Badwater

by Clinton McKinzie

  “This is the fellow who wants to talk to you about what happened yesterday,” their dad said. He pointed to the larger boy—“That’s Randy”—then to the smaller one—“That’s Trey.”

  I walked uncertainly into the room, feeling out of place in my suit and tie. And I suddenly felt old. I had nothing in common with these sullen kids and their shitty music. A trained and experienced undercover investigator, I’d always assumed I could get along with anyone, from any segment of society. I’d always been athletic, smart, and cool. But I could tell there was nothing I could do that would impress these two.

  “I was at the river yesterday, too,” I said. “I need to hear from you two what happened before your cousin fell into the river.”

  “He didn’t fall,” Trey said. “He was pushed.”

  “You’re the guy who told the cops to shoot us,” Randy said.

  I sighed and looked at Ed Mann before addressing his kids.

  “I didn’t mean for him to really shoot you. All I wanted was for you guys to stop interfering with my attempts to do CPR on Cody. I’m sorry I phrased it that way—I didn’t mean it literally. And I’m really sorry about what happened to your cousin.”

  Neither of them replied. Both boys were glaring at me with more than the usual teenage hostility. Randy, the big one, was older and fatter than his brother. In fact, he was probably heavier than his dad. I knew he was fourteen years old, but he looked even older than that. He had a spiky flattop hairdo but wore it long in back, a country style known as a mullet or the Missouri Compromise. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of saggies big enough for a cow. Trey was still skinny and two years younger, but he was groomed and dressed about the same. They were each seated on their own beds.

  I spotted a rocking chair under a pile of clothes. After surreptitiously patting it for sharp objects, I sat down on top of the clothes and took out my pad.

  “Okay. What were you guys doing by the river?”

  They looked at their dad, who remained in the doorway with his arms folded, before deciding to answer me.

  “Riding our bikes,” Randy said.

  “We were grounded from riding our four-wheelers,” Trey added.

  “You were riding along the highway?”

  “Yeah.”

  Their dad said menacingly, “You guys better have been staying on the shoulder.”

  “We were, Dad,” Trey, the younger brother, whined. “We were just riding into town to hang out. We took a break on that big rock above the river. You can sometimes see the rafts coming through the rapids. We saw one coming down.”

  “So you stayed and watched?”

  Trey looked at big brother Randy, who, after a moment’s reflection, nodded permission for him to answer.

  “Yeah. There was the long-hair from the outdoor store in it and a couple of tourons.”

  “Did you yell anything at them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you throw anything at them?”

  Trey gave Randy another glance. Randy didn’t nod this time. Instead he was staring back at his little bro.

  “Did you throw anything, Trey?” I asked again.

  He looked back at me.

  “Nah. We were tossing some rocks in the water, but we didn’t throw anything near the raft.”

  “How about you, Randy? Did you or Cody throw anything at the raft?”

  Randy stared at me before answering.

  “What are you accusing us for? It was that tourist fucker that killed Cody.”

  “Randy!” his dad snapped.

  I assumed that this was a house where corporal punishment wasn’t unknown. I wouldn’t have minded a demonstration, but I reminded myself that these boys had just lost their friend and cousin.

  “Listen, you guys, I’m building a criminal case against that tourist, a guy named Jonah Strasburg. To do that, I need you and your brother to tell me everything that happened. If you did throw some rocks, I need to know. You won’t get in any trouble for it.”

  Mr. Mann, though, disagreed. “You better not have been chucking rocks at people,” he said. Which didn’t help me get them to admit what I was pretty sure was the truth.

  “We weren’t throwing rocks at nobody. We dropped some in the river, but nowhere near the tourons.”

  I considered asking their dad if I could talk to them alone, but decided to drop it. Without Dad standing by they probably would just tell me to stuff it.

  It took a while, but I finally got the rest of their sanitized version. For no reason at all, the “skinny tourist dude” had gotten out of the raft, charged up the slope to the top of the rock, and started yelling at them. They thought he was crazy, that he might attack them. Cody picked up a stick to defend himself. The tourist went crazy and shoved him off the cliff.

