by Thomas Zigal
Staggs set down his drink and shook hands with Metcalf, exchanging words Kurt couldn’t hear.
“Staggs,” Kurt said, demanding his attention. “I want to see Chilcutt in my office tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll have to discuss that with our lawyer,” Staggs said, hitching his chin toward Metcalf, one final gesture of defiance before leaving the room.
Metcalf extended his hand toward a small conference table located within a few steps of a fully stocked bar. “A drink before we get started, Sheriff?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “Does your foundation represent VIProtex, Mr. Metcalf ?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” The attorney offered Kurt a chair at the cherrywood table and sat before a hefty file, the only object on an otherwise spotless surface that smelled of fresh lemon oil. “VIProtex and all of its employees,” Metcalf said, peering at Kurt over the frame of his reading glasses. “I’m not sure I can free up someone to appear with Mr. Chilcutt on such short notice. Could you give us an extra day or so?”
Above the visor line on his tanned forehead, his scalp appeared pale and rubbery under baby-fine sprigs of hair, a suggestion that he sometimes wore a hairpiece.
“Does Chilcutt need a lawyer, Mr. Metcalf?”
Metcalf smiled, his crow’s feet wrinkling. “Sheriff,” he said in mock disbelief. “Even in the People’s Republic of Aspen a man is entitled to counsel, is he not?”
“I’m an easy guy to get along with,” Kurt said. “Let’s make it Wednesday. Not a day later. Don’t force me to issue a warrant.”
Metcalf removed his glasses with a quick flourish, a practiced mannerism from the courtroom. “That shouldn’t be necessary, sir. I hope we can all remain friends. We have Ned Carr’s interest in common.”
“Good.”
The attorney opened the file. “I was disturbed to hear that Ned’s death might’ve been a homicide,” he said, flipping through the pages. “But frankly, it shouldn’t surprise me. All his life Ned waged war against the obstructionists and their government toadies. With deranged felons like the Green Briars running loose, spiking trees and blowing up machinery, it was only a matter of time before they killed a defenseless old miner. Ned was an easy target. He didn’t have the resources for state-of-the-art security.”
“Like you have here,” Kurt said, surveying the spacious office. This was the choice corner of the building, glass walls in a ninety-degree wedge, an impressive panorama of the Front Range and the scrubby mesa to the north.
“He liked doing things his own way,” Metcalf said. “The old-fashioned way. We offered to help him tech up, but he wasn’t interested.”
Across the room, above the rich leather couch in a cozy sitting area, hung a huge oil painting of a frostbitten mail rider struggling his way through a fierce blizzard, the horse and saddlebagged mule tromping bravely onward in belly-high snow. A vivid portrait of the old-fashioned way.
“You think it was the Green Briars, Mr. Metcalf?”
“That would be my first guess. Or someone like them. When we were handling Ned’s case we became well aware of his formidable opposition in Aspen. It’s not a friendly place for people who don’t toe the liberal party line. Hell, our attorneys had their tires slashed on two occasions. And look what the animal nuts have been trying to do there—outlaw fur, for god’s sake! We might as well have been trying our case in Haight-Ashbury.”
“You won, Mr. Metcalf. Ned got his access road.”
The attorney lowered his voice, as if they were fellow conspirators in some dark plot. “I’m beginning to believe it will be easier to establish democracy in Communist Russia than in some of our federal districts. You may not be aware of the figures, but the environmental lobby is spending three billion dollars a year to mangle the free enterprise system. We were very fortunate to get a sympathetic bench.”
Kurt knew that Metcalf could go on in this vein for quite some time. “What was your relationship with Ned?” he asked, shifting focus. “Tell me how your foundation works.”
Metcalf sipped his Scotch. “We represent the little guy against the Robert Redfords of the world,” he smiled. “There’s so much celebrity money behind the Sierra Club, the Audubon Society, and the Wildlife Federation that people like Ned Carr can’t afford to go head to head with them, certainly not through the judicial process. We take their cases pro bono, so the mom-and-pop ranchers and loggers and weekend miners will have something left in the bank when it’s all over.”
