by Mary Daheim
Jonas stopped near the railroad tracks. “Tell you what.” He gave Vincent a conspiratorial smile. “If you two can walk through the railroad tunnel down the line and not wet your pants, we’ll call off the bet.”
Louie and Billy exchanged dubious glances. Both boys had been warned repeatedly not to go into the tunnel. It was too dangerous, with unscheduled runs on the short haul lines from the other whistle stops. There was a bend in the tracks only a couple of hundred feet from the tunnel’s other side, and a train could come along with almost no warning. Besides, their parents knew, busy little boys preoccupied with their pastimes didn’t always hear the whistle.
“You’ll go with us?” Billy inquired.
“Hell, no,” Jonas replied. “Then it wouldn’t be a dare. You go by your chickenshit selves.”
Billy leaned down to whisper in Louie’s ear. “The four-twenty freight is coming pretty soon. What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” Louie whispered back. “I heard the four o’clock mill whistle blow a few minutes ago.”
“Right.” Billy looked up at the heavy gray clouds. At least it wasn’t snowing. “So,” he asked in his normal voice, “how do we prove we did it?”
Jonas scratched at his chin, which was just beginning to sprout a few signs of stubble. “There’s some fusies at the other end,” he said, referring to the flares that trains always carried. The youngsters all begged for fusies. They were as good as firecrackers, almost as good as Roman candles. “Bring back one of them fusies for each of us. And we gotta check to see if your pants are dry.”
“No, you don’t,” Billy retorted. “If you can’t tell by looking, that’s tough. The fusies are the deal.”
“We’ll see about that,” Vincent said, lighting a cigarette. “Well? What are you waiting for? Santa Claus? He ain’t got no fusies in his big black bag.”
Billy started out, but Louie lingered. “Come on,” Billy called. “We don’t have much time.”
For just one second, Louie looked as if he might cry. Then, seeing the contempt on the older boys’ faces, he started to run alongside the tracks. Nobody, not even Vincent or Jonas, would ever call him a chicken.
Both cousins were out of breath by the time they reached the tunnel. They stopped just inside to look back at their tormentors, who were a good two hundred feet away. Vincent and Jonas appeared to be falling about with laughter.
“Let’s move down a little bit,” Billy said, his eyes adjusting to the increasing darkness. “There’s a place where we can stand away from the tracks. We’ll be okay.”
“But we can’t get the fusies,” Louie protested.
“Yes, we can.” He paused. “I hear the train. Just do what I do.”
Two minutes passed. It was cold and dank inside the tunnel. Louie could barely make out the opposite wall with its stout timbers. He began to shiver just as the train whistle blew.
Almost immediately, they saw the locomotive’s big headlight coming around the bend on the other side of the tunnel. It had slowed down as it neared the whistle stop. Billy was breathing almost as hard as Louie.
Then, as the train slowly approached, Billy started to yell at the engineer. “Mr. Geerds, throw me a fusie! Throw me a fusie!” he cried, hoping to be heard above the clamor of the rails.
Louie joined in. The boys stayed plastered to the side of the tunnel, screaming their lungs out. The locomotive was so close they could feel the heat like a blast from an open oven. At last they saw Harry Geerds, leaning from the cab.
“What the . . . ?” he shouted back. “You shouldn’t be here! I’m going to tell your mas!”
“Please.” Billy cried, “throw us some fusies!”
“Tell it to the caboose,” Harry yelled as the locomotive lumbered out of the tunnel toward town. “They’ve got ’em back there.”
Five, ten, fifteen cars later, the boys could see the red caboose. They began to shout again. A skinny man in overalls stood at the very back of the train.
“Crazy kids!” he laughed. But he threw them a half-dozen fusies.
The train slowed to a stop, with the caboose just clearing the tunnel. Louie and Billy each clutched three fusies, but they didn’t run. They sauntered back toward town and remained on the opposite side of the tracks from Vincent and Jonas.
Up ahead at the platform, Harry Geerds was accepting a cup of co fee from Kate Murphy. It was a familiar and welcome break on the run to Leavenworth, though Harry had no time for pie today. Seeing the young boys approach, he pointed at them and wagged a finger.
Kate looked grim as she stared at her son and her nephew. “You’re wicked, wicked boys. Foolish and reckless. I’ve a mind to take a belt to both of you.”
“We can explain,” Billy said. “We didn’t do it to be bad.” Kate’s expression softened as it always did when she studied her only son’s face. “It’d better be good. Get on home now. You, too, Louie.”
“We have something we got to do first,” Billy replied, very serious. “Mr. Geerds, would you please come with us? It’ll take just a minute.”
Puzzled yet intrigued, Harry cradled his co fee mug in his hand. “I guess so. We’re running only a couple of minutes behind schedule.”
The boys led Harry around the front of the locomotive. Billy pointed to Vincent and Jonas, who were standing by the water tower. “They made us do it,” Billy said. “They’re bullies. They’re always trying to get the younger kids in trouble.”
“I never met a bully I didn’t want to lick,” Harry replied, his bearlike frame indicating he often won, no matter whom he was forced to fight.
Without a word, Billy and Louie walked up to the older boys and dropped the fusies at their feet.
Vincent stared at the fusies; Jonas stared at the cousins. “You tricked us!” Jonas exclaimed. “You cheated! The bet’s off!”
“The bet was,” Billy said in an even voice, “that we’d go into the tunnel and get two fusies. We got six.” He looked up at Harry. “Did we get these in the tunnel, Mr. Geerds?”
“Sure as shooting,” Harry replied, then chuckled as he looked at Vincent and Jonas. “Looks to me as if you’d better pay up, boys. These young’uns beat you fair and square.”
Vincent’s face was stormy. Jonas looked as if he could strangle both boys with his bare hands.
“We’ll bring the money later,” Vincent muttered. He nudged Jonas roughly. “Let’s go.”
With one last searing look at the younger boys, Jonas started up the hill. “Don’t worry,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ll get those two next time.”
Chapter Eleven
I’D HEARD ABOUT meth labs in other parts of the state, but never near Alpine. In a way, that was odd, because the makers of meth were often out-of-work loggers who tucked themselves away in the forest to cook up their illegal substances. So many timber workers suffered from chronic aches and pains in the course of their job that they’d learned how to doctor themselves, and not always in ways that were legal.
“Had you any idea this was going on?” I asked Milo.
“I’d heard rumors,” Milo muttered, “but the labs we knew about were always just outside the county line. A couple of them were busted last summer in both Snohomish and Chelan counties, not to mention a bunch further south and west in Pierce, Mason, and Jefferson counties.”
The sheriff and I were standing some thirty feet from the burned-out lab site. Jack and Dustin were back at it, carefully sifting through the debris and exhibiting renewed enthusiasm now that they had a real crime scene.
“How do the batteries figure in?” I inquired.
“Part of the mixture for meth—or crank—is the lithium inside AA batteries,” Milo replied. “I wondered at the time about those batteries the dead guy had in his hand. But there’s no electricity around here to run the equipment to make the meth. I kept my mouth shut, figuring there must be some other explanation for the batteries.”
“But there must have been electricity,” I pointed out
. “How else did they run the fridge?”
“Oh, the power was there,” Milo said, taking a last puff from his Marlboro Light and holding the ash out so the rain would douse the butt. “A generator. It’s buried somewhere by the shack. Or its parts are, if it blew up.” He dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it with his heel. “Remember about a year ago when I went down to Olympia for that law enforcement class on drugs? I learned quite a bit.”
I remembered. “You didn’t want to go at the time,” I remarked. Milo hated classes and conferences. He always protested and complained for at least a month before he finally gave in. But the drug course had really rankled, because it had been scheduled at the same time as the opening of winter steelhead season.
“I thought the class was mostly for city types—you know, gang-related drug stuff,” Milo said. “But that wasn’t how it turned out. Drugs are just as big a problem in rural areas as they are in the cities.”
“I thought you already knew that,” I said.
“I did, as far as here in town goes. But I didn’t know about all these damned meth labs, and who all had them. I figured it was just gang-related, not poor working stiffs who started out trying to kill their pain. Then they end up making big money and causing a bunch of other people a whole new kind of pain. Including law enforcement agencies.” The sheriff meandered over to Dustin and Jack. “Anything new?”
Jack leaned on his shovel and nodded. “I think we got what’s left of a microwave oven here.”
“That figures,” Milo said, then turned back to me. “Those microwaves are part of the process.” He paused, tipping back his baseball cap with its Mariners’ logo. “Let’s go see Garth Wesley.”
Mention of the local pharmacist’s name made me jump. Had Milo guessed that Doc Dewey had prescribed something for me because I’d admitted to feeling depressed? A small demon inside of me didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t rally on my own.
“Why?” I asked, a bit breathless.
“Because,” Milo replied with a curious look, “I want to find out if he’s had a run on pseudoephedrine.”
I trotted along after the sheriff as he headed for the gravel road. “Why?”
“Because,” he called over his shoulder, “that decongestant is a prime ingredient of meth.”
“Oh.” I felt relieved. But only for a moment. Once we got to the pharmacy, wouldn’t Garth Wesley remind me that I had medication to pick up?
“I won’t go through the whole process,” Milo said after we’d reached the Grand Cherokee, “but making meth isn’t all that hard, once you know what goes into it. The worst of it is, everything that’s required is available just about anywhere.”
“A mixture of battery acid—or whatever—and decongestant and—what else?—doesn’t sound very enticing to me.” On the other hand, maybe it’d beat taking Paxil for the next five years.
“The worst of it is,” Milo said as we bumped along the uneven road where the potholes now overflowed with rainwater, “much of the stuff these amateur labs turn out is full of impurities. You notice more people than usual around town with rotting teeth?”
“Oh, good grief!” I made a face at Milo. “I don’t inspect the locals’ mouths. Who do you think I am, Dr. Starr?”
Milo was silent for a moment. “Good idea. He might have some leads. Not to mention dental charts of the deceased.”
The rain began to lessen as we neared Highway 2. “So meth—or crank—can ruin your teeth?” I asked.
“You bet,” Milo replied. “It doesn’t take long. Ah!” He slowed down, pointing to a hemlock snag. “I just saw a Stellar’s jay take off from there. Not all the wildlife has been burned out or scared off.”
Ten minutes later, we were again crossing the Skykomish River. “Am I still deputized or do I only get to do the dirty work?”
Milo grimaced. “What did you have in mind?”
“Tagging along while you interview Garth Wesley.” I gave Milo my most innocent look. “Maybe asking a few questions of my own.”
“That’s pushing it,” Milo declared. He was thoughtful for a few moments as we turned onto Front Street. “You can listen in, okay? I don’t like to get sidetracked when I’m doing an interview.”
“Okay.” Milo’s viewpoint was understandable. I didn’t like being interrupted when I was after a story. But I wanted to get a word in with Garth first, however. “Before you start, I’d like to ask him something. It’s not about the case, it’s about a . . . female hormone prescription.”
“Sure.” The sheriff backed into his usual spot which was just across Third Street from Parker’s Pharmacy. He turned off the ignition, removed the key, undid his seat belt, and stared at me. “Now what?”
I resumed my innocent look. “What do you mean?” Milo slammed his hand on the back of my seat. “Damn! What’s with you, Emma? You hardly ever lie. And lately you’re hatching tall tales like a chicken laying eggs.”
I was annoyed, as much with myself for having told the lies as with the sheriff for seeing through them. “Okay, okay, I guess I’ve been a bit evasive lately. But not without good reasons. As for the prescription, that’s really none of your business, Milo. When I’m ready, I’ll tell you.”
Milo suddenly looked stricken. “You’re not sick, are you? I mean . . . like . . . you know . . .” He fumbled for words.
His obvious concern defused my irritation. “No, no, I don’t have anything seriously wrong with me. I just need . . . some fine-tuning.”
“Oh.” Milo blew out a big breath, “You scared me there for a minute.”
I patted his arm. “That’s very nice of you. But I’m okay. Really.”
Except, of course, I wasn’t.