  It was bullshit, and I tried one last time to get them to admit it.

  “Do you know how he got a cut on his ear?” I’d seen the small wound, and Jonah had told me that it was Cody striking him with the stick.

  But the kids just shrugged sullenly. Realizing I’d probably gotten all I could out of them—enough certainly to make Luke happy—I wanted out of there. The whole case, their attitudes, and the terrible music, were beyond grating.

  I wondered if my brother and I had ever been this obnoxious. The answer was probably yes. I remembered the music that had influenced us, from our clothes to our attitudes—Led Zeppelin, the Clash, Suicidal Tendencies. We’d shaved our heads to create Mohawks and torn the sleeves from all our T-shirts. It was a wonder our folks hadn’t resorted to some serious corporal punishment themselves.

  Who knows—things might have turned out better for Roberto and me if they had.

  When I was done, or, more accurately, had given up, Ed Mann led me back downstairs. The bedroom door slammed behind me and the music cranked way up.

  Out on the porch, I guiltily made the usual police suggestion to potential prosecution witnesses, intended to hinder any defense.

  “There may be a defense lawyer or investigator who’ll want to talk to Randy and Trey, too. You can talk to him if you want, but it’s your choice. You don’t have to.”

  Mann took my meaning. He nodded and scratched his chin.

  “Nobody in my family’s going to be talking to anyone who’s trying to get that murderer off.”

  “Like I said, it’s up to you. I’m only telling you that you have a choice because sometimes the defense guys try and make it sound like you have to talk to them.”

  He gave me a bleak smile.

  “Don’t worry, Agent Burns. No one can make me or my boys do anything we don’t want to.”

  Thinking of his bumper stickers and guns, I believed him.

  He added, “Now you tell Luke that I want this asshole from New York prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And beyond.”

  Then he closed the door.

  Relieved to be away from Ed Mann and his young sons and the sullen anger all three shared, I crunched across the gravel toward the informal parking lot/junkyard behind the brake of cottonwoods. It was getting hot. When I’d woken at dawn, it was close to freezing, and now, at only eleven-thirty, the temperature had increased by at least fifty degrees.

  I stepped into the shade the large trees offered, passed between the solid gray trunks, and found two men standing beside the Pig. One of them was leaning against the driver’s door, peering in with hands cupped to the tinted windows. The other one was poking in the cracked rear window with a long stick. I froze for half a second then picked up my pace.

  The one with the stick jerked it out suddenly.

  “Look at that!” he said, holding up the jagged end for the other one to inspect. White wood showed bright where the bark had been stripped from the stick’s tip.

  “Fucker tore it in half!”

  Both of them turned as they heard me coming.

  “Get away from my truck.”

  They looked at each other and grinned.

  “Who do you think you are, man? This piece of
shit’s on our property and we’ll stand wherever we damned well please.”

  So these were the twins I had been warned about. Both of them resembled their mother in height, their father in physique. Only they had enhanced their dad’s whipcord muscles with oversize balloons. It was an artificial enhancement, judging by the red bloom of acne on their shoulders and cheeks—a side effect of steroids. Both were dressed in jeans and tank tops that showed off their ill-gotten muscles as well as long, skinny necks and thighs. To me they looked ridiculous—all meaty delts, twin slabs of pecs, and bulging biceps. Nothing that would do them any good in any conceivable sport or occupation. Both had short brown hair. The only thing that distinguished the two was that one had a scraggly soul patch on his lower lip and the other had an upside-down horseshoe mustache.

  I pushed between Hairlip and Horseshoe and looked through the two inches of open window. Mungo was crouched inside, her yellow eyes slitted. She was growling, but when she saw me she stopped and licked at her clenched and exposed white teeth. She didn’t appear to be hurt.

  “I’m a cop. And you better not have hurt my dog.”

