On Location

by Elizabeth Sims

  "I found the carbons in another file, I guess Leland must've forgot about them or thought they weren't kept very long. I found that somebody had funneled money from the sale-leaseback of ten thousand acres of timber in Oregon into a blind account in—ding!—Switzerland. I thought that was really glamorous, and obviously unusual, and I'd put the carbons in my notebook to show my dad and I was sitting there pondering it when Leland came running in, and from his face I knew he'd done it. The total amount was about eighty thousand dollars, which was a nice chunk of change back then. Starter money for something. Nice chunk of change now, for that matter."

  "Then," said George, "he wanted to be your friend."

  "He wanted to be my friend in the worst way!" Kenner laughed, savoring the memory. "I didn't know how to leverage what I knew, so I just kept my mouth shut and remembered something my dad told me: 'Information is power, and he that's got the most will always win.' There were times when I half-forgot about those ledger sheets."

  "But eventually you decided to act on them."

  "Yeah. I waited until I needed Leland for something big."

  "Your film?"

  "The time was right."

  "Showed some patience there."

  "I always was mature for my age."

  Through all this, even when he laughed, Kenner's eyes were cold, un-animated. They were, I realized, the eyes of a sociopath. He was exactly like the self-justifying killers on the TV programs: always coolly insisting on their innocence, endlessly, tirelessly writhing to find a way out even when on a cellblock.

  George said, "Come on, Kenner, the film was your excuse to move on something you'd wanted to do for a long time: eliminate your family for the money."

  "You're wrong, no, no, it's not like that at all."

  "Knowing the esteem Leland was held in by your mother, I guess he was easy to blackmail."

  Kenner smiled wryly. "Oh, he got right on board! He told me how strapped he was personally, and we—we sort of teamed up."

  "My God," marveled George.

  After a pause, Kenner said, "Leland was already working on even better ideas for getting money out of Silver Coast than I could dream of."

  "Did they include murdering your brother and mother?"

  "I didn't kill anybody. You'll never put that on me."

  I thought George was going to strangle him, but he said, "Joey Preston," still in Kenner's face, as if he wished his words were shotgun pellets, "it's time to tell us. Did you kill Lance de Sauvenard?"

  "I did not! Oh, Lord, I did not!"

  "Then who did? You were there!"

  "Oh, Lord a-mighty!" He lifted his face to the rafters, to his God out there in the howling, scouring storm.

  George shouted, "You can't protect him anymore! What happened to your father? What happened between you and Gilbert Boyd the day Kenner de Sauvenard showed up at your gas station?"

  "Oh," moaned Joey, squeezing his temples.

  "It's all going to come out anyway," said George.

  "He'll kill me," said Joey.

  "Who—your dad?"

  "No, Kenner! He swore he'd kill me if—"

  "He's not gonna kill anybody!" George gave Kenner an extra shake, like a dog with a barn rat, to prove it.

  Joey said, "That's easy for you to say. I can't protect myself!"

  "Agh!" cried Kenner.

  "Here," said Alger, handing Joey the knife George had kicked out of Kenner's hand—Lance's knife. He did this seriously, almost ceremonially, holding the blade with his fingertips and presenting the handle across his arm.

  Joey took the knife and seemed to relax.

  Boy, I thought, talk about the thin veneer of civilization. A stick, a stone, a knife: a village.

  What happened next proved it even further: as George gave Kenner that shake, he must have let up on his grip. A man in captivity will always be ready for an opportunity, half-assed though it may be.

  Kenner wrenched himself free. As George reacted with a gasp, Kenner was already in the anteroom; his boots bam-klunk-bam as he bolted out the door. The storm raised its voice, then the door banged shut.

  "Let him go," said George. "He won't last long out there by himself; he's going to have to walk all night to keep from freezing. There's no way we'd track him in this weather anyway."

  "Artists like to have experiences," I noted helpfully.

  George put his hands on his hips. "I hope he enjoys this one."

