by G. M. Ford
After that, as far as the world was concerned, Charles W. Stone ceased to exist, other than as a series of police reports, which, as I’d learned over the years, were pretty much par for the course after a guy hit rock bottom. Public drunkenness, unlawful trespass, urinating in public, drunk and disorderly, failure to appear on a charge of drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, creating a public nuisance. The whole collection of infractions that just naturally came along with being broke and on the skids.
The best place to start was obviously Blaine Peterson, but that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Not unless I was harboring a secret jail fetish. Since the cops had already ID’d him, it was safe to assume that they were hard at work on the question of how such an upstanding citizen ended up in a grimy car trunk. Guys like Peterson got their murders thoroughly investigated. Guys like Chuck Stone got a shrug and a toe tag.
I’d spent the past forty minutes sitting in a dusty morris chair in Carl’s front parlor perusing the paperwork he’d printed for me. Last thing in Stone’s file was a release from Harborview Hospital, dated December 30, 2007. He’d been involuntarily admitted two days before with a case of the delirium tremens and was sent on his way with a heart full of song and a pocket full of pills. That was it.
Neither man came up when Rebecca ran their fingerprints through the IAFIS system because Peterson had led such an upscale life that he’d never even had occasion to be fingerprinted, and because our friend Mr. Stone had committed the kind of nuisance infractions that, in an era of police budget cuts and staff reductions, weren’t deemed important enough to get entered into the “known criminal” database.
The sunlight slanting between the curtains glinted on the blizzard of dust hanging in the air as I sat there giving myself a pep talk, telling myself I’d taken this as far as made any sense, that there was no place left to go.
“No fucking way,” Carl growled from across the room.
“You say something?” I asked.
He held up a “just a minute” finger and went back to pushing computer keys. I walked across the room and stood behind him as he worked. He pointed over at the monitor on the right. “Charles Stone,” he said. “Two thousand two. Goes to work for Lee Johnson Chevrolet over in Kirkland. Selling cars. The company perks include a small life insurance policy and a 401(k) plan.” He went back to the keyboard. “Stone lists his wife as beneficiary of both. Theresa Calder Stone. Same address as his, up in Totem Lake.”
“So? Isn’t that what married guys do?”
More keyboard work. He pointed up at the center monitor. “Mr. Medina. Two thousand six. Gets married. Updates his survivorship information, and he and the new bride sign a prenuptial agreement.” He looked back over his shoulder and grinned. He had a piece of yellow corn stuck in his teeth. I looked away.
“Guess who?”
“No.”
“Theresa Calder.”
“Naw.”
“I’m tellin’ ya.”
“They were married to the same woman?” I threw a disbelieving hand in the air. “Tell me Area 51 is for real. Tell me Bill Clinton’s joining the priesthood, but don’t tell me those two guys were married to the same girl.”
He showed the ceiling his palms. “What can I say? The Bible-thumpers always say the Lord works in mysterious ways,” he said with a malicious grin.
I walked over to the bank of monitors and squinted up at the flocks of characters soaring around the screens, as if getting up close and personal would somehow change the facts. “What do we know about her?” I asked finally.
“Before she married the Stone guy . . . as far as I can see, she didn’t exist. No birth certificate. No school records. No Social Security number. No driver’s license. No nothing. It’s like she just appeared from the ozone.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Carl waved me off. “That’s a little exotic but not unheard of. People starting over with new identities, leaving the past behind, that sort of thing,” he said. “What I haven’t seen before—ever, and I mean ever—is how she disappears back off the grid as soon as she splits with Mr. Medina.”
“What?”
“When she and Peterson split the sheets in April of two thousand eleven, she had all the bells and whistles of a Bellevue housewife: a year-old BMW, five credit cards, three gas cards, three debit cards—all the accouterments of well-to-do America.”
He waved me over. On the screen attached to his wheelchair, a Washington driver’s license. Theresa Calder. Grainy picture of a brunette with quite a bit more chin than she needed. Same Medina address as Blaine Peterson. Birth date that made her thirty-six in July.
Carl leaned my way. “Since the day they split, none of the cards have ever been used. I can’t come up with a single transaction of any kind.” He lifted his palms to the ceiling. “It’s like she rose outta the primordial ooze, hung around for several years, and then sunk back into the swamp.”
I wandered across the room as I tried to wrap my head around what he was telling me. People don’t just appear out of nowhere. To live in America in the twenty-first century was to leave a paper trail a mile wide. Carl read my mind.
He pinned me with his gaze. “I don’t like the way this one feels, Leo,” he said. “And since this whole thing is just about Leo being Leo, and ain’t nobody paying you to muck around in this, I’m thinking maybe you ought to take a rain check here.”
I nodded in agreement, but Carl knew me too well.
“We’re running blind here, my friend,” Carl said. “I don’t like it. When you’re this far behind the curve, things have a tendency to go to shit in a heartbeat.”
“Anything on where she might be now?” I asked.
Carl fixed me with his most baleful stare, then finally shook his head in disgust and went back to work. Twelve minutes passed before he sat back in his chair.
