Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “Lil? You’re not too chilly sitting outside?”

  “I get tired of being cooped up in the house.”

  I sat down in the other rocker. “You can see the whole valley from here. Nice. I should think about buying a house out in the country. Louie would balk at moving, though.”

  “Louie?”

  “My old cat.”

  Lil smiled. “Nice to see you, Maggie. Why are you here?”

  “I should have dropped by before this. For some girl talk.”

  “Oh, come on. Sergeant Maggie Blackthorne doesn’t do girl talk. I actually count on that.”

  “I just thought I should stop by. See if you’re doing okay. I mean, I’ve never given birth or raised a child, but I wanted to once. With all my heart.”

  She took all that in for several beats. I must’ve thrown her off guard revealing something personal about myself.

  “Hollis sent you, right?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “He thinks I’m frightened about having this baby, but it’s Hollis who’s scared. Hell, I’d rather give birth at home, but he won’t have it.”

  Lil was a strong woman; of that much I was certain. “You’ll do fine, I just know it, and your baby will be gorgeous.”

  “Yes. He will.”

  “A boy?”

  “Henry Justice. Henry after my brother, and Justice is a name Hollis likes. His lodestar, I guess you’d say.”

  I understood what she meant. Hollis had been handed a fairness compass at birth. “Henry Justice Two Moons Jones. Kind of hippie-dip, but I like it.”

  Lil giggled softly and absentmindedly massaged her belly. “We’ll probably call him Hank.”

  I could easily have been envious of Lil and Hollis, their bond, their house on the hill, and their child on the way. But no, I’d gotten sick of pining for that life a while back.

  “Is there anything I can help you with? Anything you need?” I asked.

  “I know you’ve been sent out here to dispense some female wisdom or something.”

  Her remark made me laugh harder than I had in a long time. “I warned him I didn’t have any advice to pass along, especially about childbirth, raising kids.”

  “He forgets what community I was brought up in. We’re taught to be mindful that giving birth is a natural experience. And in this case, one I’m open to.”

  I reached across the space between us and squeezed her hand. “I can hardly wait to meet Hank. But right now, I should get back and check on his daddy.”

  “And will you tell him that I’m fine? Not scared. Not lonely. Not miserable.”

  “I’ll pass that on.”

  She stood when I did, and we shared a brief embrace.

  “Crap. Coffee. I forgot to offer you some, Maggie.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got plenty of crap coffee back at the station.”

  Hollis looked up from rattle-tapping his keyboard. “Jess Haney—the cousin in Burns—is a female. Bennett’s her last name these days. And get this, she’s licensed to drive semis.”

  “A female long-haul truck driver? Can you believe they’d allow such a thing?”

  Hollis sighed at my sarcasm “Sergeant Brown in Burns sent an officer to her place. Nobody around, though.” He pulled up the Bennett woman’s DMV photo.

  I considered the blurred image on his monitor. “She looks a lot like Dan and Joseph.”

  “Tiny thing, for a trucker. She’s probably tough like you. Like Lil. Thanks for checking on her, by the way. She texted me right after you left. She’s pretty smitten with you now.”

  “And who wouldn’t be?”

  “Lieutenant Jeremy T. Lake comes to mind.”

  An old enemy who also happened to be my supervisor. I groaned and changed the subject. “I’m patrolling south on 395 this afternoon, and the area around Seneca.”

  “Logan Valley? Where you spotted the Nodine brothers?”

  I nodded. “And I’d like you to take 26 east to Austin Junction or so.”

  “State po-po will be out in force today!” Hollis said in an exaggerated drawl.

  “That reminds me, when is Taylor back from vacation? I’m tired of covering his fish and wildlife route. And since you mentioned that asshole J.T. Lake, it’s thanks to him the fourth trooper position was cut from our budget.”

  “I don’t see that changing, do you? And Taylor’s signed out for a few more days.”

  We listened to the recording of yesterday’s poacher tip line report that had led me to the Nodine boys. Played it twice all the way through.

  “Recognize the voice?” Hollis asked.

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t sound like he’s from around here, does it?”

  “Well, there’s no country twang, if that’s what you mean.”

  I played the recording one more time. “He sounds educated.”

  “The two of us are educated.”

  “There’s a difference between being educated and being smart.”

  “Which are we?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m both.”

  “I like to think I am too.”

  “If you’re so smart, why haven’t you tracked down an address for the Nodines?”

  He faked a grimace. “Maybe they’re smart too, or smarter than we think.”

  We listened to the tip line recording once more.

  “He’s awfully specific about their location in Logan Valley,” I said. “Milepost number and everything. I wish he’d mentioned they were a ways from the highway. I might have used a different pursuit strategy.”

  “It means he also would’ve been a ways from the highway if he witnessed the Nodines gutting that doe.”

  “Maybe part of the hunting party? Backed out at the end?” I put my hands up in surrender. “Christ. The whole thing has already taken up too much of our time.”

  “But that’s not going to stop you from going back out there to take a look, is it.”

