Cecil lifted another Milwaukee’s Best out of the cooler, popped it open. “I don’t like cops.”
Who knew?
“But my guess is old Tate done right by you. Taught you justice weren’t just for rich assholes.”
As a matter of fact, that and shooting a hunting rifle might be the only things my father ever taught me.
Cecil took a long, loud swig. “Ain’t seen nothing directly, but talk to all them big fancy cattle ranchers. I fucking don’t like them pricks either.”
“Like Guy Trudeau, you mean?”
“That old bastard? He’s broke as shit. Jesus, what kind of police are you? Don’t you know one of his kids stole all his money and lit out somewhere years ago?”
He sucked down more of his fresh one. “No, I mean them pure as the virgin Mary’s twat, tree-hugging, organical bastards who keep buying up land from ruined ranchers and making bookoo selling their so-called natural beef.”
A customer pulled up outside, and Cecil signaled it was time for me to hustle out of his gas station. “We’re done talking now.”
“No, we’re not. I think you’re lying about not seeing the Nodine boys around. They were staying out here somewhere, driving an expensive diesel hog, and yours is the only place around to fuel up.”
“You’ll have to prove I’m lying.”
“I’m prepared to arrest your ass right now. Withholding evidence. Obstructing a homicide investigation. You name it.”
“Fucking bitch.”
From my duty belt, I pulled up my state-issued handcuffs, a pair previously worn by nearly every drunk in the county. Now it was Cecil’s turn.
“I am indeed a fucking bitch. And I’ve been called worse than that, old man, so turn your ass around and put your hands behind you.”
He looked toward the customer waiting outside. “Them boys never come here for fuel or nothing else. They wouldn’t dare.”
“What was your problem with Dan and Joseph?”
“I ain’t never talking about that.” He brought his wrists together, lifted them forward. “And you can haul me to jail right now for all I care, but I ain’t never gonna say what that was about. Now they’re dead, maybe I can get on with things.”
“Where were you between five forty-five and six fifteen p.m. last Thursday?”
“Funny you should ask. I was at my first AA meeting. Methodist Church in John Day.”
Given his current inebriation, he’d apparently skipped one or two of the twelve steps in the interim. Or he was just a deceitful motherfucker.
“I’ll have to verify that.” I returned the handcuffs to my duty belt.
“Go ahead. Verify away. You can start with Lynn Nodine. She sat beside me. We even went for coffee after.”
“I’ll ask once more. Did you know where her sons were staying?
“Not exactly. Just knew it was supposed to be up Logan Valley Highway somewhere. That’s all I can tell you, I swear it.” He bounded to the door.
“I might have more questions for you.”
But Cecil had left the building.
7
Afternoon, February 23
As I headed east on Logan Valley Highway, heavy snow fell across the miles of meadows and stands of dark juniper. Taking Cecil Burney at his word on anything was troublesome, but I had no other clue where Dan and Joseph’s place was. I chewed over Cecil’s other claim that Guy Trudeau had lost all his money. That was news to me, but chatting up area cattle ranchers was already on my list, including old man Trudeau, broke or not. There had to be a link between those murdered men and somebody’s cattle.
Driving slowly, I kept a look out for any sign of the Nodines’ old army jeep and their encampment. After a plodding thirty minutes, I came to the junction with Starr Ridge Road. East of there, a mere twenty-five feet from Logan Valley Highway, stood Parish Cabin campground. Gated and closed for winter, that hadn’t stopped someone from busting the lock and steering a vehicle through the entrance.
I parked the Tahoe and followed tire tracks into the deserted campground. Several grated fire pits had been placed here and there in the shade of thick Ponderosas. The tree canopy left the ground drier and the air colder. My wool peacoat and Thinsulate gloves barely kept me warm.
At the far most fire pit, an aged pickup camper sat directly on the ground. Next to it stood the Nodine brothers’ brown-camouflage army jeep.