“Do you represent the larger corporations as well? Say, the big timber companies in the Northwest?”
“Only the clients who can prove need. Right now we’ve got a case pending in the state of Washington over fishing rights. The Northwest Indians have taken it upon themselves to cut off access to a public river where salmon fishermen have been making a living for four generations. And in Wyoming we’re helping out an old boy who shot a wolf he caught eating his livestock. The goddamn Fish and Wildlife Service threw him in jail!”
Kurt had read about the shooting. The old boy had killed one of the sixteen gray wolves reintroduced into the wild near Yellowstone and was busted when he tried to sell the pelt to a small-time furrier.
“There are at least three dozen cases on our plate,” Metcalf said. “Honest, hardworking folks who’ve been snared up in the huge net the EPA and the greens have thrown over this country. The American people are being hog-tied by laws and regulations, Sheriff, and they’re not happy about it. Constitutional rights are at stake. The business climate is being destroyed by all the litigation costs and restraints. We’ve got to get our national agenda back on track. That’s what the Free West Rebellion is all about.” He smiled at some private thought. “We’ll dump tea in the harbor if we have to.”
Kurt had been hearing speeches like this for years. “When you were working with Ned, did he ever talk about death threats?”
“Certainly,” Metcalf said. “But most of the threats were related to his mining operations and his property. He mentioned names, yes. One of our clerks took notes,” he said, turning pages in the file, looking through memoranda. “I’m sure it’s all in here somewhere. I’ll have my secretary make a copy for you. Perhaps the names are worth pursuing. There was an alcoholic photographer in Aspen, if I remember correctly, whom Ned held in highest contempt. A man who had harassed him for decades. Others as well, though I can’t list them for you without reference to the notes.”
“I would appreciate any information you have on record.”
The attorney pushed the file away, sat back in the regal chair, and sipped his drink. “I liked Ned very much,” he said with a fond smile, removing his reading glasses. “More than that—I respected him. He reminded me of an uncle of mine, my mother’s brother, a strange old hermit who did some mining out at Cripple Creek and came down to see us from time to time when I was growing up. Men like that are our national heritage.”
Kurt realized he had two choices now: either sit here and listen to more pious homage to the Great Frontier Spirit or jerk this guy’s rope to see how loud the bell would ring.
“Mr. Metcalf, were you aware that Ned had planned to will custodianship of his mines to a group of Indians?”
Kurt expected a visible reaction but the man showed no emotion whatsoever. More evidence of his courtroom training. He undoubtedly played a mean game of poker.
“What’s your source of information, Sheriff?”
Kurt hesitated before answering. “A birdy told me. In fact,” he said, “it was a large nighthawk.”
Metcalf’s eyes hardened. “You say Ned had planned to do this. Do you have confirmation that this transaction actually took place?”
Kurt waited, his mind racing to fabricate something believable. “No,” he admitted finally.
Metcalf studied him with disappointment. “I don’t know what his game is,” the attorney said, lacing his fingers, “but your nighthawk is seriously misinformed. Ned Carr made no such determination. The idea is ludicrous.”
“What makes you so sure of that, Mr. Metcalf?”
He placed his fingers under his chin. “As Ned’s attorney, I am privy to his last will and testament, Sheriff Muller. Believe me, there is no provision to include Indians.”
Kurt could feel the color surge across his face. Arnold Metcalf had access to the will? “Are you saying that you are the executor of the Carr estate?”
A courtly nod. “Our legal foundation is, yes.”
“That’s odd, Mr. Metcalf. Two days ago Ned’s will was read to me by an attorney in Aspen. Corky Marcus has been Ned’s executor for as long as I can remember. It will come as a surprise to him that he has been replaced.”
Metcalf rose from the table to freshen his drink. He stood at the bar and dropped ice into his glass, a splash of Scotch.
