by T. R. Kelly
St. Brendan looked dazzling that day in their controversial new uniforms that included full-length satin warmups that boasted Gaels in sweeping white cursive on the back of their snap-on button jackets. Unis are a big deal to kids, even bigger for the nuns.
Smithson wrapped up the section with a provocative piece on Linn’s early recruitment. It detailed how longtime Husky assistant Keith Kirkwood first observed Oliver’s skills as a sixth-grader.
I stopped by a parochial tourney on Thanksgiving weekend to support one of my nephews playing for a Snohomish team,” Kirkwood said. “This one kid had parents buzzing when he converted his first four shots, all from long range. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I stayed for the second game, and then a third. The hair on my forearms began to tingle. Was I, a college assistant coach, seriously scouting a twelve-year-old? While I had the perfect cover—my nephew—I remember ducking behind a set of bleachers, looking for other coaches. Secretly, I hoped I was the only talent evaluator in the building
A bold-face line at the end of the section told readers the second installment of the series—”The High School Years”—would appear tomorrow and include several of Linnbert “Cheese” Oliver’s memorable games, including the 1977 state championship loss to Flintridge.
I folded the newspaper, strolled to the VW bus and stuffed it under the front seat. Robert Oliver didn’t need to see it before breakfast.
Chapter Forty
10:30 a.m., Wednesday, February 8, 1982
After pancakes and sausages at the Calico Cupboard, Harvey said he’d like to see the stretch of road where Jessie found herself in the ditch en route to revisiting the area around the Dolan cabin.
“It’s on the way so I thought we would cover as many bases as we could in one trip,” Harvey said. “From there, two, maybe three waterfront sites. I really don’t know what I’m looking for, but Ernie’s Realtor key code might come in handy in getting us into some homes.”
The sheriff glanced around the restaurant and then down at his watch. “I should be clear to go with you, at least for the next several hours,” the sheriff said. “Any noise from the medical examiner and septic plant should come through loud and clear on your CB. I can keep you all informed of any findings.”
Harvey nodded. “Let’s take two cars in case I need to hang around or head off in another direction.” He turned to me. “Ernie, why don’t you and Dr. Oliver jump in your bus and lead us to the spot where Jessie’s car went off the road. After I check it out, we’ll swing back to Dolan’s place. Again, you guys just might have to bear with me because I might spend a lot of time at the house where Rice was found and also back at the Dolan place. If you choose to follow me, stay outside the yellow tape.”
As we pulled away, the dark, dank morning felt more like early evening. Robert appeared pensive and mostly stared out the window at the green hills. I could only imagine how many times Robert had been on these roads, at all hours of the day and night making emergency calls.. He had never, though, searched for a missing son. When he spoke, it was a sort of nervous chitchat, comparing Arizona and Washington landscapes; its purpose only to break lengthy stretches of silence.
When I approached the Big Lake Bar and Grill on Highway 9, I slowed and downshifted, then pulled over directly across the road from the spot I hooked up Jessie’s Lexus. Harvey guided his county-issued Oldsmobile to a stop just behind my bumper. Rising from behind the wheel, he pointed out the first set of skid marks to Sheriff McCreedy and reached for his jacket in the back seat.
“It’s a good thing she didn’t have too far to walk to the bar,” Harvey said.
While he limped head down around the scene in the rain, the sheriff slid into Harvey’s shotgun seat and pulled the CB receiver to his lips.
I looked at Robert and pointed to the bus. “Sit tight while I go in and use the restroom.” A few minutes later, I darted from the bar. My breathing quickened as I approached Harvey’s car window. He cranked it down.
“Change of plans,” I shouted. “We’re going to a different part of the lake. Follow close because the access is hard to see.”
Before Harvey could respond, I was halfway to the bus. I turned the key and quickly ground through the gears as we sped toward the Lake Wilhelmina cutoff. I nearly put the bus in the ditch by trying to take the turn too fast.
“Goodness,” Robert Oliver said. “Something obviously changed back there. Why the speed ride?”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’ll explain when I can, but right now I need to keep this bus on the road. As you just saw, she’s not known for great cornering.”