  Chapter 31 – Joey Mans Up

  It took Joey Preston only a few minutes to tell us what we needed to know about the plot against Lance de Sauvenard. "No use holding out now," he said. "Kenner came up here like you said, three or four weeks ago. Says you look like you've seen better days. H'h, look at me, I'm a grease-monkeyin', deer-trackin', halibut-fishin' son of a bitch. I never had better days. Got my dirty coveralls on, he's there in his clothes. In his car. Mercedes diesel, says it's been modified to run on kitchen grease! That guy could afford any kind of fuel he wanted for that thing! I go what's up? He tells me—Joey's voice hushed down with genuine, sad horror. "Says remember little Lance, the bastard? His own brother he calls that name. I remembered Lance all right. Yeah, he made fun of me and I never liked him. Well, Alger, you were there. He destroyed me in this town, you want to know the full truth. He sent—that girl in town—those pictures of me."

  Joey Preston shifted his hips in his bunk and hiked himself a little straighter. "How do you get over something like that when people don't let you forget it, all the way through school, all the way beyond school, up to the present day? Here we are, still talking about it! Kenner says well, now's your chance at him. He's gonna come through here in a little while, few days, a week from now."

  "What did you say?" asked George.

  "I told him I thought about Lance de Sauvenard most days."

  "Kenner offered you money."

  "Hunnerd thousand now, hunnerd thousand later. You won't believe me."

  "I'll believe you." George was standing with his fists on his hips, planted in the center of the room so manly and intelligent. Petey mirrored his body language.

  "I says no." Joey's eyes were soft and wondering. "I can't kill a man for any reason. I hunt for food, not for pleasure."

  "All right," said George.

  "But Truck overheard our talk. Always did try to make my business his."

  "Yeah?"

  "Too much of a novelty, this stranger comin' through, he sneaks up behind the bushes to listen. Kenner leaves, he says who was that? I tell him Kenner de Sauvenard. Oooh, a de Sauvenard! In that case you're an idiot, he tells me. 'N' why's that? Because we can all benefit from you doin' somethin' you do every fall anyways. What's the goddamn difference? He puts his face right in mine, and you know he doesn't look so good since that accident with the rabbit gun. Kind of made me sick to look at him, tell you the truth. He says, hell, what's there to it? You track it, you get it in your crosshairs, you pull the trigger. Only this way, you don't have to field dress it, quarter it, and hump it to the road! You don't eat it, but you're set for life! I says two hunnerd grand isn't necessarily set for life. Truck says you don't do it, I will. You'll do bullcrap, I says. We argued pretty hard over it."

  Joey wiped his face with the sleeve of his counselor-sized Camp Saskee-wee-wit T-shirt, twisting the sleeve in one hand and ducking his face to it.

  "I thought that was the end of it, but sure enough, here comes Lance and his woman, just like Kenner said. Couple weeks later. Everybody stops at our place, you know, especially city people, they see those woods ahead. I see the look in Truck's eyes and I go to Lance, you know, there's dangerous beings in these woods. Tried to warn him. He didn't get it."

  George said, "So Lance and Gina take off into the forest. Your dad goes after them?"

  "Not until a couple days later. We argued some more. Looking back on it, I'm pretty sure Truck got right on the phone to track down Kenner, to cut his own deal with him."

  "Yeah," said George, "he got in touch with Kenner b
efore Lance showed up. He opened accounts at twenty banks, from Harkett to Bainbridge."

  "OK, that's what he was doin' instead of fishing, then."

  George said, "Then Kenner got this Leland Harris from Seattle to deposit five thousand dollars in each one."

  Joey said, "One thing, Truck's not stupid. He's a chump, but he's not stupid. All that money in one place'd make people talk."

  "What's a chump?" asked Petey from my hip.

  "Quiet, honey," I said.

  "A chump," answered Joey Preston kindly, "is a guy who sells off his dignity."

  I began to like Joey Preston.

  "What happened at the gorge?" prompted George.

  "Well, you know Lance had got a head start into the woods. He got mixed up with Bonechopper's gang, I'm sure that was quite the sidelight for him. Time Truck caught up with him, I'd caught up with Truck. If I'd been one minute later it would've been over. There were the three of us having it out on the lip of the Harkett gorge. I knew Truck hadn't taken his gun along; I wondered why. I think Kenner told him not to use a gun, wanted the death to seem like an accident."

  "Yeah, I see," said George.