“When Ned came to us he was a defeated man,” he said, swirling the liquid in the tumbler. “He had more problems than Job, and even his longtime attorney, Mr. Marcus, wouldn’t take his case. I don’t blame Ned for feeling that Marcus had turned his back on him. He certainly had. Ned didn’t have an ally in the world. But then he found us, and we were very pleased to join his battle in the trenches. I’m sure he thought of us as his savior, poor man. And maybe we were,” he said with a wistful sigh, “for a little while. We did everything we could for him, Sheriff. We even loaned him money when he needed it. No one should be surprised that Ned Carr chose our foundation to handle his estate for him. We were the only people on God’s green earth who cared whether that old miner breathed another breath.”
No, there were others, Kurt thought, the rare souls who really loved the old man. Tyler. Hunter. Maybe Tink Tarver. Not enough to argue over.
“So you’re telling me that Ned made out another will.”
“That is correct. According to Ned’s stated wishes, the new will supersedes any document in Mr. Marcus’s possession.”
Something smelled in the room, and it wasn’t the expensive Scotch. If Ned had created a second will, why had he phoned Corky last week to tell him he wanted to make changes in the will they had written together three years ago?
“May I see it?” Kurt said.
Metcalf offered him a rogue’s grin. “Sheriff Muller,” he said, his crow’s feet dancing, “I’m sure you’re aware that there is a proper time and place for the disposition of matters like these.” He brought the glass to his lips. “Right now you and I are just a couple of old boys sitting around on a sunny afternoon shooting the shit.”
Kurt reached over and tapped the file folder. “It’s gotta be in here, Arnold,” he said. “Read it to me.”
Metcalf’s smile was beginning to chill. “At the appropriate time.”
“What’s wrong with now?” Kurt asked, opening the stiff cover.
The top document was a hand-scrawled letter from Ned to their legal foundation. Metcalf reached down, closed the cover, and slid the file out of Kurt’s reach. “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” he said, his brow creasing, “these papers are confidential. But if you’d like, I’ll have my girl go through them and photocopy anything that looks relevant to the investigation.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Kurt said, rising from the chair to meet Metcalf eye to eye. “Now when can I see the will?”
The attorney did not flinch. “As I’ve said, Sheriff. At the appropriate time.”
“Aspen is a small town, Arnold. The judge is a good friend of mine. We play poker at the same table every Wednesday night.” A bald-faced lie. The district judge and Kurt Muller had crossed swords on many occasions in court and did not run in the same social circles. “If I ask him to, he’ll subpoena the will as evidence in a murder investigation. I hope I don’t have to do that. I hope we can all remain friends here, with Ned’s interest in common.”
Metcalf strolled across his office to the glass wall. Sipping his drink, the other hand tucked casually in the pocket of his cotton trousers, he stood gazing out at the mountains, his back to Kurt. “You’re a Colorado boy,” he said absently. “Your parents moved here when you were only two years old.”
Kurt was a little unnerved that he would know this about him. What else did the man know?
“Look at this view,” he said. “I’m sure you appreciate this magnificent country as much as I do.”
Kurt wandered over to admire the scenery. This time of year the Front Range appeared green and enchanting, with long cornices of snow above 11,000 feet. To the northwest he could see the Garden of the Gods, strange red-sandstone formations jutting out of the brushy foothills, a magic place revered by cliff-dwelling Anasazi.
“I suspect that Neal Staggs is wrong about you,” Metcalf said, his eyes fixed on some distant peak. “He thinks you’re like all the knee-jerk trustafarians in Aspen, trendy and corrupt. But I know something about your family stock, Sheriff Muller, and what your parents went through to build their dream in a forsaken mining dump nobody would’ve given a dime for. Like Ned Carr, they rolled up their sleeves and made their shaky enterprise work, in spite of the odds. You’ve been through it with them, my friend. It’s in your blood.” He spoke with the certainty of a minister. “That’s why this investigation is important to you, isn’t it? You don’t want to lose Ned. He wasn’t so different from your father, another incurable romantic. They were both stubborn dreamers.”
“Some dreams turn into nightmares, Mr. Metcalf.”