  Leaving town, I drove by Lynn Nodine’s place hoping I might spot Dan and Joseph’s flame-red pickup parked out front. But of course not. Why would those boys have chosen this day to suddenly pay their mother a visit? The statewide alert hadn’t rendered even one call. I was beginning to think the twins had driven that diesel hog halfway across the country by now.

  A second trip to Logan Valley could be pointless too, except for the speeding drivers I might encounter along the way and be obliged to pull over. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up the chase just yet. So I headed on up Highway 395 over Canyon Mountain, passing long snowdrift pastures and turning left onto Route 16, the county road running east through Seneca, and eventually pulling north toward Highway 26 and the peaks of the Blues.

  Freezing rain coated the surface, making for a greasy slog over gray mud and ice. Six miles in, I slowed at the turnout where I’d parked the day before. The Nodine twins had shot and gutted that doe close to a mile from here. But off-roading in heinous weather across Logan Valley’s boggy grassland and spiky frazil in search of those men wasn’t an option. Not even in my heavy-duty Tahoe.

  Continuing east on Route 16, I drove along the rim of Strawberry Mountain Wilderness, through stands of larch and pine until the road narrowed to one lane and descended sharply. When the pavement ended, cut off by a mire of boulders and slurry, I turned around. It was never wise to get stuck in backcountry with no cell signal and out of radio range. Not in wintertime, anyway.

  Returning to Seneca, I sensed driving around hunting for the Nodines had amounted to nothing more than a waste of time. Which didn’t deter me from touring the seven-block radius of the old mill town looking for the Ram 3500 parked next to some shanty or mobile home.

  After coming up empty again, I wound my way back to 395, past the old mill site, and north toward John Day. A mile or so before the junction with Izee Road, I spotted Guy Trudeau’s Torino lumbering over the rise. It passed slowly on my left, going south. A slate-gray cattle truck with Frank Sylvester Trucking, Burns, Oregon printed in stylize
d cursive on the cab door followed on its tail.

  “Interesting,” I said, turning my Chevy slowly around, bouncing over ruts in the pavement, sliding in gravel. Jesus, how had old man Trudeau’s low-slung beater driven through this mess? I flipped on my warning lights.

  The semi pulled to the narrow shoulder, and I parked behind it. Moving out of my rig, I signaled for the truck driver to do the same. A woman opened the door, popped onto the icy step-up, and leapt to snow-covered ground. Batted one boot against the other, shit-kicker style.

  “Driver’s license, please,” I said.

  Except for her stark blue eyes, the woman held an uncanny resemblance to me—elfin stature, raven hair, wary countenance. She took off her retro trucker’s hat, a well-used oily one with the International Harvester logo stitched on the front.

  She fished in her hip pocket, brought out a battered wallet, and handed over the license. It read Jessica H. Bennett.

  Up the road, Trudeau reversed his Torino and then pivoted slowly forward. Navigating between the gullies on either side, he kept repeating that move, working to turn the car around.

  “You with Mr. Trudeau?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Is he driving pilot car for you or something?” Big rigs sometimes needed that traveling on narrow highways. Advance warning for other oncoming vehicles.

  “Old fart’s packin’ heat. Protection. For me, or rather for his load of cattle.”

  I glanced at the license photo once more. “You’re Jess Haney, right?”

  “Haney’s my maiden name. I was married to a Bennett for a while.”

  “Cousin of Dan and Joseph Nodine?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Nodine twins. You’re their cousin, correct?”

  “Can you tell me why you’re asking?”

  I gave the woman my blankest stare, something I was good at.

  “They’re in trouble again, right? I figured they were when they showed up at my place with that giant four-wheel drive.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  Jess had a way of gazing west to discover her answers. “Couple of weeks ago or so.”

  “Why’d you think they might be in trouble?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t have real jobs or any money far as I know. And that set of wheels alone is worth a chunk of change.”

  “I need to see your vehicle registration, please.”

  She climbed back into the livestock truck, removed a folded and wrinkled document from the dashboard. She stepped down from the cab and offered it over. Hollis had already dug up the detail that Frank Sylvester was the owner of the Nodines’ Ram 3500 and a trucking company, both with the same address out in Burns. The vehicle registration was further confirmation.

  I spotted Guy Trudeau on the shoulder of the road. He had parked his Torino and was trudging slowly toward us.

  “Is there a phone number for Mr. Sylvester?” I asked Jess.

  She wiped the back of her hand across her full lips. “I don’t know the man.”

  I flashed another blank stare, this time for real.

  “He doesn’t live in Burns, I mean. Owns the company, but he stays at his place out in Wagontire. His trucking business is run by another guy.”

  “By the name of?” I had tired of Jess Bennett’s westward glances.

  “Seth.”

  I didn’t bother to stifle a deep sigh.

  Jess took the hint. “Flynn. Seth Flynn.”

  “His contact information?”

  “Do you really need all that?” It was her turn to sigh, but she managed to scroll through the contacts list on her phone. She shoved the device forward and leaned hard against the truck’s sleeper compartment.

  I jotted down her phone number, along with the two she had for Seth Flynn, and took note of the photo displayed on the screen: Jess holding an infant.