  "He'd already whacked Lance a good one, and Lance was there dazed. On his hands and knees, I remember, trying to clear his head. It all happened pretty fast. I got into it with Truck, tried to walk him away from Lance and calm him down. He caught me off-guard. I really didn't think he'd try to kill me. I thought I could talk to him."

  "But he turned on you?" said George.

  "He had him a club he'd made from a tree branch, and he just whaled me with it, straight to the head. So quick, so sudden, I saw stars. Next thing I know I'm halfway down the gorge, on that ledge, my leg is busted, and I see this—something—flying past my head. It was Lance, screaming. I call to my father to help me. He looks down at me and says Boy, I want you to think about what you just did. Like I'd done something wrong! Well, to him I did, trying to stop him from doing something he wanted to do. I go Truck, help me. He just—turned away. My own real father. That was it."

  "Wow," murmured Petey, without his usual exclamation point.

  Joey said, "I'm gonna hear that scream of Lance's for the rest of my life. Don't seem to bother my sleep, but I think about it."

  I said, "And you've been lying here all these days fighting with your conscience about giving up your father?"

  I noticed that George hadn't quite put himself that far into Joey's shoes yet. He shot a respect-ray in my direction.

  Joey Preston said, "Yes, ma'am, I could've been of some more information to you. I knew you all thought I did it, you and Daniel anyway. I don't blame you. For all you know I'm making this all up right now. Weren't no eyewitnesses, no security cameras out there in the woods. Not yet, anyway. They got 'em in the stoplight in town, I can tell you."

  "I know you're not lying," said George quietly.

  "I gotta admit Truck's not much, leaving me to die on that ledge. But even if he's a true murderer, he's still your father, you know? I was lyin' here hoping—I wouldn't have to give him up. Somehow. I don't know what I was hoping."

  "Joey," I said, "I found a chainsaw in the equipment shed."

  He opened his eyes. "Oh, yeah?"

  "Would you have any idea whose it was?"

  "Gosh, I'd expect there's prob'ly a lot of old junk lying around this—"

  "It wasn't old, it was modern and clean and full of gas and oil. Quite the mystery, I feel."

  "Oh," he said. "Would it be a Stihl brand, by any chance?"

  "With a two-foot bar. Well cared for. Sharp."

  "Oh boy. Well, you caught me."

  "What?"

  Joey twisted his forelock in his fingers. "That's my saw."

  "It is?"

  "Ma'am, you see this camp?" He paused, evidently waiting for me to answer.

  "Yes. Yes, Joey, I see this camp."

  "No, I mean really see it. Truck and I were fixing to dismantle these cabins for their old growth. These beams, haven't you noticed how good they are, how high the ring count is per inch, how solid? The planking too." He gestured.

  "Uh—"

  "This wood is three-hunnerd-year-old Doug fir. The cedar's at least a hunnerd, a hunnerd and fifty, the shakes and shingles outside, in my estimation. Built out of anything else, these cabins would've melted down in ten years. In this climate? I toted that saw in a couple days before this whole business started. Was gonna get going right away, but it started raining so hard I'd have drowned the engine. So I left her."

  "Yeah." I hadn't realized how practically every stick in every cabin was sound, beneath the dust and dead bugs. I should have been amazed at the hardiness of these buildings.

  Joey said, "The moss and lichen on the exterior pieces are nothing, you just scrape that off and get virgin wood. You know how much people in cities pay for this stuff?"

  "You were gonna steal it?" asked Petey, shocked.

  Joey looked at him steadily. "If I left this wood here—well, the way I see it, it'd be criminal to leave it. A real honest-to-God waste."

  "So you'd sell it?" I asked.

  "Yes ma'am, sell it. Truck and I agreed to split whatever we got for it."

  "And you'd do what—buy a new pickup with your share?"

  "Ma'am," Joey answered patiently, "no, not to buy a pickup truck with. I'd—I'd just as soon not say, actually."

  "That's too bad, Joey," I said. "Because we're well past the point where anyone gets to keep any more secrets."

  He cleared his throat and thought for a while. Then he manned himself up. "Well, if I don't tell you, you'll think somethin' bad." He sighed. "You might have noticed how run-down the sheriff's office is."