I contacted Whitey Kern’s towing company and then cracked open the door to the unlocked camper. A down sleeping bag lay unfurled on a foam pad in the compartment built to fit over the cab of a truck. A second down bag had been rolled, tied, and placed on the small dining table. Next to it sat a Hot Shot DXR cattle prod still in its packaging.
The cupboards in the kitchenette were filled with boxes, bags, and cans of the usual poor man’s fare. A green Coleman two-burner propane stove sat beside the small sink, along with a lighter, a pot, and a cast iron frying pan. Shirts hung inside a dinky closet set off to the side. A pair of jeans and some men’s underwear lay folded on a shelf above the clothes rod. A full duffel bag, likely the one Ariel Pritchett had mentioned Joseph carried with him, sat beside the camper’s small couch.
Entering the deeply chilled space, I inhaled the scent of mud and mold, but as I closed in on a small cooler sitting on the kitchenette counter, an oppressive scent of rot bloomed forth. I lifted the lid apprehensively, discovering a miasma of decomposing produce and the heart and liver of a game animal, no doubt the deer they’d poached on Wednesday, the day before they were murdered.
I clicked shut the cooler and opened the camper door, letting in the flash-frozen air. Hurriedly, I snapped photos of the cramped interior, along with shots of the sleeping bags, clothing, kitchen items, duffel bag, and the cattle prod and its barcode label.
I removed a pair of latex gloves from my pack and traded out the Thinsulate ones. The duffel bag held a cache of dirty laundry, a belt, a pair of sneakers, and two books: a beautifully illustrated hardback copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and a worn paperback, Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye.
“What the fuck?” I’d never known either brother to be particularly bookish.
A photo slid from within the pages of Persian poetry. Lynn Nodine and her twins. Someone had written “Danny & Joey age six” in the white border. The boys were all smiles, and there was no trace of mischief, let alone criminality. Lynn’s hand-printed name filled the space on the first page labeled This book belongs to.
I photographed the contents of the duffel bag, returned them, and closed the drawstring. Next I snapped shots of the vehicle and camper, gathered several large evidence bags from my Tahoe, and packed up the Nodines’ sparse assortment of belongings.
Outside, I checked the jeep’s glove box, where I found some gas receipts and seventy-eight bucks. I stashed the cash and the keys hanging from the ignition with the rest of Dan and Joseph’s paltry possessions.
Waiting in the Tahoe’s warm cab for Whitey Kern and his wrecker to arrive, my thoughts wandered to the photo of Lynn Nodine and her twins tucked inside the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. In no mood to linger over their lives or mine all those years ago, I tuned in Band of Horses, turned up the volume, and pushed the image of Lynn and her sons from my mind.
“Hard to believe those boys could get themselves so low as to hide out here,” Whitey said after we loaded up the camper and jeep.
I nodded. “I know you gave them a tow recently. Plus you said you hadn’t seen them driving that red Ram 3500. But is there anything out of place you remember about either one?”
“I always try to mind my own business, Maggie. You know that.”
“So is that a no? You never saw anything out of place?”
“Off the top, nothing comes to mind, but let me think on it. I probably spend more time in these middle-of-nowhere places than even you do.”
“That’s why I’m pressing you on this, Whitey.”
He tipped his hat and climbed in the cab of his wrecker.
I adjusted the volume on Neko Case’s “Margaret vs. Pauline” and lowered my window. “Out of gas, huh?”
“Yeah. My phone’s dead too.”
“Your luck’s gone south lately.”
“You got that right.”
“How about I give you a lift back to your vehicle and siphon off enough fuel from the State of Oregon to get you on the road?”
“If you’ve got time, Maggie, that’d be great.” He aimed a thumb behind him. “I’m parked up the way, about five miles down Harden Road. I’ll pay for the gas, of course.”
“A little free gas for stranded motorists is the kind of thing your tax dollars get you.” In my opinion, anyway.
Duncan stashed the can in the back and climbed in front. He was too tall to sit comfortably in the passenger seat, yet he managed to adjust his legs and size-humungous work boots to fit available quarters.
