Dead Silver hd-2

by Neil Mcmahon

  "About Tina and her boyfriend, mainly," Renee said.

  "Brent?" Janie shrugged. "He was sort of full of shit-liked to hear himself talk. But all right, except for cheating on Tina."

  Then another woman's voice said, "He wasn't all right, and neither was that Astrid. Weren't for their little game, Tina would still be here."

  I turned to see the elder Mrs. Gerhardt walking into Janie's apartment. She waved Renee and me toward the dining room table.

  "Go on, sit down," she said. "I'll make coffee."

  46

  Renee and I left there about an hour later. I couldn't say that Mrs. Gerhardt had warmed to us, but she'd opened up and told us a story of quiet heartbreak.

  When Tina had gotten the devastating news that her boyfriend had been murdered-Brent Hoffey was his name-she'd suffered the additional shock of learning that he'd been cheating on her with the town's Public Enemy Number One. That created a huge wound in her life, and nothing arrived to heal it. She stayed in Phosphor and worked at the grocery store, with occasional new boyfriends who weren't going anywhere, either.

  She started partying hard. The night came when she was out drinking with two guys, maybe going somewhere or maybe just riding around, and the driver misjudged a turn coming down a steep twisty road. The vehicle plunged more than a hundred feet down the almost vertical mountainside, with nobody wearing seat belts. Tina and one of the men were killed in the crash. The other died in the hospital soon afterward.

  Blaming that on the affair between Astrid and Brent Hoffey was something of a stretch, but Mrs. Gerhardt's anger was entirely understandable. I'd also started to see that her initial rebuff wasn't either personal or political. Instead, it was another phenomenon I'd come to recognize as fairly common in places like this-a mind-set with quasi-religious tones. She was a proud, rigid woman, who viewed life in concrete terms. Everybody should fit neatly into pigeonholes, know exactly who they were, and do exactly what they were supposed to. That would keep the universe operating in proper order. When trouble occurred, it was because somebody had dropped the ball, and more often than not, the victims brought it on themselves.

  Thus, along with the other heartaches that fate had brought to her and her family, she keenly felt a loss of dignity. Locking the door against any further intrusions was an attempt to salvage that; it gave her a measure of control.

  As Renee and I drove homeward along Phosphor's main drag, the patina of charm that I'd imagined earlier was missing. Maybe it was only because the sun had dropped behind the mountains, and that sporadic warmth had given way to the cloudy, chilly reality of the late afternoon.

  But there were too many weathered FOR SALE signs, and they had the hopeless air of scruffy hitchhikers that nobody would ever pick up, stranded in the middle of nowhere. The streets were empty of shoppers or moving vehicles, although the parking spaces in front of the town's two bars were full. The only customer at the little burger drive-in was a middle-aged man in a beat-up old station wagon, who appeared to be just sitting there.

  A group of teenagers had clustered at the high school athletic field, but these had a different look than the daypack-toting crowd we'd seen earlier; they were sitting in their pickup trucks or leaning against them, some smoking, but otherwise inert. Maybe it was that same gunmetal sky that gave their faces a hard, hungry cast as they watched us strangers pass by. It seemed clear that they were well acquainted with having nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no expectations of anything better-easy prey for alcoholism, the new Black Plague of methamphetamine, and aimless rage that often led to violence.

  The ripple effect of the Dead Silver Mine's failure was the single major point that I had taken away from talking with the Gerhardt women. They hadn't preached or even talked openly about it, but it had seeped out through their words again and again.

  The mine's promise of prosperity had lured people to move to this area, buy and build homes, start and expand businesses. Most were betting on the income and borrowing over their heads. When the economic house of cards collapsed, it fell hard. People simply packed up and disappeared. Store windows got boarded up and buildings abandoned. Banks were left holding dozens of properties they had no hope of selling. The tax base plummeted, taking support for schools and public services along with it.

  The situation got still worse a few years later, with the closing of the sawmill that was Phosphor's only other mainstay industry. The cause involved the usual conflict-corporate greed for quick profit versus environmental sanctions and lawsuits-complicated by murky political issues like lumber tariffs with Canada. The mill owners, longtime local residents, cut their own profit margin down to subsistence, but finally couldn't afford the soaring price of raw logs, and sometimes couldn't get them at all.

  In practical terms, that seemed insane. The surrounding forests were full of trees ready for harvest, including large tracts damaged by fires or insects which would rot if they weren't taken soon. Phosphor Country was full of experienced loggers who would gladly do the work.

  But, like the old joke went, you couldn't get there from here.

  It was all too easy to understand the anger and frustration-not just in Phosphor, but in other places all over the country with parallel situations-at being pawns in a giant Monopoly game, controlled from distant boardrooms and government agencies and universities, but played out on their turf and to their loss.

  Renee and I had steered the conversation unobtrusively toward whether that might have motivated Astrid's murder, but the Gerhardts seemed to genuinely believe not. They knew everybody in the area and had heard every scrap of gossip. Without doubt, there were men around Phosphor who'd had both the motive and the temperament. But, like Buddy Pertwee, Janie and her mother had never made any solid connection. Tina had felt the same way-the killer was a stranger.

  Of course, that didn't mean they were right.

  47

  The constrictive feel of phosphor eased off as we drove home, through forest that gradually opened up into ranch land and then the miles-wide expanse of the Helena Valley, funneling into the apex of the old part of town rising up against the mountains to the south. We arrived in the last throes of after-work traffic. a joke by big-city standards, but it had thickened enough over the past years to become a nuisance. At least it had a healthy bustle.

  Instead of going straight to my cabin, we detoured past Renee's to make sure everything was okay. That neighborhood was well removed from the hum of commerce, and the streets were quiet as usual. Her house seemed fine from the outside, but I wanted to go in and take a look around. There was no telling who else might know she was back in town.

  I still had very clear memories of the last time I'd pushed open that front door, and getting met with a blast of gunfire-so clear that as I got out of my truck, I had to stop and hyperventilate for a few seconds.

  But this time, I never made it that far. Instead, I had a different deja vu, a tangible one. A couple hundred yards up the hillside, a dark-colored SUV was moving through the trees; apparently it had been stopped there and was leaving, accelerating onto the street.

  The spot was exactly where I'd seen a dark blue SUV do exactly the same thing, right after Professor Callister's funeral-as if the driver had been watching the house.

  I couldn't swear that this was the same vehicle, but it sure the hell looked similar.

  Renee was fussing with something in her purse and hadn't yet gotten out of my truck. She looked up, startled, when I swung myself back in and jammed the key into the ignition. The old rig rocked with torque as the engine caught, and we both rocked with it as I wrestled it in and out of her driveway in a fast three-point turn, then stomped on the gas.

  "Watch the cross streets for that son of a bitch," I told Renee. "If we get close enough, take the license number."

  "What son of a bitch?" She was staring at me, her left hand braced against the dash and the other clutching her door handle. I realized she didn't have any idea what I was doing.

  "S
omebody was watching the house. Blue SUV, medium size, few years old."

  "O-kay," she said uncertainly, still clinging to her handholds.

  Two blocks farther, her quiet street intersected with the broader route of Montana Avenue, leading up the hill where the SUV had been parked. A couple of cars were approaching on it. They didn't have a stop sign; I did. I blew right through it, flashing my headlights and leaning on the horn. Brakes squealed and other horns blared back, but we got through untouched. We came out of the skidding left turn headed uphill, and I rammed the accelerator to the floor again. The engine throbbed with the strain of the steep climb, rattling the windows.

  When we got to where I'd seen the SUV, it had disappeared.

  I kept going on Montana, hoping that the driver had done the same. The street continued more or less straight on into the hills; I could see quite a ways ahead, and while a vehicle might briefly be hidden in a dip or curve, it would reappear within seconds.

  It didn't. Either he also had his foot on the floor or he'd turned off. Some of the intersecting streets eventually led back into Helena or out of town, but almost all of them wound through newer developments laid out in labyrinthine lanes and cul-de-sacs.

  I slowed the truck and glanced at Renee. She shook her head unhappily.

  "I never saw it," she said.

  Maybe the SUV driver had known we were after him, and hauled ass. Maybe we just weren't due this particular bit of luck.

  The blaring of a horn behind us jerked my gaze to the rear-view mirror. A car was coming up on us fast. It damn near rear-ended us, then whipped around to pass, with the very pissed-off-looking guy behind the wheel leaning across the seat to give me the finger. It must have been one of the vehicles I'd almost collided with, back at the stop sign. I didn't blame him.

  Out of frustration and stubbornness, I cruised around a few more minutes, then pulled over where the SUV had been parked. As I'd expected, the vantage point was excellent, on a downhill slope, hidden from passing cars, with a clear view of Renee's house-including into her bedroom windows.

  It was time to report in to Gary Varna.

  48

  Two hours later, just as dusk was giving way to night, I drove back to my cabin, alone.

  Gary had decided to take the wraps off this case and start his people working it actively. He had to assume that someone was watching Renee, and that that someone might be the murderer of Astrid Callister.

  He had also fired me, politely but firmly, as Renee's bodyguard. From here on she needed a professional, and tonight that was going to be Gary himself-she would stay with him and his wife. First thing in the morning, he would take her to the airport and put her on the red-eye to spend some time with a friend from college who lived in Arizona. She might have to work out a plan to stay hidden indefinitely.

  I was fervent with thanks to all the powers in the universe that we'd been alerted in time to get her to safety. She assured me she'd call as soon as she got settled, and no doubt we could work out a way to see each other if that was how things shaped up.

  Still, she was gone from my life again.

  49

  I tossed restlessly through most of the night, then got up early and spent a couple of hours drinking coffee and thinking things over, waiting for Gary or Renee to call and let me know what was in the offing. But whatever that was, it probably wouldn't involve me, and I wasn't sure of what to do next.

  I'd made it clear to Gary that I'd be happy to help if he could use me, and he'd said he'd keep that in mind. But with the cops stepping in, amateur hour was over, and I didn't want to risk doing anything that might get in their way or muddy the waters. I was healed up well enough to start working at Split Rock again and I couldn't keep ignoring that job forever, but neither could I imagine trying to get back into it right now.

  So I puttered around my place, mulling and fretting, until the phone finally rang about eight-thirty. For once, I jumped at it.

  But the tense harsh voice that spoke into my ear was Madbird's.

  "Darcy didn't show up for work," he said, with no preliminaries. "I'm at her apartment; I broke in. She ain't here but her car and purse are, and things don't look right. I need the cops, but I ain't sure they'll listen when I point them at Fraker. If you'd call the sheriff, that might get things moving."

  "You really think he did something to her?" The opposite had flashed across my mind right off-that Fraker might have gotten horny enough to patch things up with Darcy. But Madbird would be way on top of all those kinds of possibilities. That he even considered calling the police was a measure of how concerned he was, and his next words iced that.

  "He threatened her yesterday," Madbird said. "I just found that out; Hannah wouldn't tell me before."

  Jarred out of my own little stew pot, I said, "I'll call Gary right now. See you as soon as I can get there."

  50

  The scene at Darcy's apartment was official but low-key. With someone as prominent as Seth Fraker involved, this matter would be kept discreet, at least to start with. From the outside, it looked like a burglary or another relatively minor matter; the only signs of police presence were two Helena city units parked in the lot with lights off and a cop posted at the door. But several more men were inside the place, probably detectives and technicians.