  "I guess so." I remembered the floor creaking beneath me, and I remembered the disapproving squeak of Deputy Grolech's desk chair.

  "It's just a prefab. Nothing to it. Now I suppose it's a total loss from the flooding. Well, I was gonna make an anonymous donation so they could fix it up. Sheriff Craig, he don't shake down strangers who come through here, so he's got what he's got. Be nice for him and the deputies to have a better place to work out of."

  It hit me. "The deputies." The girl in town. "Deputy Grolech?"

  Joey looked away.

  George looked at me.

  I remembered the sturdy Deputy Olive Grolech and her demi-mullet hairdo, her beefy shoulders, and her ladybug earrings.

  I said, "I think it's lovely of you to want to do something nice for Olive and the other personnel at the sheriffs office."

  He gave me an embarrassed nod of thanks, still in love with Olive Grolech, still too humiliated to even speak her name.

  "Uh, in any event," I told him, "I borrowed your saw."

  "You borrowed my Stihl?"

  Petey's hat moved at my elbow. He took it off to listen, his face lifted to the roof. We all became aware that the storm had slackened. It was quite dark now.

  "What's that?" said my boy, his frequency tuned slightly higher than the rest of ours.

  "Honey, I don't—"

  A searchlight hit the cabin, then our ears and sternums felt the concussion of a gigantic helicopter pulverizing the air directly overhead.

  Petey clutched my legs, but we grown-ups all heaved a collective sigh of relief.

  Chapter 32 – Bertrice's Epiphany; Sheriff Craig Works the Angles

  Bertrice de Sauvenard had never liked Kitty Harris, but at a time like this, you bake something and take it over. Yes, even though one could afford to send anything, a homemade nut bread or a meat loaf delivered personally carries human warmth. The little things.

  She put the foil-wrapped meat loaf in the Harrises' cavernous fridge.

  Kitty was sitting on one of her white couches staring knob-shoulderedly through the window at the Space Needle without seeing it.

  Bertrice knew it was too early to say, I know you can't believe this now, but it will get easier with time. It will.

  The circumstances were just too bizarre, just too impossible. So she s
imply took the stunned Kitty's elfin hand and sat holding it.

  "Why?" said Kitty. "Why?"

  She'd lived a night of hell and looked it, that first wave of shock and grief. It was barely eleven in the morning now; the family hadn't gotten in yet.

  Why? was a question Bertrice de Sauvenard certainly could not answer, though she could take a pretty goddamned good guess. Why indeed would someone wait next to Leland Harris's car in the Silver Coast parking garage last night, shoot him five times in the chest, then cut out his tongue and toss it on the hood of his Jaguar?

  Robbery had evidently not been a motive.

  "What was he doing at the office on a Sunday night, anyway?" asked Kitty, her voice trembling. She mashed a tissue to her eyes. The tissue box was a silverplate boutique cube that was holding its polish well, under the circumstances. "Not that he isn't dedicated, you know," she added reflexively.

  "I imagine," Bertrice suggested in a gentle tone, "he was working on the hotel in Bangkok, his pet project. They're half a day ahead over there, so he was talking to them on their Monday morning."

  The police were questioning everybody, of course. Bertrice had expressed shock and disbelief. She said nothing about Ivan Platonov or George Rowe; she wouldn't until she had spoken to Rowe. She had not heard from him since he hurried off three days ago.

  The all-sky-blue picture Bertrice had heard of hovered serenely on the wall. Maybe it would give Kitty some comfort, she had wanted it so badly. But for now Kitty sat lost in grief, and Bertrice tried to think of something nice to say about Leland.

  "Leland knew so many ins and outs, business-wise."

  "Mmph," responded Kitty.

  "I remember how good he was to Little Kenner when he came in to do that school project."

  Faintly, Kitty said, "What?"

  "You remember, don't you?—when Little Kenner came in to do a report on Silver Coast for his high school class? I remember him all skinny and nervous in his suit and tie. Big Kenner made a big deal out of it, I remember somebody took pictures, there's even one in the lobby, like mayor-for-a-day. Leland took Kenner to lunch, took him under his wing, and told him all about the company. I would've thought—"