  I walked around the truck so that I wouldn’t have to open the door with the two brothers at my back. On the other side, I unlocked and opened the door. Mungo stayed where she was, lips still raised and muzzle pointed like a gun at the men on the other side of the glass.

  “We didn’t hurt her, man. Just trying to see what kind of dog it is.”

  “And that ain’t no fucking dog.”

  “You okay, Mungo?” I asked, reaching between the seats and patting her hip.

  Mungo licked her fangs again but didn’t take her eyes off the opposite window. I took that for a yes. I slammed the door shut.

  “She’s a shepherd-malamute mix. You want to know anything about her, just ask me. Don’t try to spear her.”

  “That’s a wolf, man. I know a wolf when I see it. Shot two of them from my snow machine last year.”

  I stared across the hood at the one who’d said this. Hairlip. He was grinning broadly.

  “Oh yeah? Did you report it to the Feds?”

  “Nope.”

  “Too bad. I might. Shooting an endangered species is a felony.”

  His grin widened.

  “Too bad you don’t have any evidence, pig. I know the law, and a ’criminating statement don’t mean shit unless you got something to back it up with.”

  Well, he did know the law. From much experience on the wrong side, no doubt. I could threaten to execute a warrant based on his admission and I’d bet I would find the hides hanging proudly somewhere. But I wasn’t going to stand there and dance with these muscle boys. I had other things I needed to do.

  I walked back around the bumper toward them and had to reach between them to open the driver’s door. When I tried to pull it open, Horseshoe caught and held it with his hand. He kept me from opening it all the way.

  “What’s your name? I’d like to know the name of a guy who thinks he can bust me for shooting vermin,” said Hairlip.

  Still holding the handle, I said, “It’s Antonio Burns.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a spic name. And you look like a spic.”

  I didn’t say anything. I wanted to pull my gun. It was on my right side, in its plastic paddle holster, clipped to the inside of my belt, just underneath the silk-lined fold of my suit coat. I knew how smooth and quick it would come out. But I also knew the trouble that simple, enticing action would cause. An incident report. Complaints. A lack of cooperation from the grieving Mann family. I couldn’t afford any more trouble.

  “You the wetback who was at the river where Cody got killed?” Hairlip asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I guess I expected some grudging appreciation then, even a curt thanks, for what I’d done to try to save their cousin. For risking my ass by swimming down into that sink. But I was mistaken. The one holding the door lowered his head so that his face was very close to mine.

  “You make damn sure that fucker gets the chair. You understand? Else you’re going to have to answer to us, spic.”

  Mungo chose that moment to launch herself at the rear seat’s window. Her teeth hit the glass with a crack that made my own teeth ache. I pulled on the handle hard, surprising Horseshoe, the one holding it, some more with the strength with which I yanked. He was already off-balance from Mungo’s sudden lunge and my jerk smacked the door into his hip. It made him stumble and fall. The other brother, Hairlip, leapt away from the truck, as if the big animal might somehow fit herself through the little two-inch-wide opening.

  I hopped in, barely waited for the engine to catch, and tapped down on the accelerator. The Pig rolled forward fast enough to be out of their reach, but not so fast as to look like I was fleeing in terror. One brother took a couple of quick steps and attempted to kick the rear gate. Watching him in the rearview mirror, I goosed the accelerator harder this time. Twin rooster tails of gravel shot into the air, sending both brothers reeling and adding pocks to their already pockmarked skin.

  I was rewarded with a total of four upraised middle fingers through the lingering cloud of dust. Some shouted epithets, too.

  “Nice move, Mungo.”

  I grinned at her in the rearview mirror and she seemed to be grinning back.

  Nice move, Ant. It had been fun, but I knew I would have more trouble from the elder Mann brothers.

  fourteen

  Instead of escaping the rising heat and running for my high canyon camp for another bout with Moriah, I drove slowly back toward town. There were a couple more interviews I needed to do, a little more investigating. Then, I hoped, I could put everything behind me—Badwater, politics, my slippery grasp on my job, the good man I’d jailed, and the taste of snowmelt on a dead boy’s lips.