We barely slowed through the fire station speed zone at Finn Settlement and continued the pace down along the lake’s North Shore Drive. I angled off the pavement on to a fire trail road adjacent to the beaver ponds at the east end of the lake, the road twisting for more than three miles up and away from the old MacTavish & Oliver Logging Company’s Camp Ten. A few deserted trailer homes sat behind broken-down fences on rough outcroppings and rocky plateaus sprinkled with a few spruce or cedar.
I reduced speed and lost Harvey for a moment, the bus scooting around a blind hairpin turn. We veered right, the road now flat and parallel to Deer Creek. As we drew near a wide spot in the road, a trio of alders marked the opening of an overgrown lane angling toward the creek. I steered the VW into the high grass behind the alders and turned off the motor. Just ahead, I could make out the outlines of several cabins plus assorted sheds, barns, and outbuildings. Unlike the access to the Knight compound from the south, the road had no locked gate ahead. I eased open the door to a chilly graveyard smell. Harvey glided his car to a wide spot a few feet away.
Sheriff McCreedy held an index finger to his lips. Other than the howl of periodic gusts up the creek valley, it was as quiet as a school library at spring break.
“I’ll walk on down and poke around,” McCreedy said. “Harvey, stay several yards behind until I know what’s what. Don’t want to spook anybody. You guys”—he pointed to Dr. Oliver and me—”stay put.”
Slightly crouched, McCreedy stepped quickly down the side of the arching driveway that served more than one creekfront cabin, his dark boots and flat-brimmed Stetson making him seem even taller as he darted away. Harvey turned up his collar and hitched his trousers, ready to follow. I huddled beside the bus while Dr. Oliver remained in the passenger seat with the door open, one leg dangling outside, constantly checking his watch like a coach at a track meet.
As the sheriff disappeared around the curve, Harvey said, “Just sit tight.”
A lone blue jay swooped down in front of the bus and drilled on a dried pine cone. I grabbed the VW’s roof ledge with both hands to stretch the tense drive from my legs like a long-distance runner, slowly alternating each heel to the ground. Dr. Oliver pulled a pair of black ski gloves from the pocket of his knee-length down coat. A moment later, I arched my back, face to the sky, and extended my arms behind, trying to shake the tightness from my shoulders and the numbness from my hands.
“Another minute, and I’m waitin’ in the car with you,” I said. “It seems the temperature’s dropped.”
“We got a runner!”
It was the sheriff’s voice and a good distance away. Harvey hobbled toward the corner of a rundown pole barn and quickly out of sight. I bolted from the side of the car, arms and legs churning down the driveway toward Harvey. I covered the gap between us quickly and caught up to him on his left side, my gut in my throat.
Harvey slowed and turned.
“Ernie, you and Dr. Oliver stay with the cars! Here, take my key. And, don’t move until you hear from me.”
Retreating to the bus, I tossed the keys on the floor near the accelerator. As I closed the door, I could hear Harvey yell “Stop!” in the lower creek bed.
I shot Dr. Oliver a glance, then jogged back toward the cluster of buildings.
“Ernie! Get back here!” the doctor howled.
Silently moving around pine and maple
, I approached a tiny lane of shacks anchored in the middle by a huge metal building about the size of a high school gym. A well-worn dirt road led to the chain-locked double doors. Peeking through the gap created by the slack in the chain, I could see shelves stacked to the ceiling with auto parts; heavy engine blocks and pistons on the floor, fenders, chrome bumpers, and door panels at eye level, radiators, generators, and stereos up high.
As I wiggled the chain to increase the crack between the two doors, a black Doberman slammed into the doors, showing his snarling teeth through the tiny space. The surprise blow sent me reeling onto my back in the wet pine needles, the dog desperately pawing the doors to break free. Scrambling to my feet, I hugged the side of the building and jogged toward the last structure of the group, a plywood-sided cabin with peeling turquoise paint. Smoke billowed from a black stovepipe in the middle of the roof. A single light glowed in what appeared to be a rear bedroom.
