by Patrick Lee
Sutter nodded his agreement. They slowly drove down the road a half-mile or so and stopped. Schustrom checked the side of the road and found traces of blood. “Let’s go down to the bottom of the road and see if we still find trace. If not, we’ll double back up here and start again.” At the junction of the road and Highway 2, they found a pool of blood. The trail headed toward Martin City. Schustrom got back in the car and said, “Whoever he is, he’s one tough bastard. I can’t imagine he has much blood left in him.”
The Columbia Falls ambulance raced by and turned for Martin City. Al Sutter waved his index finger and said, “Let’s take a chance here and follow the ambulance. Maybe the guy works on the Dam and lives at the barracks.”
Schustrom slid into the driver’s seat, turned on the siren, and followed the ambulance into Martin City. As they passed Bill’s Texaco, they saw the ambulance turn into the parking lot at the worker’s barracks. “Nice guess, Al. Let’s hope they came for our guy.”
The nine o’clock morning train ride from Whitefish back to Coram went by quickly. Earlier Hannah and Mikhail leisurely ate their breakfast at the Cadillac. Hannah enjoyed the freshly squeezed orange juice along with her soft-boiled eggs and toast. She marveled at Mikhail’s large appetite as he devoured ham and eggs, toast, hash browns, and several cups of coffee. As the train made the bend in the river across from Berne Park, Hannah turned to him and said, “Do you always eat that much in the morning?”
A big smile crossed his face, “Yes. If I can get it.”
“And you did get it, didn’t you?” She playfully elbowed him in the ribs and turned back to enjoy the scenery.
Mikhail watched the ambulance on the highway speed toward Columbia Falls. The lights on the ambulance flashed and the siren blared. The weird feeling from the night before returned to Mikhail. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Hannah snapped him from his thoughts as she smoothly slid her arm inside of his when the train entered the dark tunnel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Great Northern Streamliner train pulled into Coram with a smooth stop. Mikhail and Hannah joined three other people and stepped on to the gangplank. They took their time and walked toward the gravel parking lot. “I told Tomas to leave my Chevy. I don’t see it.”
“We did get in a little early. He’ll show up.”
“Maybe. Hope somethin’ ain’t wrong with the car.”
She playfully swatted him on the rump and said, “If he doesn’t show up in a few minutes, I’ll give you a ride home. That way I get you to myself a little bit longer.”
Mikhail forced a weak smile, but his gut told him something wasn’t right. “I’d appreciate a ride, Hannah. He ain’t comin’. He’d be here by now. Somethin’ ain’t right.”
“Okay, Mr. Worry Wart. Let’s go.” Hannah sensed his concern and thought it better to hold back on the joking around. The drive back to Columbia Falls took twenty minutes. Mikhail barely said five words as he stared out the window and fiddled with the spare set of car keys. He answered with one-word sentences or not at all. How quickly his mood changed she thought. I hope this isn’t a side of him I need to worry about.
Outside of his house, Hannah turned to him, “Mikhail, did I do somethin’ wrong?”
He turned quickly toward her as he released his right hand from the door handle, “No. No, Hannah. Everything was swell. I’m worried somethin’ happened.” He wrapped his hands around hers, “No, you were wonderful. Best time of my life. I mean it. I—”
“Mikhail Anzich, it was the best time of my life too. You need to go see to your family. Can you call me later?”
He reached over and softly kissed her lips. He moved back and opened the car door, “Ya. I’ll call you later.” The door gently closed. He quickly covered the distance of the driveway while his stomach flip-flopped and his heart thumped heavily in his chest.
Mikhail stood in the living room doorway and stared at his daughter’s bandaged and swollen nose. Anna sat on the couch with Sara Reynolds reading a comic book. Bud Reynolds entered from the kitchen with a bowl of soup in his hand. He set it down on the dining room table and walked over to Mikhail. “You best sit down, Mik. A lot happened while you was gone.”
Mikhail’s legs rubberized, but he managed to get to his rocker in front of the bay window. Not wanting the answer he feared, he asked, “Is Tomas alright?”
Bud pulled the footstool over next to him and sat down. Bud stayed with Katya and Anna all night. Sleep called his name, but Katya asked him to break the news to her father. He struggled as he searched to present the news in the best words he knew, and then he belted out, “Ya. He’s fine. Let me fill you in. It’s a long story.”
After Bud related everything that happened, Mikhail silently rose up, walked over to his daughter, and knelt in front of her. Before he could say a word, Anna spoke, “Papa. Daddy hit mommy. But he died.”
Mikhail gulped and wrestled with the flood of emotions that engulfed him, “I’m sorry, honey. Everything will be fine. Just you wait and see.” His time with Hannah seemed like a lifetime ago. Guilt roared into his mind for being gone when his family needed him most. The precious moments with Hannah blurred as the thought of David hitting Katya overwhelmed him. And Nolan. His best friend. Nolan always seemed to be there when Mikhail needed him. But when Nolan needed him most, he wasn’t there.
Bud placed his hand on Mikhail’s shoulder, “You best get up to the hospital my friend. Nolan’s in a bad way. Your son needs you too. He rode in the ambulance to the hospital. The Kid’s pretty upset.”
Mikhail braced his huge hands against the hardwood floor and stood up. He placed his right hand on her cheek and kissed Katya on the forehead. From across the room he heard Anna, “Papa. Hugs.”
He leaned over and gently lifted Anna into his arms and softly caressed her. “Papa’s proud of you. You’re very brave.” He kissed her and lumbered out to Bud’s car. The storm of emotions attacked his broken heart. How’ll I ever make it up to em’? I should’ve been there. I thought things was gonna be better. Nothing’s ever gonna change. Things just keep goin’ haywire.
The makeshift Sheriff’s office in Hungry Horse squeezed in between the two-cell jail and the post office. Sheriff Schustrom sat at his tiny wooden desk and rewrote his notes from the truck accident. He planned to visit with the coroner later that afternoon after he visited with Nolan at the hospital. The rusty spring on the screen door squeaked as the FBI agents entered his office. Ted Hughes looked disheveled after a long night of absolutely no sleep and nothing to eat. He flashed his wallet badge and introduced himself to the Sheriff. “I’m Agent Hughes, and my partner is Agent Moore. We need everything you have on that truck accident last night.”
Schustrom managed little sleep himself. He responded to the accident after a call from the station tender at the base of the Dam at four in the morning. He took his time as he stood up, “Well Agent Hughes, we all need somethin’ now don’t we. I need a good night’s sleep, a bath, and a warm meal. But it don’t look like I’m gonna get any of ‘em anytime soon.” He stretched his six-foot-three frame across his desk, leaned his weight on his desk, and glared at Hughes, “So you’re gonna have to wait!”
Agent Hughes rolled his neck and wrinkled his nose to adjust his glasses. He edged closer to the desk and laid down his own glare before he responded, “The victim was in our care and was a key witness in two outstanding homicide investigations.”
The Sheriff stood tall and looked down at the pen in his hand, “By the looks of things, you did a piss-poor job of takin’ care of him.” He smirked as he sat down in his creaky wooden chair.
Hughes heard enough, “Listen, you small town Roy Rogers, we—”
His partner interrupted him, “Hey men. Let’s settle down. All of us can use some sleep. How about I buy lunch across the street? We can go over there and work together on this thing.”
His Irish temper seethed as he swiveled his head and shot Moore his best dirty look. “Fine. Let’s go eat.”
Hughes turned his back and walked out. The screen door slammed.
Schustrom gathered up his notes and notepad. “Well since the FBI is buyin’, I’m eatin’. Let’s go.”
Mikhail entered the lobby of North Valley Hospital and approached the information table. A high school candy striper cheerfully greeted him. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“Yes. The room for John Nolan.”
She paged through the patient roster and stopped at Nolan’s name, “Are you family, sir?”
“He’s my first cousin.”
“Oh good. Mr. Nolan’s in room 320. The elevator is—”
Mikhail stepped away and walked toward the elevator. The ebb and flow of guilt flowed freely now as he pushed the third floor button. “What the hell was Nolan doin’ ridin’ with David anyway? They hated each other. And what should I say to Tomas? He got stuck dealin’ with all of it.” The bell sounded the arrival of the elevator as it reached the third floor. He ducked his head as he stepped out into the hall. The nurse at the station looked over the counter of her station and asked, “Which room you looking for mister?”
“John Nolan. Room 320, I think.”
She pointed her hand and arm as she spoke, “To the right, about half-ways down. He’s been in and out, so don’t stay long.”
The overpowering smell of purex immediately attacked his nostrils. He hated the smell. There were just too many sad memories of ill or seriously injured friends or relatives in the hospital in Butte. But nothing in the past tortured him like seeing John Nolan. He paused in the doorway of Nolan’s room. Tubes filled with blood flowed into Nolan’s arm. His face showed only his eyes and mouth through the wrapped bandages.
Tomas rose from his seat at the foot of Nolan’s bed. Mikhail immediately noticed how tired he looked. So worn out. His pale skin bleached out next to his dark hair, red eyes from crying, and his dirty, bloodstained white shirt. Tomas attempted to say something, but his lips trembled. Mikhail walked over to him and embraced him. Tomas broke away first and managed to speak, “He’s so weak. Doctor said he’s lost a ton of blood.”
“He’s tough. He’ll make it. Seen him look worse.”
“I, I needed you Dad. A lot happened. You always been there before. I didn’t know what to do.” Tomas moved back a few steps. His hands trembled as he fought back tears. “He punched Kat.”
“You mean, David.”
“Ya. I got so mad when I saw her face I lost control. I—”
Nolan knocked the water glass from the table. Tomas rushed to his side. Nolan’s lips moved, but words didn’t come out. Tomas clearly recognized the word “no” and the message attached to the slight wave of his finger back and forth. Nolan blinked his eyes a couple of times and drifted in and out of sleep.
Mikhail came closer, “Nolan. It’s me, Mik. You know, the Bohunk. Wake up. It’s gonna be fine. Don’t quit!” His large hands gently shook Nolan’s shoulder. “Hang tough, Partner. Hang tough.” He moved back, turned away, and looked out the window into the gravel parking lot.
Tomas watched his father wipe his tears with the back of his right hand. Nolan’s subtle message to him came out loud and clear. He remembered the last thing Nolan told him the night before about telling nobody about what happened. Tomas told himself he’d try his best, but it would be hard. The guilt of killing David haunted him, and not even twenty-four hours had passed. Now Nolan’s life hung in the balance. It’s all my fault. How would he keep the secret? For now, he’d do it for Nolan. But if somehow Nolan were blamed for David’s death, he’d confess. He silently prayed, “God please don’t take John Nolan. Please. We all need em.”
After lunch, Sheriff Schustrom stood outside the Club Café with Hughes and Moore. He put in a plug of chew, straightened his black cowboy hat, and rubbed the fresh coffee stain on his wrinkled western shirt. After he shook their hands, he spoke in a hoarse, deep voice, “I’ll follow up with that Nolan fella if he pulls thorough. Looks like he jumped from the truck alright. I’ll send you whatever I find.”
Hughes knocked off a couple of sandwich breadcrumbs from his suit coat, “Thanks. Our Butte office talked with the Los Angeles office. Looks like they will have a couple of agents sitting on Hansen’s bank accounts in Palm Springs. I look forward to bringing him back to Montana. I don’t know if we can pin those two homicides on him, but the money laundering will be easy. We have Sednick’s signed statements. We’ll get Hansen and anybody else connected with him.”
Once Schustrom pulled away in his pickup, Hughes turned and faced his partner. “Maybe we should’ve been straight with him. You and I both know that was no car accident. The damn car was in neutral and the key was in the off position.”
Agent Moore loosened his tie, nodded his head forward and said, “I know. Sednick crossed a lot of people. Who knows what went on in that truck. No need for us to pursue it though.”
“I agree. Besides, I don’t think we want a big homicide investigation going on while Truman and half of the country’s press are here. Pretty tough for us to pin it on Nolan anyway. Too little evidence to build a case against him.”
Hughes started the car engine and shifted out of neutral, “That’s good enough with me. We need to get back to Butte and pack for California. I can’t wait to close the book on Hansen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Three days later, the October 1st early morning sun greeted Al Sutter when his wife shook him awake at 5:30. “Rise and shine, Al. Big day. You get to meet the President of the United States.”
The restless night of sleep already informed him of what the day had in store for him. His stomach burned. He made a mental note to have his high school assistant run and get him some Rolaids. Sutter sponsored a writing contest at Columbia Falls High School, and a with a flip of the coin, Will Talbott became his assistant for one day.
He munched down some corn flakes and dry toast. His wife helped him load his cameras, cases, and other photography equipment into the trunk of his car. “I’m picking up young Will at 7:00, so I better hit the road.” Sutter received a kiss from his wife and drove across Columbia Falls to pick up the young man that would never forget today. One by one, Al mentally checked off each of his planned activities for the Hungry Horse dedication ceremonies.
Will Talbott sat on the top step of his front porch. He leaped off the porch when he saw Sutter’s car pull up the street. The car barely stopped when Will opened the door and crashed down into the front seat opposite the famed newspaperman. “Holy smokes, Will! Take it easy. Thank God I didn’t have my camera on the seat.”
Al Sutter wore a white tee shirt underneath his long sleeve white shirt. The light-colored tan sport coat covered the shoulders that supported the camera bag, light meter, and camera. His white hat with the colorful band tipped to the side of his head. The black-rimmed glasses hung out of his coat pocket.
They arrived at the train depot in Columbia Falls. The Pennsylvania Railroad provided the presidential train for Harry Truman. Al coasted to a stop across from the train. “Let’s go snap some photos. Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to get a shot of the President.” Will lugged the pack supplied with film, flash bulbs, and assorted camera equipment. Al led them across the tracks and up to the single secret service guard at the caboose end of the train. He started to introduce himself when the back door of the caboose opened. President Harry Truman and his daughter Margaret stepped out and climbed down the temporary medal steps.
Truman smiled and stepped over to Sutter and the stunned high school boy, Will Talbott. “Good morning. How about joining me on my morning constitutional?” He shook Al Sutter’s hand and then Talbott’s. The secret service man, Margaret, and the President strode down the gravel road toward the North Fork. The camera buzzed with action, and equipment bounced as the two jogged to stay up with the President. Al’s hat drooped well below his right eye. His stomach blazed from the stomach acid fire as he looked at Will, “First chance you get, buy me some antacid, lots of it. Here’s a silver dolla
r.”
At ten o’clock that morning, a crowd of one-thousand cheering people stood around the back of the train and listened to the high school band bang out patriotic songs. President Truman stepped out and held a microphone. Montana Senator Mike Mansfield stood beside him on the porch of the caboose. Three large black speakers attached to the caboose belted out the President’s words, “The Republicans have nominated a great general to run for President. I am very fond of that great general, but his whole life has been spent as a military man. He has a military mind, which is a very peculiar one. He did a wonderful job as commanding general of allied forces in Europe. But that in no way fits him to be President of the United States.” Sutter snapped photos while Will wrote every word the President said.
The President and his five secret service men climbed into loaned cars. They joined the police and highway patrol caravan toward Hungry Horse. As they approached the bridge over the South Fork of the Flathead River, the President viewed the crowd that lined the haul road leading to the base of the Dam.
The Care Less Group ladies walked the sides of the dusty road and distributed miniature flags to the school kids and locals that waited for a chance to see the President up close. Hannah paused as she came by Mikhail and his family. Anna sat high on Tomas’ shoulders. She smiled at Hannah as she accepted the flag. Mikhail handed her his flag, and Anna waved both of the flags on the wooden sticks. Hannah raised her eyebrows and smiled at Mikhail as she continued along the parade route.
President Truman waved as the motorcade passed by the impressive tunnel of canyon residents. His eyes temporarily stopped ahead on Anna with her two flags and the oxygen tank in her uncle’s hand. “Stop a second, driver. Pull up by that little girl with the walker in front of her.” The car paused in front of Anna. Truman smiled at her and winked. Anna wrinkled her face in a vain attempt to form her best wink. After no success, she blew him a kiss. Truman waved and instructed the driver to continue. The press bus marked the end of the parade. Inside, Al Sutter and his assistant sat with pressmen from national magazines and newspapers. Al nervously fumbled with his film cartridges as he spoke, “You’ll never forget today, Will. Nether will I. Just think, we shook the President’s hand. The spotlight of the nation’s press, radio, newsreel and television is on the Flathead today. One million dollars worth of publicity is spent for the thirty-thousand people of Flathead County.” Will shook his head and nodded his agreement with what Sutter said.