  Badwater Adventures was located, appropriately, on a bank of the river just outside of town. I pulled into a parking space and paused with the air conditioner blowing to write down the statements of the younger Mann brothers, including a brief and self-serving account of my run-in with the twins. Elder Mann bros approached as RO (reporting officer) exited the property. Bros appeared angry and aggressive. RO entered vehicle and left premises to avoid a confrontation. I wanted to document everything, but I wasn’t going to mention that the brothers suspected that I was in possession of an illegal “predatory” animal. Nor was I going to mention intentionally pelting them with rooster tails of gravel. I was still trying like hell to avoid any of this from coming back to haunt me.

  Given my luck, of course, this was an absurd fantasy.

  The store looked like a ramshackle log cabin from the outside. Inside, it was big and brightly lit, jam-packed with everything you might need for nonmotorized play in the Wyoming outdoors. There were racks of clothes and kayaks and skis, hooks from the ceiling that suspended ropes and assorted climbing gear, and shelves of guidebooks and instructional texts. Covering the walls were posters of mountains and rivers and the hardy, attractive people who conquered them.

  Pete the Guide was the only one manning the floor. He was everything you’d expect a river guide to be—big and tan, with blond hair that was pushed back except for where one curly lock lay across his forehead. Three middle-aged tourist women were chatting with him, flirtatiously debating whether they should sign up for a river trip.

  Pete looked my way and gave me a nod that said, Be with you in a sec, dude. I idled by a glass counter that displayed Big Bros and Number 5 Camalots, wondering whether I had enough gear for Moriah. The $75 price of the big cams convinced me that indeed I did. That money would be better spent on the real Moriah’s educational trust, where I was putting every spare penny.

  Behind the counter of climbing protection, there was a faded poster that caught my eye. It showed a shirtless man with longish black hair sitting precariously on a ledge no more than a foot wide. A thousand or more sheer-to-overhanging feet below him was a gray smear of broken stone—I recognized it by the color of the rock as the Black Canyon of
the Gunnison. It was not an unusual big wall photo except for two things: There were no ropes in view, not even a harness, and the smile on the man’s face and the bright blue light of his eyes gave the distinct sensation of rapture. The caption in the corner read: “The notorious Roberto Burns letting it all hang out, free solo on the Stoned Oven, V 5.11d.”

  I’d never seen this one before. I quickly turned away. The photographer had captured too perfectly how I always pictured my brother in my head—and nothing like the way he’d looked since his accident.

  The three ladies walked out, tittering over Pete and casting little waves back at him. I was the only one left in the shop.

  He bounded over and stuck out his hand like he meant it.

  “You’re the guy who went in the river.”

  I nodded and told him my name and occupation.

  “That was ballsy, dude. Very ballsy. I’ve seen that river real low, and knew there was a big-ass sink there. We call it Satan’s Suck. You have to avoid it like herpes in low water. But yesterday, it was totally invisible. I saw you heading that way and tried to shout a warning. Next time I looked, you were just gone, dude.”

  “Thanks anyway, for trying to warn me.”

  “Poor kid.” He shook his noble head, an awkward but probably well-meant attempt at concealing his natural enthusiasm. “Never even came up for a breath. The Suck just grabbed him. Took him down.”

  “I need to ask you some questions about what happened.”

  After getting his full name, address, and birth date, I started with how he’d first met Jonah and Mattie.

  He told me they’d come in yesterday morning, apparently just looking around like those ladies. They’d seen the river posters on the walls, and Mattie asked how much to do a float trip. It was a nice day, and Pete didn’t want to be indoors, so he’d offered to take them right then for half price. The girl had agreed, but the boyfriend, Jonah, seemed pretty reluctant. Still, he’d signed the releases, and Pete had called for another girl to come in and take over the shop for the day. They’d headed out. His roommate had dropped them off at a put-in twelve miles upstream.