Cut You Down

by Sam Wiebe

  HES BACK IN TOWN, was the message.

  L H C

  YES

  HE CALLED YOU

  YES

  FOR WHAT?

  A minute’s hesitation. We were back in the car now. I dialed up a question mark to emphasize my last point, HOW DO YOU KNOW?, but before I could send it Essex beat me to it.

  HE PHONED. HE TOLD ME HES GOING TO KILL YOU.

  A minute ticked by, and then the last text she sent.

  BOTH OF YOU.

  Thirty-Nine

  Two years ago I’d done Vancouver legwork on a custodial interference case, daddy grabs junior and ducks over the border. I was some small help to the Pierce County Sheriff’s. Deputy Kim Farraday remembered me, and agreed when I told him I needed the favor repaid.

  He met us at a strip mall, in the window booth of a Seattle’s Best. Kim Farraday was at least fifty, and cultivated the look of a retired soldier: silver mustache and swept-back silver-white hair. He wore slacks and a gray blazer cut to mask his shoulder holster.

  “You two got no idea where this lady is, uh?” Farraday’s voice was surprisingly high-pitched and carried the hint of a drawl. “She’s not necessarily in Tacoma.”

  I showed him the texts. When he returned the phone his hands rested on the table, grasping his takeaway cup.

  “You said this Crowhurst is for real and I’ll take your word on that. Now I can run you two back up to the border and see you across safe. I can look into this Crowhurst, find out what I can.”

  I said, “The last person I asked to do that is studying his guts in a hospital bed.”

  Farraday nodded slightly, as if conceding a point. “I don’t much like knives,” he said. “Don’t know how it works up north, but here, a fellow comes at you with a knife, you put him down. When I worked for the Wisconsin State Patrol I had a ticketing go wrong. Passenger came at me with a screwdriver. I told him stop, told him I’d shoot. His choice.” He looked over at Sonia. “You’re on the job. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I found out recently,” she said.

  He waited for her to elaborate, but she only stared into her coffee.

  “What kind of evidence is there on this Crowhurst?”

  “Scant,” Sonia said. “Nothing the police would hold him on.”

  “Now that depends. There’s ways to find something, if you just want him off the street for a couple days.”

  Sonia shook her head. “Delaying the inevitable.”

  “I guess I’m not sure exactly what you want,” Farraday said.

  “We have to find Dana Essex,” I said. “If we find her we can convince her to put Crowhurst on the spot for the Sorenson murder. That ends it.”

  “Finding people’s your specialty,” Farraday said. “I’d be more inclined to visit this Crowhurst, have a talk with him. What are you thinking?”

  “Essex could be anywhere,” I admitted, “but I think she was on the level. Which means wherever she is now, she started from here.”

  “Only so many hotels,” Farraday said. “You could probably run ’em all down in a couple hours. Meantime I’ll check out this Crowhurst’s place, see what I can see.”

  Sonia and I agreed.

  “You kids carrying?”

  “I have my baton,” Sonia said. “Pepper spray.”

  “Wits and personality,” I said.

  “Can’t have you empty-handed.”

  We followed him out to his Wrangler. He’d parked where he could see his truck from the window, and as he dropped the tailgate I saw why. A pair of pump shotguns, an AR-15, a Colt Python and a palm-sized .22. A fireaxe, machete, rope, and sundry other tools filled the cargo space.

  “Pick your poison,” he said.

  I tapped the lid of the Python’s lockbox. