Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  "All of them?"

  "Sure. We've done seven or eight of them in the past couple of years. All of them perfect. Great access. All graded flat. Not even slash piles to work around. Neatest sites I've ever seen."

  I pulled the maps from the tube and spread them over the counter.

  "These?" I asked, pointing at the highlighted areas.

  Without answering, he pushed a few keys on the computer. The screen filled with a list of names and numeric notations. Stratton methodically worked from the maps to the screen and back.

  Finally, after several rechecks, he ran his fingers through his thick beard and said, "You've got one too many." He pulled at his beard again.

  "Which one?" I asked.

  "This one." He pointed to a yellowed spot on the center map. "We haven't done this one."

  "You sure?" I asked. He breathed a sigh of exasperation.

  "Of course I'm sure. These were the best damn sites I've had to work with in twenty years. I'm sure as hell not going to forget one of them."

  Silence settled over the little office as the three of us stared at the spot on the map. Finally Stratton said, "Check with Winthrop Logging. Maybe they'll know something. They get there before we do. Maybe it's new."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Glad to help. If we could just get more companies to be - "

  While Daniel and I rolled the maps up, Stratton rambled on. Without being asked, he wrote down Winthrop's address on a pink Post-It note. My hands were full. He stuck it to my coat.

  "Listen, Mr. Waterman," he said as I opened the door, "if you get a chance, thank Winthrop for the cleanup job. It's so seldom that anybody bothers to - " I assured Stratton that I'd convey his appreciation.

  "Bullshit," was the first word out of his mouth.

  "What's bullshit?" I asked.

  "You're bullshit." I was glad we'd cleared that up. He wasn't through. "Who the fuck do you think you're fooling? You're just some kind of goddamn inspector." With one brawny arm, he swept the maps to the floor. They covered my feet. "Take those fucking maps and get out, before I shove ‘em up your ass. You got any complaints about those sites, you go see the tribe. We got it in writing. It's in the contract. It's all there in black and white. If they'd wanted cleanup, we'd never had taken the job. Barely turned a profit as it was. Shitty little sites. Damn near not worth dragging the equipment up there. Fucking regulations."

  His eyes narrowed. He reached out quickly and grabbed my shirt front, pulling me halfway over the counter. "Let me tell you something, pal. My family's been logging this area for forty-five years. Used to be lots of families around here made their living logging. We're damn near all that's left. You understand that? Huh, do you? Rest of them are working in some stinking factory somewhere. You come in here with that bullshit about - "Disgusted, he let go and straight-armed me back two steps. "Get out." He pointed toward the door. Daniel crumpled the maps to his chest and backed out the door. I wasn't far behind.

  Daniel and I sat in the truck as he refolded the maps.

  "Did you catch his name?" Daniel asked.

  "We never got that far. Sounded like a Winthrop, thought."

  "Planters were a lot friendlier than cutters."

  "Considerably," I agreed.

  "Was interesting, though."

  "Very," I agreed again.

  Daniel read my mind. "If the loggers aren't cleaning up the sites, then who is?"

  "Good question, Daniel. A mighty good question." I mumbled absentmindedly. "Be right back," I said. I headed back inside.

  The little bell over the door tinkled my arrival. He came out from the office in the back, took one look at me, and started around the corner for me, fists clenched at his sides. I began to babble.

  "Look, Mr. - " I held up both hands in front of me. "I'm not here to make trouble. I'm not with the EPA or the Forest Service or any other agency." He kept coming, his eyes pinched down to slits.

  "You got big balls, pal," he muttered, still advancing.

  "A friend of mine's dead," I blurted as he stepped up to me. He stopped. "Dead?" he repeated.

  "Murdered." He momentarily relaxed, then tensed again.

  "If you're some kind of insurance - "

  "No insurance," I said quickly. He again relaxed slightly.

  Before he could regroup, I told him as much of the story as he needed to know. He listened without interrupting. When I'd finished, I handed him a business card. He studied it.

  "So who are you working for?" he asked. Good question.

  "Myself, I guess." He stuck out a hand. I flinched.

  "Winnie Winthrop," he said. My hand disappeared into his.

  "Leo Waterman."

  "Busted his fingers and then shot him in the head?"

  I nodded. He shook his head sadly. "An old guy, you said?"

  "Sixty-six."

  "Jesus Christ." More head shaking. "My dad's sixty-six."

  He leaned back against the counter, folding his big arms across his red suspenders. "Who did the replant?" he asked.

  "A company called Greenside Up."

  "Bunch of goddamn hippies." He pulled at his ear. "But they do a good job," he added grudgingly.

  He massaged the problem for a moment. "Wait here," he said and stalked back into the office. His cutoff pants ended six inches above his work boots.

  I walked back out to the truck and retrieved the maps. Daniel seemed surprised that I was still in one piece. I went back inside. Half of a muffled phone conversation leaked out of the back room. I waited.

  Winthrop reappeared, shaking his head again.

  "Good thing you're a detective."

  "Why's that?'

  " ‘Cause you got a mystery here, Mr. Waterman."

  "The cleanup?" I ventured.

  "No shit."

  "So you guys aren't cleaning up the sites."

  "Cleaning up?" he laughed. "We aren't even burning the slash. We're just cutting, bucking, and yarding them out. It's like I said, the only reason we took the job was because we didn't have to clean ‘em up. Got it in writing. Couldn't even do it except it's on the reservation. The tribe don't have to live by all the fucking government regulations. Stratton at Greenside says the sites are stumped and graded when he gets there. No burn piles. Says they look like football fields."

  "A third contractor?" I suggested.

  "No fuckin' way. Wouldn't begin to pay for the gas. No way."

  I spread the maps out again, covering the entire counter.

  "Could you check these against your records?" I asked.

  Winnie wasn't computerized. He pulled an enormous ledger book out from under the counter and spent the next five minutes cross-checking with the maps. The door tinkled. Daniel had either gotten tired of waiting or was concerned for my safety. Winnie looked up briefly and went back to his checking. "That's all of them," he announced, shutting the book with a bang.

  "No extras?" Daniel asked from behind me.

  "Nope."

  Daniel stepped forward, pushed the maps around until he found the right one and pointed to the spot. "What about this one?"

  Winnie leaned over. Confused, he turned the map around to face him, reopened the book, and checked again.

  "That's the new one. Finished it last Friday."

  Daniel and I exchanged glances.

  "How come greenside doesn't know about this site?" I asked.

  "No reason for them to know until we settle up with the tribe."

  "How long does that take?"

  "Terms are net thirty."

  "Who pays who?" I asked.

  "We pay the tribe. We scale the logs, figure board feet, the tribe sends somebody down to check, and after we agree on a figure, we pay the tribe.

  "Who exactly do you pay?" asked Daniel, close and interested now.

  "Tribal Resources. Guy named Short." Daniel looked grim.

  Winthrop slammed the book shut again. Daniel retrieved the maps.

  "Thanks, Mr. Winthrop," I said without o
ffering my hand up for slaughter.

  "Get ‘em," he said. "Sixty-six. Who in hell would - ? Get ‘em."

  Chapter 20

  The big flatbed burst out of the trees into the roadway. Startled, I stood on the brakes. The pickup skidded to a halt. Everything to loose in the camper slid to the front.

  The truck driver punched the air horn angrily as he roared by, headed back the way we'd come. The truck was empty. The only cargo was a green tarp, neatly folded and tied down on the bed, close up to the red cab.

  Dust hung suspended in the air. Daniel checked the map.

  "That's the one," he announced.

  The thick red dust settled on the windshield. I turned on the wipers. The washer was empty. The dry wipers dragged and scraped the dust, clearing two fans of visibility. I eased the truck forward.

  Sixty yards up the road, I spotted what appeared to be a small turnout on the opposite side of the road and rolled the truck in.

  The overgrown gravel road had once been a driveway. The carcass of a moss-covered cabin sagged and leaned forlornly in a ragged clearing, the broken ends of its collapsed roof pointing skyward like bleaching ribs. The doors and windows turned to dust, the brown unpainted siding buckled under the strain of a wicked lean to the right.

  I U-turned the truck in the front yard and got out. Daniel followed me around to the back of the truck as I unlocked the camper.

  Leaning in, I pulled the seat cushion fro the dinette seat, reached way down into the wheel well, and fished out Bobby Warren's bag. I dug out the nine-millimeter and turned to hand it to Daniel. No Daniel.

  He stood just inside the front door of the cabin, kicking around in the rubble with the toe of one boot. He squatted and peered up under a lean-to-like area formed where a section of roof clung tenaciously to the wall, defying gravity.

  Using the makeshift roof for support, he leaned down, reached in, and came out with a half-full two-liter bottle of Coke. He swiveled his head, caught my eyes, and said, "Classic Coke." As usual, I was lost.

  "If you're thirsty," I started.

  "Nobody's lived here for fifty years," he interrupted.

  "So?"

  "Bottle's brand-new." He agitated the liquid. "Still got the fizz."

  "Bums - campers - who knows."

  He grunted in return, carefully replacing the bottle where he'd found it. He ambled over. I held out the nine-millimeter. Without a word, he took it, noiselessly working the slide, checking the load. "Nice piece," he said quietly and tried to hand it back.

  "Keep it. You might need it," I said, pulling the rolled-up blanket from the bag. Daniel peered over my shoulder as I unrolled the blanket and exposed the wicked little automatic and the four banana clips.

  "Looks like a toy," he commented.

  I pulled the wire shoulder brace along the top of the gun and snapped it into place, transforming the pistol into a rifle.

  "The Indians are outgunned again," Daniel said, as I held the weapon up to my shoulder and checked the feel.

  "You can have this one if you want," I said, offering the gun.

  "No thanks." He bounced the nine-millimeter in his palm. "This little baby will do me just fine. I do appreciate a man who comes loaded for bear though," he added with a wink.

  I unclipped the shoulder strap from both ends of Bobby's bag and fed it through the automatic's handle, clipping the ends together to form a loop. I took off my jacket and slipped the loop over my shoulder. The gun hung down to my belt. After tearing out the right-hand pocket, I put the jacket back on. The elastic at the bottom of the jacket held the gun firmly in place. My right hand had easy access to the trigger guard. I filled the left-hand pocket with the three remaining clips. Floyd would have been proud of me.

  "Ready?" I asked Daniel.

  "Ready," he said. "You expecting trouble?"

  "this stuff," I said, patting the gun through my coat, "is purely for defensive purposes. Just to make sure we get out of here." He nodded.

  We started up the road. When we reached the bottom of the logging road, I instinctively started toward the low side. Daniel stopped me with a hand on the shoulder.

  "Let's stay high," he said. "It'll be easier going. They push all the road debris downhill."

  I took his word for it and followed him up the little bank to our left. For the first five hundred yards the going was slow as we traversed a series of brush-filled gullies. The road builders had used up the whole ridgeline, leaving us with only a tangled roller coaster of loose sidehill to walk on. For another quarter mile we trudged on, Daniel in the lead.

  The loose dirt was taking a toll on my legs. My calves were in knots. Daniel seemed unaffected. I tugged at the back of Daniel's jacket. "Maybe you should stop for a minute," I wheezed. He grinned.

  "I'm fine," he said, the grin getting bigger.

  "Well, I'm not."

  "You gotta get in shape, Leo."

  "I thought I was."

  "It's that city life." I couldn't disagree.

  We sat together on a downed pine. I started to speak. Daniel held a finger to his lips. "Listen. You hear it?" he whispered.

  I listened. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my temples. I shook my head. "Listen. You hear it?" he whispered.

  I listened. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my temples. I shook my head. "Listen," he repeated.

  I listened. Slowly, as the sound of my own body quieted, I became aware of the faint sound of machinery in the distance. More than one machine. Idling, then laboring, then the whoop, whoop of backing up.

  "Not far," he said quietly. Without another word, he rose from the log and started up hill. I followed, using both hands to grab the pine saplings and pull myself up the slope. Without my hands to hold it in place, the automatic banged incessantly against my right hipbone, rubbing it raw. I ignored it. Compared to the cramping in my calves, the chafing of the gun was barely noticeable.

  The machinery was louder now. Neither the scraping of my feet nor the sound of my labored breathing could drown it out. Daniel was ten yards in front of me, off to the left, moving easily through the tangled underbrush.

  I put my head down and tried to gain ground. The loose earth sent me skiing six feet back downhill. Only the top of Daniel's head was visible above the brush. He seemed to be stopped.

  Gathering myself, I gave it all I had and sprinted up the hill. My hip joints threatened to fall out of the sockets, but I kept my legs going. Daniel was ten yards to my left. He hissed and held up a hand. I lowered my head and thundered on. No stopping now. Daniel hissed more urgently. Ten more paces. I only got two.

  Fifteen feet to my left, Daniel had a ringside seat as I lumbered up hill and stepped off into space. The last picture my mind snapped was that of Daniel shaking his head sadly as I turned a complete somersault in midair and landed flat on my back. The air whooshed from my body. My throat seemed to close.

  The clearing was much the same as the others. A narrow strip along the ridgeline. All similarities ended there. A hundred-foot-wide trench had been gouged twenty feet deep through the center of the cut. They'd worked their way about halfway down the length of the clearing. At the far end, the trench had already been filled.

  Two flatbed semis were backed up to the trench, adding their cargoes to the hundreds of fifty-five-gallon drums that already filled the trench. Two bulldozers, rumbling at idle, their black diesel smoke staining the air, stood ready to cover and smooth the area.

  Three hundred yards away perhaps a dozen men were working the area. Three rolling barrels off each truck, four or five standing around the trench, the dozer operators at the ready. Or at least, they had been working. Frozen in time, they all stood stock-still and stared at me as I slowly slid to the bottom of the hill. For an instant, no one moved.

  I saw but didn't hear a shout as one of the men standing by the side of the trench opened his mouth wide and pointed at me. All heads turned. The shouter sprinted for one of the green pickups scattered around.

&
nbsp; I rolled to my stomach. My lungs were still empty. Getting to my knees seemed to take an eternity. I looked helplessly toward the top of the bank. Daniel was nowhere to be seen. I cursed him.

  Willing my legs under me, I tried vainly to scramble back up the bank. The ground was too soft; the hill too steep. Instead of propelling me upward, my feet sank into the hill, filling my sneakers with the loose dirt. I slid back to the bottom.

  I looked to my left. The top of the logging road was eighty yards away. Behind me, in the clearing, one of the trucks screamed to life. I'd never make it to the road. Silently cursing Daniel again, I tried to control my shaking fingers and unzip my jacket, groping spastically for the automatic.

  I was fully exposed, silhouetted against the red dirt of the hillside. Waterman's last stand was going to be brief and bloody.

  I rolled onto my back, pointing the automatic back toward the clearing. A tree hit me in the face. Cursing again, I rolled to my right. Daniel was on his knees at the top of the bank, holding the butt end of the uprooted tree.

  "Grab on," he yelled.

  I let go of the automatic, grabbed the dead tree, and started hand-over-handing myself up the bank. Daniel stood and began to back up, yarding me up the eight-foot embankment.

  Halfway to the top, all hell broke loose. Although I couldn't hear the sounds of gunfire, slugs began hissing into the bank on either side of me like angry bees. I looked back. The green pickup was halfway across the clearing, bouncing insanely across the furrowed ground, the driver firing out the window, bearing down on the base of the embankment. I pulled and climbed.

  As I threw my right leg over the top, a sudden sensation of heat told me that a slug had passed within inches of my head. My right ear buzzed. Releasing the tree, I grabbed both hands full of the thick grass that carpeted the top of the knoll and rolled up and over the edge.

  Daniel, who had been leaning back into the tree at a forty-five-degree angle, fell heavily onto his back amid the scrub brush. The green pickup skidded to a halt at the bottom of the bank. Another bullet sailed perilously close to my head.