After a mile or so of listening to the grind of rock salt and snow tires, he reached for the volume knob. “Mind if I turn up Neko? That voice is something.” I acknowledged the sentiment, and he folded himself into the doorframe, rested his head on the seat back, and closed his eyes.
We passed a copse of quaking aspen and wild willow on the fringe of a narrow field just east of the roadway. An abandoned outbuilding tilted precariously in the wind. Mule deer and blood-red Herefords foraged in the distance. Otherwise there was nothing but rock and weather as far as the eye could see.
Duncan snorted awake. “Oh hell. Was I snoring?”
“A little.”
He yawned and cleared the sleep from his eyes using his immense hands. How had any bull ever managed to buck under his grip on the rope?
“Were you making a delivery?”
“I was trying to.” Duncan retrieved a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I forgot to check the damn gas tank before taking off. Total shit for brains sometimes. God. Sorry. I cuss too much.”
Maggie Blackthorne, the near forty-year-old woman, barely contained her laughter hearing his cuss-word apology. But being Sergeant Blackthorne, I gauged the snow falling on the windshield. My half-assed wipers couldn’t keep up when the flakes turned damp and dense. Maybe the Tahoe couldn’t either. If I’d been driving the Nodines’ one-ton instead, I’d have plowed on through like snow was dust.
We drove on, Lucinda Williams singing a raw ballad in the background, until we reached an elaborate gate blocking the entrance to a newly paved driveway. Bear Valley Cattle Company, lettered in wrought iron, formed an arc between two tall gateposts of lodgepole pine. A small wooden sign hanging beneath the cattle company emblem proclaimed, Jesus Loves Grass-Fed Beef.
“This is the place,” Duncan said.
Automatic gate locks, security cameras, No Trespassing signs, and electric fencing created an impenetrable barrier around the place. But there was no phone number or call button to alert anyone visitors had arrived.
“Since when has there been a Bear Valley Cattle Company, and how were you supposed to make your delivery?” I asked.
“Not sure.”
I parked alongside his delivery truck sitting on the shoulder near the ranch entrance, retrieved my siphon hose, and inserted it in the gas tank of my SUV.
“Here, I’ll do that.” Duncan sucked on the tip of the hose, yanked it out of his mouth, and let the liquid flow into the tank of his vehicle. Coughing, he spat gasoline residue across the snow-covered ground and reached inside his truck for a bottle of water.
“They’re not particularly welcoming, are they?” I said, indicating the cattle company.
He drank a long swig of water. “I was damn disappointed earlier when I couldn’t roust anybody on the other side of the gate.”
I peeked up the drive. Three small double-wide mobile homes were partially visible from where we stood, but it was hard to tell if anyone was within earshot. The snow had taken a short break, and waning sunlight sifted through the treetops, casting long, angular shadows. We waited in silence, an agitated breeze rattling through a stand of larch, until the delivery truck registered a quarter tank.
“Looks like you’re all set.”
“Thanks again, Maggie. Can I buy you coffee sometime?”
“I’d like that.” I twisted my gas cap shut. “By the way, I found another cattle prod, same brand. And I’ve ordered a digital shot of the other one. I should have photos of the two barcodes to you later today.”
“That was quick.”
A black Prius in tire chains pulled up to the gate. I hadn’t seen the driver or the teenage passenger around before.
“Is this the owner?”
Duncan nodded. “Asa Larkin and his kid.”
“Would you mind introducing me?”
Larkin got out of his Prius and walked toward us. I tried to read the expression in the stranger’s muddy blue eyes and on his long, chiseled face, a look of bemusement, indifference and hostility all in one.
“I thought you were delivering tomorrow.” His lips were small, flat, and bloodless.
Duncan removed a slim rectangle of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. “Twelve thirty today, according to the invoice. Plus we don’t make deliveries on Sunday.”
Larkin looked at his watch. “It’s almost two. There was no need to stick around. Or call the police,” he said, turning his attention to me.
“This is Sergeant Blackthorne. I ran out of gas and couldn’t raise anybody at your place, so I walked to the highway. She gave me a lift back and some fuel.”