  I was grateful to see that Gary Varna had shown up in person. Nothing could make Madbird feel much better, but that would help.

  Madbird and I talked quietly for a minute, and I learned the lead-up series of events. Yesterday, Darcy had told Hannah and Pam Bryce that she and Fraker had argued, with anger and frustration running high on both sides. Fraker spoke words to the effect that women had tried to pressure him in the past, and he knew how to teach them a lesson. When Darcy scoffed, he bristled and said, "One of them laughed just like that. She went swimming one night and never came back."

  He had to be referring to the incident on St. Martin island when his lady companion had drowned-a chilling confirmation that there'd been something far more sinister involved than his supposed efforts to save her.

  But no one had ever told Darcy about that, and she assumed that Fraker was just making it up. Pam and Hannah both knew about it, but decided not to tell Madbird because of well-grounded concern that it would push him into confronting Fraker, with predictable consequences. Instead, they worked on Darcy to convince her that Fraker might be dangerous and she'd better back off.

  Then Darcy didn't show up for work this morning and Pam got scared. She contacted Hannah, who called Darcy's cell phone repeatedly. She had been answering Hannah's calls without hesitation, but now the phone just rang. Hannah finally confessed to Madbird about the threat. He drove immediately to Darcy's, jimmied the door-the deadbolt wasn't locked-and found the apartment empty, with her purse there and the cell phone in it.

  The most likely guess seemed to be that Fraker had come by and talked her into going somewhere with him, maybe in a spur-of-the-moment rekindling of passion. With any luck, she was safe in a motel room and she'd turn up before long.

  But there was also concern that he'd lured her out on some pretext-say, called her to come sit in his truck and talk to him-and then taken off with her against her will. It was hard to believe he was crazy or stupid enough to harm her, but then again, he was an ugly drunk.

  Gary Varna came stalking over to us, looking as grim as Madbird, which was easy to understand. A twelve-year-old murder case erupting out of the blue was trouble enough. Now, right on its heels, came the disappearance of a young woman, with a highly visible politician implicated.

  "Fraker went to work this morning same as ever," Gary said. "Claims he doesn't know anything about this, but he agreed to talk to us. I'm heading back downtown."

  Of course Fraker would deny it and act like all was normal, while he came up with a cover story.

  Gary wanted Madbird on hand to consult with. My own presence wasn't required; the police might interview me at some point, but I was far down the priority list.
Still, I decided to go along and keep Madbird company. I knew that beneath his stoicism he was bristling with tension.

  I went out to my truck, climbed in, and started it up. My windshield was misted from a new weather system that was bringing back wintry gloom. The temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees since the recent couple of balmy days, and heavy wet clouds threatened rain or even snow. I turned the defrost to high; the old fan whirred and screeched-another of the endless repairs that I hadn't found time to get around to-and I had to click it on and off a couple of times to settle it down.

  My thoughts were still with Madbird, and maybe it was that clicking sound that caused a sudden connection in my mind between him and something I'd forgotten but that had been hovering in my subconscious.

  Right now Madbird was staying on the fringes of the buzzing activity, stony-faced, appearing detached. But that was far from the case; I'd come to recognize the same quality in a lot of Native Americans. They might seem to be absorbed in work, talk, drinking or playing pool in a bar, but behind that screen, they were intensely observant and aware of everything that was going on around them. Above all, they were watching people, gauging what was likely to happen in the immediate situation and whether somebody new would turn out in the long term to be a friend, enemy, or other.

  The connection went back two days, to when Renee and I were about to leave for Missoula and we'd stopped by Evvie Jessup's realty office. I'd noticed her husband Lon in the background, where he usually seemed to stay. I'd put that down to the social awkwardness of a bluff, outdoorsy man dealing with people he didn't know.

  But now, I was struck by the same sense I'd just gotten from Madbird-that Lon Jessup, behind his outward shyness and tinted glasses, was carefully taking account of everything going on around him.