No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  The cat watched them as though it was following the conversation, then sauntered over to its bowl and starting eating.

  “Are you a cat person or a dog person, Ben?”

  It was a loaded question. “Do I get the room if I say cat person?” Shaw asked.

  “I’d better show you the room first, you might not like it.” She unhooked a set of keys from a rack on the wall.

  Shaw was happy and Emily was pleased. The room was neat, with a single bed, a separate bathroom, a small kitchen with a bar fridge, and a microwave and a wood stove. Split logs were under the steps outside and she gave him a key and told him it wouldn’t open the main house, but she had a spare key for the guest room. Meals were not included, but she usually made extra for dinner and would drop the leftovers off or, if he wasn’t in, she would leave it in the bar fridge.

  Shaw stood by the window and watched Emily through the parted curtain. She walked across the yard back to the house, clad in a heavy parka with the fur hood drawn around her head like a shrouded monk.

  She unlocked the back door and disappeared inside, no doubt locking the door securely behind her. What was she so frightened about? The locks on the windows he could understand, but three heavy duty locks on the front door was excessive. And why did she carry a handgun concealed under her clothing when she was at home?

  9

  It was just before 7:00 a.m. when Clare turned her SUV off the mountain road and headed down a wide dirt track. Tall pine trees caked with snow formed a wall on each side. A few minutes later she passed a large sign: Private Property Keep Out! Ballard Forestry and Logging.

  The road opened into a wide clearing in the middle of the forest. She parked next to a line of pickup trucks and SUVs near a series of portable site offices. The edges of the forest were stripped and raw, the trees cut down in huge swathes, large corridors gouged out where the cutting machines had progressed deeper into the forest. Several large haulage trucks were parked, already fully loaded with massive tree trunks, ready to be transported to the saw mill the company owned at the bottom of the mountain.

  Next to the haulage trucks stood imposing mechanical machines in bright yellow, their metal surfaces scarred and stained with diesel grime and hydraulic spray. They had huge arms with cutting blades and jaws with lifting grapples.

  A few workers milled around in orange fluorescent vests and hard hats, getting ready for the morning shift, kicking the tires and testing cables and chains, carrying stainless steel flasks of coffee. The machines would soon start up and run all day, cutting and ripping the forest, and leaving behind nothing but torn earth, decimation and a blanket of fumes that would turn the clear winter sky into a grungy shade of gray.

  To one side sat a row of barracks that housed the onsite workforce. There was a mess hall with extractor stacks on the roof pumping oily fumes into the air from the kitchen that was busily serving breakfast to keep the workers fuelled until the lunch time siren.

  It saddened Clare as she looked around at the devastation. The company had only been here a few years, but hundreds of acres of forest were already gone.

  She headed to the site office. She needed to remain calm and composed.

  Ray Taggart didn’t bother getting up from his desk, he just looked up at Clare and grunted. The last time she had been here was a few months back, to arrest three environmental protesters who chained themselves to some of the logging machines. But by the time she arrived, the protestors’ chains had been cut and they had been badly beaten. Taggart claimed that they were injured when the chains were removed by his workers.

  The protesters didn’t press charges and it was obvious to Clare that they had been threatened if they did.

  Taggart’s office was small and smelled of sweat and burnt coffee. Everything was a sickly colour of beige. Beige filing cabinets, dented and rusted, beige walls, beige fabric chairs, beige desks, the laminate worn and chipped, and a beige linoleum floor scuffed with black boot marks. Behind his desk on the wall was a large topographical map of the forest, its laminated surface covered with a web of red grease pencil lines and curves plotting the daily progress his machines were making chewing up the forest. Quotas had to be met if bonuses were going to be paid. That’s all that mattered.

  “I wondered when you would be turning up,” he said sarcastically. Taggart was overweight, with a large fleshy face, red and blotchy from heavy drinking. He had an unkempt, sloppy look about him like he had slept in his clothes. But his appearance had lulled many a foe into a false sense of superiority.

  He had graduated with honours from Harvard Law and was pegged for a big Washington or New York law firm, but he discovered the bottle before his career got any traction. Drink ruined a promising corporate legal career. Yet the years of hard drinking hadn’t dulled his sharp legal mind and he was a shrewd, cunning operator whom the owners of Ballard had placed a lot of faith and trust in, especially in difficult, politically sensitive logging sites like here on Echo Mountain. He was a tenacious street brawler who could recite environmental and labor law chapter and verse, skills worth having when dealing with both the environmentalists and the unions.

  Clare sat down across from Taggart without being asked and noticed a coffee machine in the corner. It had a black swill in the bottom of the glass flask that resembled some form of prehistoric sludge.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Clare thought she would open up cordially, keep the conversation civil, but then it went pear-shaped when Taggart fired his opening salvo.

  “You ain’t talking to my men,” he said flatly. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed as he glared at Clare.

  “I’m here to take a statement from them, to get their side of the story.” Clare tried to keep her anger in check. Taggart was a disrespectful pig of a man who despised anyone’s authority except his own.

  “I don’t care. They were attacked by some man who came into the store they were in. They were minding their own business when some drifter set upon them.”

  Drifter? If only Taggart knew.

  “I have CCTV video that says otherwise.” Clare didn’t want to reveal what was on the footage, she wanted to keep that ace up her sleeve, especially in front of a jackal like Taggart.

  “Then show me the footage. Show me the proof,” he demanded.

  “It’s logged in as evidence.”

  “Evidence?” Taggart scoffed as he got up from his desk and went to the coffee machine. He poured the black sludge into a stained chipped cup he held in a meaty hand. His sagging belly hung over his belt that was struggling to keep his pants up. “You’ve got nothing,” he said. He didn’t offer coffee to Clare, but she would have refused anyway.

  He sat back down and raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Have ya?”

  Time to return fire. “The hard disk retrieved from the scene will be dusted for prints. One of your men pulled it from the store computer. The cops in Denver have it now.”

  “Proves nothing,” Taggart shot back. “Maybe the girl dropped it in the store and he simply picked it up. Maybe that drifter pulled it himself, was going to steal it.”

  Clare narrowed her eyes. “One of your men dropped something else in the store, something more incriminating, something that could see them all charged with aggravated assault.”

  This got a reaction from Taggart. “It wasn’t his knife. My guy said the man who attacked them produced it.”

  Clare paused and offered a slight smile. She cocked her head. “Who said anything about a knife?”

  Outside the shift siren shrieked, followed by a throaty chorus of heavy machinery starting up. Clare imagined plumes of dirty diesel fumes spewing into the pristine mountain air.

  Taggart smiled at the sound. It was the sound of money trickling into the bank account for the company and a few more notches closer to his productivity bonus. He ignored Clare’s statement. “Now if there’s nothing else I can do for you, Sheriff, I have work to do.”

  “Just a moment,” Clare replied.


  “I don’t have a moment,” he said angrily. “I have allowed you to come onto this property as a guest. If you do not have a warrant, then I’m asking you to leave.”

  “I want to talk to your workers, the ones who claimed they were assaulted. The woman from the store has a different version.”

  “I don’t care. My men are busy.” Taggart leaned forward. “They work hard and play hard. Let them blow off a bit of steam now and then, Sheriff. The town depends on them. It depends on this company for its livelihood.”

  The message was obvious. The town needed the logging company, the company didn’t need the town.

  Clare stood up angrily. “Then I’ll haul their asses into town and put them in an interview and see what they say then.”

  Taggart smiled, his eyes lingering over Clare’s body, making her skin crawl.

  She held his gaze, willing him to relent. But he didn’t.

  “Then arrest them. I’ll shut the camp and I’ll send all the local workers back to town, no pay until this is resolved. We won’t hit the December quota and there goes everyone’s bonus.” He sat back in his chair, the hinges groaning under his weight, a wide grin across his blotchy face.

  Bastard. Clare wanted to hit the man.

  “There’ll be a lot of families counting on that bonus for Christmas, Sheriff,” Taggart rubbed it in. “But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to let them know who was the Christmas Grinch.”

  Clare walked to the door. “I’ll be back,” she said.

  “Bring a warrant when you do next time, otherwise stay off the property.”

  Clare walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  As she walked back across the yard to her car and past some workers, Clare could feel their eyes on her, a few grumbling voices, a passing wise-ass comment about being a woman. She didn’t care, she had followed procedure and had given Taggart the opportunity to respond, but instead he chose to be pig-headed and arrogant.

  What she did care about was getting back to her office and finding out more about the severed hand. That was her priority.

  10

  Shaw got up, showered and got dressed. He opened the curtains and looked outside.

  At the main house the kitchen blinds were drawn back and he could see Emily Bell moving around, opening cupboards and drawers. The yard was covered in a fine layer of snow from the night before. The sky was clear and blue, and across the street neighbors were shovelling snow from driveways and paths. He was about to pull back from the window and leave when the kitchen door at the side of the house opened and Emily Bell emerged carrying a thermal mug. She was dressed in jeans, boots and her parka. She made her way across the yard, up the stairs and knocked on the door.

  “I thought I’d bring you some coffee.” She handed Shaw the mug. “Cream but no sugar. Correct?”

  Shaw felt slightly awkward, not expecting this kind of hospitality in the morning. “Thanks,” Shaw said, taking the coffee. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Don’t be silly, I can hardly expect my guest to go off in the morning without coffee.”

  Shaw smiled. “I was going to walk into town, grab some breakfast maybe.”

  “Annabel’s is great. I usually sleep in then walk down there and grab something. My only indulgence during the holidays.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Emily nodded, then turned and left.

  Shaw waited a moment and drank his coffee. It was like she was acting, not herself. Her words and cheerfulness seemed a little too forced. Maybe she was lonely and was thankful to have someone around. He placed the mug on the bench, grabbed his rucksack and locked the door behind him.

  It was only a ten minute journey into town. Saturday mornings seemed slow in Lacy. The air was cold but fresh and Shaw enjoyed the brisk walk. He reached the main intersection. To the left was Annabel’s, but he turned right towards the sheriff’s office. He thought he would like to catch Clare early.

