sheriff’s office. The detective didn’t say what he wanted, but in case it had something to do with Eli’s case, Brandon called him back.
“This is Brandon Mattson.”
“Yeah. So, ah. We have a problem,” the detective said.
“This involve Eli’s case?”
“No. That’s cold. I’m talking about what you did last night,” he said.
“What exactly was that?” Brandon asked, knowin
g this must have something to do with Nygard.
“We’ve been working Jack Nygard’s operation for months.”
“For what?” Brandon asked.
“He’s the leading timber thief in the region.”
“I know that,” Brandon said. “He’s also at the center of a murder investigation.”
There was a pause. “Not as far as we’re concerned.”
“Far as I can tell you don’t seem too concerned at all,” Brandon said.
“Listen, big shot. We might not have the resources you all did in Seattle. But we’re the fricking detectives here. Not you.”
“My title is chief, Moodenbough. That means I outrank a wet-behind-the-ears property crimes detective.” It was a low blow. Brandon had started in property crimes himself. And the detectives in Port Angeles covered all crimes on a rotation. But the guy was being a smart-ass.
“What the hell do you want from me?” Brandon asked. “Besides to waste my time.”
“That guy you chased into the woods last night?” Moodenbough said.
How’d he know about that already?
“What about him?”
“He was one of ours. And you almost blew his cover.”
“You’re going covert in my region without informing me?” Brandon asked.
There was another long pause.
“That was the decision,” Moodenbough said. “We were told not to notify the locals.”
“Who authorized it?” Brandon asked.
“Came straight from the top. Like everything around here.”
“So that’s why you called? To rip me a new one for sticking my nose in your little operation. Meantime, my brother’s murder goes unsolved and there’s a crap ton of evidence you’re ignoring.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll let you know when I have it solved. I’ll need someone to transport the killer to county jail.”
“Funny,” Moodenbough said. “You know you’re not supposed to be involved in this case.”
“Guess we’re even, then. You piss on my territory, I’ll piss on yours. Ask forgiveness later, right, detective?”
Moodenbough was taking too long to think of a reply, so Brandon took the opportunity to hang up.
Brandon wrapped his fingers around the first thing his hands could find. He mustered all his restraint to not chuck the stapler against the wall.
Everyone with any power, any ability to help him, had instead put up barriers. The sheriff had time and money to investigate Nygard for twenty or thirty thousand dollars’ worth of timber. But in the meantime, they’d let Eli’s case grow cold.
Olson wasn’t on Nygard’s property, but only a few days ago Brandon had spotted him in Forks. If the key to Olson wasn’t Nygard, then it was Judge Gillman.
He thought back to Tori’s idea about figuring out the link between Olson and Judge Gillman. She had suggested trying vital records.
He searched the state’s public information vital statistics but found nothing. He turned next to court records. While adoptions records were sealed, you might find a record of the potential adoptive parents filing claims. It was a stretch, but worth the effort.
He searched for Erik Olson first and found records on several people by the same name. Speeding tickets, divorce records, one trespassing charge. But nothing anywhere near Forks. Next, he queried using Judge Gillman’s name. His record was clean. Nothing about adopting a son. Brandon didn’t expect to uncover Erik Olson’s name, but in case of adoption, you might find the child’s initials attached to a case.
There was nothing.
No history of any Erik Olson from Forks. It was as if he didn’t exist.
Maybe that was the problem. Erik Olson didn’t exist.
Brandon had an idea, but it required more than the internet had to offer.
Brandon scoured through the old list of contacts the previous chief had given him. There, he found the number for the head of maintenance for the local school district. It was Saturday, meaning the building should be empty and no admin staff around. The chief had given Brandon the number in case police ever required access to a school building.
Right now, he needed access to the high school.
Stacey Adams called him back within a few minutes.
“Is there a problem at the school?” she asked.
“We’re doing an investigation,” Brandon said. “I need access to Forks High.”
He paused and wondered if she was aware of the investigation into Eli’s death. He was being paranoid. Why would the head of maintenance know about a case that had nothing to do with her?
They met in front of Forks High half an hour later.
Stacey was tall, with short brown hair and freckled cheeks that gave the impression she might be a student herself. He glanced at her Washington Huskies jersey.
“I hope you’re not missing the game.”