“Mr. Larkin, is it?” I said.
He tilted his head slightly and blinked. “Yes.”
We shook hands.
“The rumor mill must be out of commission. I didn’t know new people had bought the Harden ranch,” I said.
“We’ve been out here less than a year. Just me, my son, and my three hired men.”
“You’ll probably see me or one of the other troopers out and about patrolling on occasion.”
That remark didn’t register one way or another, so I decided to dig for info about this relatively new transplant to my county. “Move here from out of state?”
“No. Lake Oswego,” Larkin said.
“You raised beef in Lake-O?”
“I practiced law.”
The man didn’t seem like an attorney any more than he seemed like a cattle rancher, but somehow that reminded me why I’d traveled to this part of the county in the first place. “Out of curiosity, did you know Dan or Joseph Nodine?”
A hint of color flushed across his pale cheeks. He passed a furtive glance toward his son. “The brothers found murdered a couple of days ago?”
“That’s right.”
“I passed that red pickup on the highway a few times, the one mentioned in the news. But that’s all.”
I sensed it was a lie, or at least a distorted version of the truth. No wonder he’d quit his law practice: the man had no poker face.
We all turned at the rough sound of an older green-apple Ford Bronco pulling in behind Larkin’s Prius.
“I’d best open the gate so my men can get through and you can make your delivery, Mr. McKay.”
“It’s McKay. Last part rhymes with sky, not hay.”
I liked Duncan’s little speech on pronouncing his surname the way his Scottish relatives and most locals did.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Larkin,” I called out as he walked back toward the Prius.
He climbed behind the wheel, hit the remote to open the gate, and drove onto his property, the Bronco following behind.
/> I caught a glimpse of the hefty driver and his hefty passenger bobbing in the rickety bench seat of the Bronco. Also noted the Jesus Loves Grass-Fed Beef sticker displayed on the back bumper.
“Don’t go scaring off my paying customers, will you, Maggie?” Duncan said and laughed.
“I wouldn’t think a man living in a fortress could scare that easily,” I said, opening the door to my Tahoe. “I’ll be expecting that cup of coffee.”
A blizzard had kicked up, turning the gray sky a dark purple. Out of the curtain of weather, Guy Trudeau’s ancient Torino drifted into view, traveling the opposite direction. Having dilly-dallied too long outside Asa Larkin’s so-called cattle company, I ignored the decrepit heap’s burned-out headlight.
Trudeau passed on my left, probably headed back to Big T, his ranch along the Silvies River. In the rearview, I watched the white sedan flip a cookie and ride the embankment. In slow motion, the old man managed to right the Ford’s trajectory. His brake lights faded, disappeared.
My trip back to John Day had largely been slow going and utterly headache inducing. I stowed the Nodines’ personal effects in the evidence locker and hunted for a couple of ibuprofen in my desk drawer. Hollis wasn’t around, but I could see he’d added a few details to our murder board and left a sticky note on my desk phone. His message was categorically cryptic: J.T.!!!
When I put in my second call of the day to Al, he was distracted and took little more than a half-hearted interest in the new evidence. “Okay, Sergeant. Send out a report as soon as possible,” he said and hung up.
Bach’s friendlier attitude seemed to have vanished, but I hadn’t the bandwidth to sit in my chilly, eerily quiet office wondering why. I typed up the report and sent it off to him, along with the photos I’d taken at the Nodines’ encampment. I forwarded the shot of the cattle prod barcode his people had emailed me earlier in the afternoon to my phone and called it a day.
Louie was curled up next to his food and water dishes when I arrived. I replenished both, opened the freezer, and considered my instant dinner options—lasagna or three-cheese marinara. It was an easy hike to the Cave Inn for a salty pizza and a sugary, near-flat cola on chipped ice, but that struck me as no tastier and even less nutritious. I decided to wait on supper and hope for divine inspiration or possibly one of the delicious care packages Dorie regularly brought upstairs.
Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1) Page 9