“Postal Service forwarded a stack of mail to a PO box at Port Gamble. That was almost two years ago. They tried again last year and the second stack came back.” He shook his big, scraggly head. “I’ll keep digging, but as of right now, that’s it, man. The trail ends here.”
“Port Gamble’s pretty this time of year,” I said.
I grabbed a cup of battery acid coffee from the ferry snack bar and headed for the front of the boat. About the time the ferry Spokane got up to eighteen knots and the Canadian wind came roaring down Puget Sound, the crowd of rail-riders scurried for warmer climes, and I had the bow to myself.
Half hour later, I was bouncing down the ferry ramp into Kingston, crawling along with the rest of the ferry crowd, creeping from traffic light to traffic light on my way to Port Gamble, which was one of those terribly quaint places Seattleites always drag out-of-town visitors to. Founded in the mid-nineteenth century as a sawmill company town, Port Gamble consisted of a big mill down on the bay and an absolutely precious collection of late-Victorian houses built up on the bluff, replete with old-fashioned general store, curiosity shoppe, and ice cream parlor. Walt Disney would have loved the joint.
I’d been there often enough to know the post office was north of downtown, so I skipped the tourist traps, found a parking place half a block down from the post office, and moseyed on in. Looked like every post office everywhere, except smaller.
I headed over to the table in the corner and fondled some IRS tax forms while I checked out the lay of the land. The woman behind the counter was about sixty, long and lean and chattering away with a young blonde woman mailing a tall stack of packages.
I moved slowly along the wall of brass-faced post office boxes until I found number 2611, which turned out to be one of the big ones. The kind you could put packages in. I pulled my key ring from my coat pocket and had a look for anything that might fit into the lock. I was still at it when I heard the bell on the door tinkle. I turned my head and watched as the woman with the packages stepped out into the street. When I looked back, the woman behind the counter was directly across from me, looking at me through the little glass window
s in the boxes.
“Help you with something?” she asked.
“I was . . .” I stammered. “I was supposed to pick up something from one of the boxes, but I think they gave me the wrong key.”
“What box was that?”
“Twenty-six eleven,” I said.
She stood for a moment, staring at me with an expression that looked a lot like pity, and then turned and walked back over to the service counter. I stood still for an awkward ten count and then followed her over. She was standing with her hands on her hips looking me over like a specimen jar.
“You musta been misinformed,” she said.
“Yeah,” was all I could come up with.
“You wanna tell me what you really want?”
“I’m looking for somebody,” I blurted.
“What somebody is that?”
“Woman named Theresa Calder.”
“What’s she got to do with those people out there?” she asked.
“What people out where?”
“The Rectory.”
“Like a church rectory?”
“That’s what some folks call it.”
“What do you call it?” I tried.
“I call it a damn cult, like most everybody who ain’t a member does.”
“Why a cult?” I asked.
“It’s that damn Aaron Townsend guy.”
“Who’s that?”
She squinted at me. “Don’t you read the papers?” she asked.
“Only if there’s a score involved.”
“You know . . . the whole Mount Zion thing.”
“I know what Mount Zion is,” I said hopefully.
“Two hundred acres on the Hood Canal. Used to be a scout camp. Since way back in the thirties. Till Townsend and those idiots who follow him bought it up and turned it into some kinda cult compound.” She threw an angry hand into the air. “Wish he’d come round here one of these days. See how that women gotta be subservient to their husbands bullcrap of his floats down here with the regular folk.”
“That’s his message? That women got to do what they’re told?”
Her voice began to rise. “Had him a New York Times bestseller.” She made quotation marks in the air. “The Christian Couple, it was called. Said women belonged in the home, and oughta do whatever they was told.”
She pulled a claw hammer out from under the counter and waved it in the air. “Let him come round here, I’ll put a bend in him he won’t never straighten out.”
Somewhat taken aback, I asked, “How do I get out there?”
She was still muttering to herself as she slid the hammer back under the counter and pulled out a piece of yellow lined paper. I watched in silence as she sketched a makeshift map for me.
“Second right turn past Seabeck,” she said as she finished up. “Keep your eyes open, it’s easy to miss. Ways into the trees there’s a big ol’ gate. You can ring from there.” She slid the map over to me and eyed me hard. “And you get an audience with Mr. Macho Townsend, you give ’im a good rap on the head for me.”
I assured her that, should the gentleman and I cross paths, divine retribution would surely be forthcoming, then scooped up the map and backed out the door.
I spent the ride wondering why some people were inclined to surrender their lives to prophets and gurus, as if the responsibility for making their own decisions was simply too much for them to bear, and the only way they could go on living was to become pawns in their own games, willing to believe . . . in something, in anything, as long as the weight of personal choice was lifted from their sagging shoulders and placed elsewhere.
Like Ms. Post Office said, the road was easy to miss. I drove past it, caught it in the corner of my eye, U-turned and went back. Single-lane sand road, pointing straight as an arrow into the depths of the tangled coastal forest. About every third tree was festooned with a fresh NO TRESPASSING sign.
The forest seemed to press in from all sides as I eased the car along. Just about the time I was starting to feel sweaty and claustrophobic, the rough track suddenly opened up into a wide man-made clearing. Big black gate down at the far end.
I tooled over to the gate and looked around. A concrete post inside the gate supported a speaker and a button. In my neighborhood they put the call buttons where you didn’t have to get out of the car to buzz. I was guessing these guys wanted a good look at whoever was at their door, so they made it harder.
I left the car running and got out. My assumption proved correct. The trees closest to the gate on either side held surveillance cameras. Their little green eyes tracked me as I walked over and pushed the red button. Nothing, so I pushed it again.
The speaker crackled. “This here’s private property,” a disembodied voice said.
“I’m looking for Theresa Calder,” I said.
“Gowan, get outa here.”
“Theresa Calder,” I said again.
“Ain’t no one here by that name.”
“The U.S. Postal Service sent her mail here. It didn’t come back. So either she was here to get it, or somebody’s been stealing U.S. mail. Which, as I’m sure you know, is a very serious—”
CLICK. Static. CLICK.
Apparently, my rapier-like banter had once again been wasted. I stood listening to the sound of the engine idling and the faint rustle of the wind, trying to decide what to do next. Going under, over, or around the gate probably wasn’t going to end up anywhere I wanted to go. This was, after all, private property, and I’d been asked, in no uncertain terms, to get lost. Not much wiggle room there.
On the other hand, when it comes to doing what I’m told, I can be a bit of a dimwit. On more occasions than I’d prefer to remember, my propensity for pigheadedness had led me to venues I’d later regretted visiting.
Mercifully, circumstances prevented me from revealing my true colors. The hum of an engine pulled my attention back toward the gate. I watched as a familiar white Range Rover pulled into a turnout about fifty yards on the other side of the gate, coming to a stop with the driver’s side facing in my direction. I was trying to detect movement behind the deeply tinted windows when the door opened and out stepped Brother Biggs.
As he ambled over to the gate, his partner, Mr. Peepers, came out from behind the Rover and followed along in his wake. “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Waterman,” Biggs said. “Seems like you the kind of asshole don’t know good advice when he hears it.”
I shrugged. “Could be,” I said.
He walked over to the button and pushed it. As the gate began to roll aside, both of them stepped through the opening and walked my way.
That’s when I made two mistakes in about three seconds. The first was assuming we were still at the talking stage of things. I’d imagined they were going to warn me off. Remind me I was on private property and tell me to be on my way. The second was in not noticing that Mr. Peepers had one hand out of sight and thus not seeing the spring-loaded sap he had secreted behind his back.
Without preamble, Biggs hauled off and tried to punch my lights out.
I moved my head and let his fist fly over my shoulder, then straight-armed him back a step and a half. “Take it easy, man,” I said. “No need for—”
He bull-rushed me, spun me sideways so he could grab me from behind, clamped those big arms around me, and began to squeeze. The air spewed out of my lungs like a broken balloon. I dug my heels into the ground, bent my head forward, and then snapped it back as hard as I could. The sound of his nose exploding told me everything I needed to know. His arms slipped from my sides. I bumped him backwards and turned to face him. I could see I’d spread his nose from ear to ear. He roared like a lion, brought both hands to his flattened face, and stumbled back a step, where he dropped to one knee, staring cross-eyed and uncomprehending at the thick knots of blood running over his hands.
The sound of flesh in motion brought my eyes up. The billy hit me over my left eye. And then again in the forehead. Biggs was now trying to wrap his arms around my l
egs. I kicked back hard before he could lock his hands together and bring me to the ground. I heard a grunt in the same moment that Mr. Peepers head-butted me in the solar plexus, again driving the air from my lungs, sending me reeling back against the fender of my car, gasping for breath.
I regrouped and drove a solid right hand into the little guy’s jaw. He collapsed in a heap, landing on top of Biggs. I slid along the fender of my car. At my feet Biggs was halfway to standing when I aimed a left hook at his jaw. He saw it coming and ducked his head. My hand connected with the top of his skull and simply exploded. His eyes rolled back in their sockets as he augered face-first into the ground.
I felt the door handle grind against my back and reached for it, only to find my left hand numb and totally useless. I groaned as bolts of pain shot down my arm, grabbed the handle with my good hand, pulled open the car door, and threw myself into the driver’s seat.
Before I could slam the door, Peepers wedged himself into the opening, clawing at my face with outstretched fingers. I reached across my body, got hold of the inside door handle, and slammed it on his arms with all the force I could muster. He screamed like a panther and slid from sight.
I slammed the door and locked it. Threw the car into reverse, floored it, and went screaming backwards across the clearing. I looked up at the mirror just in time to see the woods coming at me like a freight train. I crimped the wheel hard right. The big car fought for traction in the sandy soil, began to drift toward the trees, then found sudden purchase and began to swing in a steep arc.
I stood on the brakes, slid to a halt, and dropped the car into drive. When I snuck a final furtive glance back toward the gate, both of them were standing.
I remember getting back to the paved road, turning left, and heading toward Port Gamble. After that, things got a little fuzzy. Next thing I can recall is seeing a sign for Salsbury Point Park and turning in.