To our disappointment, neither Garth nor his wife, Tara, was on duty that afternoon. We shouldn’t have been surprised, since it was a Sunday. Both Wesleys were certified pharmacists who had moved to Alpine ten years ago and bought Parker’s Pharmacy. They’d kept the name of the previous owner, Durwood Parker, who, in retirement had managed to polish his image as the worst driver in the county. A common catch phrase was, “Here comes Durwood,” followed by the speaker making the sound of a crash, and adding, “There goes Durwood.” It was Durwood himself who stood behind the pharmacy counter, luckily nowhere near a moving vehicle, but back at his old stand as the resident pharmacist.
I abandoned my idea of asking for the Paxil prescription. Durwood might mention it to his wife, Dot, who would tell everybody in town. Since Milo had grounded Durwood some years back, and Dot didn’t like to drive, they had become real homebodies. Dot spent most of her time on the phone, keeping connected to the rest of the world and spreading enough gossip that Vida often used her as a source.
“Well, well,” Durwood said, looking up from some small white paper bags on the counter, “to what do I owe this pleasure on a rainy Sunday afternoon? You aren’t here to arrest me again, are you, Sheriff?” Despite many citations, a couple of arrests, and even a night in jail, Durwood held no animosity for the sheriff. Sometimes I wondered if his driving escapades hadn’t been a game for him, albeit a reckless one. Fifty-odd years of filling prescriptions didn’t allow for a margin of error. Driving did.
“Not as long as you aren’t running over sidewalk plants and pedestrians,” Milo assured the pharmacist.
Durwood, who was completely bald and had a round face that was emphasized by his round, rimless glasses, chuckled. “No, I haven’t driven in quite a spell. Not since I ended up in the display window of Francine’s Fine Apparel. I told Dot afterward, that was the closest she’d ever get to a fur-trimmed coat.”
A large photo of the incident had graced the Advocate’s front page. By coincidence, Scott had been on the scene to take a photo at Posies Unlimited next door to Francine Wells’s shop.
Milo was leaning against the partition that guarded the entrance to the pharmacy itself. “You working here much these days?”
“Well . . .” Durwood put a finger to one of his rosy cheeks. “That
depends on what you mean by ‘much.’ I fill in now and then for the Wesleys. Their kiddies are in high school, you know. Aaron plays three sports, and Jessica’s involved in all sorts of activities. Garth and Tara like to keep up with them as much as they can. Besides, neither of the kids can drive yet, and I guess they’d rather have me dispensing drugs than giving them a ride.” Durwood chuckled some more.
Milo didn’t chuckle. “How are pseudoephedrine sales these days?”
Durwood sobered. “We watch who we sell to, Sheriff. We know what goes on with that stuff in the wrong hands.”
“Nobody stocking up?” the sheriff inquired.
Durwood shook his head, slowly and certainly. “Garth tracks the sales. I can show you a list of who bought it in the last year.” He winked. “Do I get my license back?”
Milo shook his head. “Sorry, Durwood. Not for some time. But I’d still like to see the list.”
“Of course.” Durwood moved to the computer, which he ran more adeptly than any car he’d ever owned. Moments later, the printer was spewing out pages. “You check with Safeway’s pharmacy?” Durwood asked as we waited.
“Not yet,” Milo said. “I have a feeling that any big sales would take place somewhere else. Monroe, Everett, even Seattle. More anonymous that way.”
Durwood nodded as he handed Milo eight pages of names and dates. “That goes back to September first of last year.”
Milo handed me the second page. “See if you find anything odd.”
I studied the page, which was for November and part of December. “There are plenty of sales, but not a lot of repeats. Cold and flu season, of course.”
“That’s right,” Durwood agreed. “You’ll find more in January and February, then a drop for a month or so until the spring pollen started bothering people.”
“Thanks, Durwood,” Milo said, taking the second page from me and putting the entire list inside his jacket. “I’ll hang onto it just in case.”
Durwood made a snappy salute. He’d joined the army when he was seventeen and had served the last few months of World War II driving a tank in Belgium and France. It was a wonder that the Germans hadn’t surrendered sooner. Or maybe it was more surprising that Durwood hadn’t asked to bring the tank—what was left of it—home with him. “Any time, Sheriff. Always glad to see you when you don’t have a warrant for my arrest.”