“It’s a night game,” she said. “Only thing I’m missing is barn chores.”
“I really appreciate this, Stacey” Brandon said as she opened the front door.
“No problem. My brother’s a cop,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“Los Angeles,” she replied.
“That’s a big place,” he said.
“Yeah. We worry about him all the time,” she said.
Brandon nodded. “He’s doing good work. All you can do it be grateful for that.”
She smiled back at him. “Right.”
“Where to?”
“Library,” Brandon said.
Stacey opened the library door. To Brandon’s surprise, she hadn’t asked any questions about why he was there.
“I’ll try to be quick,” Brandon said.
The old yearbooks hadn’t moved since his time at Forks High. There was a section in the back corner of the library that held a copy of every yearbook from the school’s first years, some from before the name had been changed from its original designation, Quillayute High School. Brandon guessed Olson would have graduated around four years earlier. Starting a couple of years before that, he flipped to the freshmen section.
He wasn’t even sure Olson had attended school in Forks. He’d been in the picture with the Gillman family, but it didn’t mean he’d lived there at the time.
Stacey sat at a table across the library, flipping through a Car and Driver magazine. He considered the maintenance supervisor.
“You attend Forks High?” Brandon asked.
She glanced up from the magazine.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You ever know someone named Erik Olson? He’s 22 now.”
“Never heard of him. And I’m pretty sure everyone knows everyone else around here,” she said.
“Got it,” he said, turning back to the yearbook.
His gaze grew lazy as he skipped over the menagerie of smiling faces. You could tell a lot from a yearbook photo, he thought. Who was popular, who was a nerd and hated it, and those who wore their nerdiness with pride. There were the outcasts for whom the photo was one of the few days they’d attended school. The ones Brandon was most likely to meet in his line of work.
He had an idea.
“You know anyone by the name of Gillman?”
“The judge’s son?”
“Tell me more,” Brandon said.
“He was a couple of years younger than me,” she said. “He was quiet, kind of plain. Sort of like me. The kind of person no one notices.” She paused, then said, “Although there was a rumor he smoked dope. More than the rest of the kids, at least.”
“What year did you graduate?” Brandon asked.
“Fourteen,” she said.
Brandon pulled out the 2014 yearbook from the stack.
He flipped to the sophomore section where his finger landed on the name Thomas Erik Gillman, a.k.a. Erik Olson.
Got it.
Olson was Judge Gillman’s son. He’d changed his name in the last four years. Or, he was living under a false identity. Possibly with the help
of his father.
Even with the name change, in a small town like Forks people would recognize him. Unless, like Stacey said, Olson was a kid no one noticed. That and hiding outside town on Nygard’s encampment would be enough to avoid bringing attention to himself.
But why would Judge Gillman help change his son’s name? Because he’d been involved in the murder of a police officer. Instead of sending him off to another part of the country, they’d given him a new identity. To disconnect his actions from any association with the judge.
It was akin to disowning his son.
But at the same time he was protecting Olson and Nygard.
Brandon tucked the yearbook under his arm, slipping the rest back onto the shelf.
“I’ll bring it back,” Brandon said, answering the question in Stacey’s eyes.
“And, thanks again for coming in,” he said.
“I hope I helped.”
“You have no idea how much,” Brandon said.
Back at the station, Brandon did a background check on Thomas Erik Gillman. No hits. That made sense, because if Olson had been in the car with Alisa Nygard when Eli was killed, his prints would have shown up in a database.
The two sets of prints from the Honda Civic were never identified, meaning whoever pulled the trigger didn’t have a criminal history. If the judge’s son had a record, and prints, that meant it wasn’t him who’d been in the car.
He knew who Olson was now. He still had no idea where he was.
The fact that Olson was the judge’s son, and that Olson was wanted for questioning in a murder investigation, not to mention eluding police, was enough to cast serious doubt on Judge Gillman. And the judge had been letting Olson and Nygard stay on the Randall family property. It was as close as you could get to harboring a fugitive.
But Gillman was a judge. And Sheriff Hart’s friend. Just about everyone he should be able to trust wouldn’t touch this case.
Brandon was on his own.
Chapter 29
It was nearly two and he hadn’t had lunch yet. He knew himself well enough that he knew he’d be working out how to get to the judge and Olson until he found a solution. In the meantime, his brain needed sustenance.
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