  “Thank you,” I said, handing back the phone. “Cute baby.”

  The withered old rancher now stood next to the semi, huddled against the weather.

  “Girl, do not say another word to that officer,” Trudeau huffed, used to forcing his way on people through sheer meanness and money. “She ain’t nothing but a Podunk with a gun.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Trudeau,” I said.

  Classy as ever, he hocked one up and spat a pool into the snow-covered alkali. Speaking of Podunks with guns. For the second time in two days, I rested my left hand on my holster.

  “Why’ve you stopped my driver?” he demanded, caught his breath, and propped himself against a front tire rim.

  “Part of an ongoing investigation,” I said. “I pulled the truck over to check the contents. And talk to the driver.”

  “Pure bull. I run a lawful business, as you well know.”

  I knew no such thing, actually. “Mr. Trudeau, have you seen or spoken to Dan or Joseph Nodine recently?” A question out of nowhere.

  He glared at Jess Bennett. “I don’t generally converse with such low life.”

  “Answer the question,” I said.

  Trudeau shifted his nasty expression back to me and shook his head slightly, which I took as a no. He hacked and spat again. “Unless you have some reason to detain my driver, we’re done here.”

  “Ms. Bennett, show me your bill of lading.” I invented my authority. And not for the first time.

  “There’s no bill of lading,” Jess said.

  “Escort me around the truck, then.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Trudeau asked.

  “Oregon State Police Sergeant Margaret Blackthorne.” That’s who. Motherfucker.

  Jess led me to the back of the truck, told me she was delivering twenty-seven steers to the Boise stockyards. I peered through the slats, estimated there were about that many head of Black Angus huddled in the semi. Even on a cold day, the odor was formidable.

  Out of Trudeau’s sightline, I inquired about a phone number and address for the twins.

  Jess glanced over my shoulder and lowered her voice. “They always just use burners. And they stay somewhere around Seneca’s all I know.”

  “We are somewhere around Seneca. Can you be more specific?”

  “Honest, I don’t know where they live.”

  “Okay, let’s get this over with,” I said.

  We walked the remainder of the truck perimeter and I wrote down her travel permit details, load specifications.

  “How long have you worked for Frank Sylvester Trucking?”

  “A couple of years.”

  Jess and I made our way back to the driver’s side of the cab where the old man, true to his nature, waited in a state of pissed off, ornery, and agitated.

  “Okay, you’re free to go, Ms. Bennett, but I may contact you with more questions. You too, Mr. Trudeau.”

  He stood squarely in the path between the semi and my SUV. “You will regret this intrusion.”

  I stepped around him and got back in the Tahoe. The woman and Trudeau returned to their vehicles, and on his signal, continued to drive south. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the encounter with those two hung in the air. Much like the lingering stench from that truckload of Black Angus.

  3

  Evening, February 21

  I radioed Hollis at the office. “I’m flummoxed about where the Nodine brothers are hiding out, but I did just now come across Jess Haney Bennett.”

  “Their cousin?”

  “Yep. Hauling a load of steers. And guess who she drives for?”

  “Not that outfit from Burns, Frank Sylvester Trucking?”

  “Bingo. I saw the company name in shiny letters on the semi, and I just had to pull over the driver. Then it turned out to be the Bennett woman.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “Probably has something to do with population density, or rather the lack of it. Anyway, she told me Sylvester lives out in Wagontire. Some guy called Seth Flynn actually manages the trucking business. I asked about the Nodines but didn’t lear
n much.”

  “I’ll see what more I can find out about Sylvester. Flynn too.”

  I read off the contact info I’d pried loose from Jess Bennett and clicked off. Less than twenty minutes later I was still on the road and Hollis radioed back.

  “Did you find something?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, not yet. Lil’s in labor, so I’m going home. We’ll likely head on to the hospital soon.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Claims she’s fine. And I believe it. That woman’s remarkably tolerant of pain.”

  “It’s got to be all that practice putting up with you, Holly.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Go take care of your wife. Take care of yourself too. And text me when the little guy gets here, if you think about it.”

  The landline was ringing when I unlocked the office door. Caller ID signaled UNKNOWN. I definitely wanted to let the call go to voicemail, but I picked up.

  “Oregon State Police,” I answered.

  “Maggie?”

  I would’ve recognized Joseph Nodine’s nasal twang anywhere.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “Are you ready to turn yourselves in?”

  “We’ve got something else to talk about.”

  “First we talk about killing that doe. Then we talk about where you got that red pickup.”

  “We’re in trouble, Maggie. Bad trouble.”

  “What did you boys do now?”

  “We messed up big-time. And now somebody’s coming after us.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “A guy we know warned us earlier.”

  “Who’s coming after you?”

  “We’d rather talk to you in person. Soon as possible.”

  “I’ll wait for you here at the station.”

  “Nah. That won’t work. Meet us at the old Seneca mill. You gotta hurry, though.”

  “That abandoned dump? You’ve been hiding out there?” I’d driven by the place less than a half hour ago, and I’d seen no sign of the twins or the Ram 3500.

  “Son of a bitch!” Joseph screamed. “Damn it, no!”