I moved as quietly as I could toward the house. Faded beer cans and chewing tobacco lids were strewn near the foundation wall, along with kindling, a splitting maul, and uprooted shrubs as dry as sagebrush. A stained sheet served as window covering for the only room that faced the lane. I inched along one side of the house to find dusty, thin blinds blocking any chance of looking inside through an aluminum-framed window twice the size of the window on the lane. I ducked lower and tiptoed as best I could toward the deck that ran the length of the front of the house, its three entry steps caked in slippery green mold.
On hands and knees, I peeked around the front corner and found a camping chair turned to face the creek below. The door leading to the house was open and swayed intermittently in the wind. I bobbed up quickly once to glance into the deckside window. The living room and kitchen areas appeared to be deserted. I heard Harvey shouting down in the creek-bed but an enormous madrona blocked my view.
I rose to my feet and slid through the back door when the wind again pushed it wide. Brown linoleum bubbled near the deck door and again a few feet from the potbelly stove in the corner. Given the condition of the floors, there was no stopping the creaks beneath my steps.
An old Hotpoint refrigerator purred in the kitchen; greasy, mustard-stained plates littered the sink. The remaining space on the main floor appeared to be two small bedrooms and a bath. The stairs to the dormer appeared to have been carved out of the bedroom closest to the driveway. The bathroom door was ajar, and I tapped it farther open but chose not to enter. I could see splotches of black mold crawling up wallboard on the side of the shower and two tattered throw rugs bunched up below the toilet.
Across the hall, I knocked twice on the first bedroom door, waited, and knocked again before yanking it open and leaping away. Hearing and seeing nothing, I flicked on the light. I could smell the musty sleeping bags and canvas camping gear from the hall. Steelhead poles leaned against the far corner, flanked by a stack of tackle boxes of different colors and sizes. Two metal cots topped with bare foam cushions were pushed against other walls.
The other bedroom had no door, only a multicolored, beaded curtain of strung glass pieces straight out of the sixties. The room could barely accommodate the unmade queen-size bed, a side table and the switchback stairs to the dormer. The stairs to the dormer led to a closed door. I reached for the metal knob and heard a curious buzz coming from the room, the sort of sound a radio makes when it’s between stations.
I flung open the door. A horrible stench sent my shoulders forward, palms to my thighs, as I braced to control a deep gag. Cupping a hand over my mouth, I pivoted through the entry and discovered the back of a man clothed only in a t-shirt and underwear. He was bound to an oak dining chair, his wrists secured to its splats and rear legs with weighted nylon crab line. His neck and shoulders remained still, and I doubted if he was breathing.
His skin, the eerie gray of dried grade-school paste, turned pink where it met the rope. A dark pool of urine and liquid excrement filled the seat and surrounded the chair, trickling off in two tiny trails on the uneven plywood floor toward the near wall. Under the chair lay a coiled noose fashioned from a heavy hemp marine line.
The man’s head was tilted forward. The tails of a blue paisley handkerchief knotted the back of his thick oily hair. The chair faced a mammoth black Sharp television topped with a video recorder. The screen’s snow static produced the indistinct droning sound I heard from the landing. I cautiously began to loop around him, noticing that the blue rag had been inserted into a now-gaping mouth that faced the floor.
A curious scar, the size, color, and consistency of an earthworm, arched around his right kneecap. I dipped down and peered closer at the scar and then slowly moved my gaze up his torso, straining to see any facial features through his cascading hair. The chin, his mouth, his cheekbones ...
No. How could it be?
My hands shook with fear and confusion. And desperate possibility. I steadied my right by reaching and placing two fingers against his forehead, gently nudging his head back until it rotated, bobbed, and stopped at an angle above his right shoulder.
Linn Oliver’s puffy, battered eyes looked like they’d gone ten rounds with Sonny Liston. His bulging, crooked nose was so swollen that it appeared boiled and stuck back on his face; his split, chapped lips looked ready to snap away from the rest of his purple mouth. I leaped closer and applied the same two fingers to the side of his neck between the windpipe and largest discernible muscle, praying for a pulse.