The attorney’s chin moved slightly and his eyes embraced Kurt with an unexpected warmth. “Don’t be offended, Sheriff. None of us has their strength of character,” he said, his voice softening. “We’re all spectators now, experiencing everything through a glowing idiot box. The best we can do is keep their spirit alive a few years longer, so our grandchildren will get a taste of it before the world we once enjoyed is taken from us.”
Kurt looked over at the painting above the couch. A fearless messenger trooping westward through blizzards and Indian attack, bringing order to man’s rightful dominion. It was the way Arnold Metcalf saw himself and his destiny.
“I don’t share your brand of nostalgia, Mr. Metcalf. And just for the record,” Kurt said, “I’ve never wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“That’s a pity. Jacob Rumpf and his team were admirable visionaries. Where would this country be without their kind of ambition?”
The city lay at their feet, a modest downtown business district and bordering tree-shaded neighborhoods, the modern developments rolling away across a busy interstate into a quaint enclave of Old West storefronts and vintage redbrick hotels. Though he had never been there, Kurt recognized that locale for what it was, another early mining settlement turned tourist attraction, the saloons and dry goods emporiums now a home for art galleries and T-shirt shops. The Rumpf legacy in its final stages of ambition.
“Sheriff Muller, there’s plenty of room in our coalition for sympathetic peace officers,” Metcalf said, his eyes following the traffic twenty stories below. “We have friends wearing badges in every western state. I would like to think that you could become one of those friends. We welcome the opportunity to supply information and assistance to any law enforcement department open to our mission.”
Our mission. Like Jesse Nighthawk, these people were monitoring their enemies, collecting data, recording names. They were also unleashing the pit bulls whenever it suited their mission.
“I’m not much of a joiner, Mr. Metcalf.”
The attorney gave a slight shrug. “One doesn’t have to carry our business card to be an ally,” he said. “There are a hundred ways to help.” He looked at Kurt again, studied his face. Something sinister resided in the man’s cold, unyielding stare. “I have never heard anyone complain about the amenities that come with being associated with our cause.”
One of the subtlest inferences of a payoff Kurt had ever witnessed. Arnold Metcalf was truly a professional.
“We will talk again, Mr. Metcalf,” he said, checking his watch. “I’m due back in Aspen tonight. I expect a phone message con
firming a Wednesday appointment with J.J. Chilcutt. And a definitive date for the reading of Ned’s will. Don’t disappoint me.”
He strode across the soft beige carpet and had almost reached the door when a nagging thought wouldn’t let him leave. “You mentioned that you loaned Ned some money,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.
Metcalf was still standing at the glass wall. Afternoon sunlight shone around his tall, lanky frame, a luminous corona. He shook the ice in his tumbler.
“Did he ever pay you back?”
“It was a business arrangement.”
“Yes, of course it was. But did he pay back the loan?”
He could feel Metcalf’s condescending smile across the room. “Sheriff, you ought to know by now that I don’t reveal the details of Free West transactions.”
Cut a deal with the devil but the dirty bastard double-crossed me, Ned had told him in that final phone call. I tried to burn ’em at their own game. Now they’re coming after me.
“How much of his mining operation do you own, Mr. Metcalf?”
The attorney remained silent, staring blankly through empty space.
“He traded you a piece of his mines in exchange for your help, didn’t he, sir?”
Metcalf walked over and placed the empty glass on his cherrywood desk, a large, uncluttered piece of furniture that took up considerable space in the corner where the walls met. “There was nothing out of the ordinary about our partnership with Ned Carr,” he said impatiently. “We made a separate loan agreement, the kind arranged every day by banks and lending institutions throughout the world.”
“A loan payback to a nonprofit foundation?”
“Any incidental revenue is put to nonprofit use, I assure you. If you’re confused about 501-c regulations, Sheriff Muller, perhaps you ought to consult your department’s legal counsel in Aspen. He will inform you about the myriad routine transactions that take place at nonprofit institutions and universities.”
Kurt looked at Ned’s file on the conference table. “How much of him did you own?” he asked again, the bitterness showing this time.