  Alice Munroe looked up from behind the counter and smiled. “Good morning, Mr Shaw. If you’re looking for the sheriff I’m afraid she’s not here. She’s gone down to the logging camp.” Alice liked Shaw. Word had made it around town like wildfire of what had happened at Molly Malone’s store, the fact that someone had put three workers from the logging camp on their asses when they hassled poor Molly. It gave Alice no end of joy to know it was the young good-looking man who was standing in front of her now. It was about time someone had put some of the camp workers in their rightful place. Most of them walked around town acting like they owned the place.

  “That’s fine. I won’t wait. Please call me Ben. Thanks for the coffee yesterday.”

  “No problem. It’s Alice, Alice Munroe by the way. But you can call me Alice.” Alice held his gaze for a moment. He was a fine looking young man, well mannered and considerate. Could take care of himself too and Alice liked that in a man. Someone who would put the fists up if he had to protect a woman. Too many soft men around today she thought. Too busy grooming their beards and shopping for kale.

  “Look honey, I’ll let her know you dropped by.”

  “Thanks Alice. I’ll be down at Annabel’s if you could let her know.”

  “No problem.” Alice watched him leave, her mind thinking about what he would look like naked on top of her. She may be in her sixties, but she still loved to fuck and the look of a young, hard man made her spine tingle at the thought.

  * * *

  Annabel’s was quiet when Shaw entered. He ordered and sat down near the window bench again so he had a wide view of the street and the road from Emily Bell’s house. It was at the top of a rise overlooking the town, with a wide expanse of forest beyond that looked a lot larger during the day than at night when he arrived.

  His coffee arrived together with a steaming bowl of steel-cut oats that would do him for the entire day. He thought about what he was going to do. He really wanted to leave town as soon as he could despite Clare asking for his help. She seemed more than capable of handling any local issue, but he needed to see her first before he left town, just to make sure everything was squared away. He didn’t have any contact details to leave her. He didn’t carry a cell phone and he had no fixed address for any mail to be forwarded. It was how he planned to be, off the grid, not contactable. Occasionally he would stop at an internet café and check his emails, but very few people knew his email address. He preferred it that way.

  He liked Clare and he wanted to do the right thing by her. She wasn’t glamorous or young, but then some older women appealed to him. They had a certain spark, a zest that came from experience. Emily Bell was another matter altogether. She was a little paranoid, but maybe she had good reason to be. He was curious, but not curious enough to stay. He’d be gone by this afternoon. Maybe catch a lift out along the main highway. He had no reason to stay a moment longer.

  * * *

  Emily Bell watched from the window as Shaw headed down the street. He seemed nice, but she would never be totally comfortable with having someone around her again. There would always be that tinge of acid in her gut, the fear that would never truly disappear. Time never really heals everything. It just makes the days seem gradually more bearable.

  She went upstairs, undressed and showered. She got out of the shower, towel dried herself then stood in front of the mirror. Her ribs were showing just a little too much under her pale skin. She had lost more weight and didn’t know why. She was eating healthy enough.

  The first twelve months had been hard, her paranoia almost consuming her. Insomnia, weight loss, stress, nervous tension. Her doctor said she should continue with the counselling, but she couldn’t stand it any longer. One day a week for six months she had endured sitting in a small bland room talking to a complete stranger who thought they knew her, thought they understood the trauma she had suffered. But they knew nothing, just pretended they did.

  She had not laid herself completely bare during the sessions. There were still dark secrets, hidden away in the reces
ses of her mind, locked away, never to see daylight.

  She rubbed body cream into her skin, taking care not to use too much. It was one of the luxuries she still allowed herself. She turned her forearm and regarded the long bluish scar that ran almost completely from her elbow to her hand. She twisted her wrist back and forth almost expecting to feel the long metal pins they had inserted into her shattered arm. Like most things in her life, it was hidden below the surface, and only she knew it was there.

  She got dressed, did a second round of checking all the windows and locks just to make sure the house was secure. She put out Sammy as she did every morning. Then she went through the ritual of locking the front door then the security screen, making sure the three bolts slid deep into their slots in the door jam. Top, middle and bottom.

  She paused on the porch and scanned the street.

  A few cars sat parked, their roofs and hoods dusted powdery white. Satisfied no one was watching her she made her way towards town.

  * * *

  Three minutes into her journey, he began to follow her.

  He was taking a huge risk, but his desire to know more was eating away at him. Where she was going this early? Was she meeting anyone? Was it that man who arrived last night? Was he her boyfriend? Was she fucking him? It was a new development that he didn’t like at all. It upset the delicate equilibrium that he had established in his mind.

  Usually she left the house roughly the same time, not this early. She would make her way down to the café. Sometimes it took ten minutes, other mornings it took twelve minutes. Snow and ice played a factor. Then she would spend an hour or so there. Nothing incredible about that. She was predictable, it said so in his notebook where he diligently recorded her daily movements, her little idiosyncrasies, her particular patterns. And that would make his task easier.