It was faint, but it was there! Barely.
I darted to the riverside window, yanked up the shade, and spied Harvey and McCreedy about one hundred yards down the way, escorting a hooded, handcuffed person up the bank. I pushed open the aluminum frame.
“Harvey! Get in here! He’s still alive!”
As I turned to face Linn, Robert Oliver bolted through the door and stopped dead in the muck, wide-eyed and stunned. He fumbled through a series of pockets before locating a Swiss army knife in his down vest and cut the salt-dried line from Linn’s lifeless arms. His efficient movements and amazing calm reminded me of the scene inside the train car years ago. I flew down the stairs, ripped the sheet from the rear window and grabbed one of the sleeping bags from the musty bedroom. Without a word, we carefully lifted Linn from the chair and laid him on a clear area of the floor. Robert began CPR while I cleaned Linn up as best I could with the sheet.
“Let’s go! Now!” Robert rose from his knees. “Who knows if we’d ever get any help out here. They’ve got equipment at the clinic in town. We can get to them faster than they could get to us.”
We unzipped a mummy bag, eased it around Linn, flipped him over my shoulder, and started down the stairs toward to the bus. Robert sprinted ahead as I lumbered behind with Linn in my arms, his head bouncing like a bobblehead doll above my quick, uneven steps. We gently slanted him onto the back bench, his feet resting in the open area adjacent to the second seat. Robert climbed in, one arm around Linn’s shoulder while his left hand searched for a pulse.
As I slid the side door closed and skirted around to the driver’s side, Harvey arrived, followed by the sheriff escorting their head-down suspect.
“Is it really Linn?” Harvey said.
I nodded on the run and climbed in.
“Then go! I’ll find you in town.”
I crunched the bus into reverse, and we maneuvered back to the dirt road. Reaching over my shoulder for the seatbelt, I caught them removing the suspect’s hood.
“Mitch Fricking Moore?” I mumbled. “You sonofabitch!”
**
A stocky nurse at the clinic said she’d seen plenty of retirees with coronaries, hikers with broken bones, and fishermen hooked in just about every imaginable part of the body. But she had never witnessed anyone in Linn Oliver’s condition.
“Even had a guy stuck in the snow for three nights on a ridge in the north Cascades,” she said. “Looked like a ghost when they got him in here. But I ain’t never seen anybody who looked like your friend. Alive, anyway.”
“The nurse said the doctor should be out in a few minutes to give us an update,” I said.
“How about Doctor Oliver?”
“He’s on the phone. Calling his wife.”
“Speaking of updates,” Harvey said, folding his arms, “one of my detectives met with the medical examiner’s assistant late this morning.”
I drew closer so the nurse could not hear.
“That foot in the septic tank?” Harvey said. “Turns out it belonged to Jim Dolan, Senior. Cut off just above the ankle with a big-time blade. The medical examiner says it was probably a circular or table saw. I expect we’ll find the rest of him, or more of him, when the pump truck finishes its work up at the lake.”
I staggered over to the sofa, plopped down, and wrapped my palms around my face. No wonder Junior couldn’t locate Senior.
“The sheriff’s already begun questioning Mitch Moore over at headquarters,” Harvey said. “I better be getting back over there myself because we’re probably going to be there awhile.” A moment later, he turned toward me. “Tell me something. How did you know to deadhead it to Knight’s property this morning in the first place?”
I eased back into the couch and sighed. “I got lucky. Ellie Phillips was in the Big Lake finishing breakfast with her granddaughter. When I asked about Jim Senior, she said she had seen his red Pontiac Firebird on the lake road a couple of days ago. With Ross’s Chevy missing, I got to thinking that might be too much of a car coincidence. I found both cars were under a couple of blue tarps in that pole barn at Knight’s compound.”
“Did you get to meet Mr. Doberman?”
“Yep. The building he’s protecting looks like a Carquest warehouse.”
A lanky giant covered head to toe in light green hospital scrubs pushed through a set of windowed doubled doors. He had a full head of light brown hair and looked like a super-sized Dr. Kildare. He looked uncertain if he should address Harvey or me.
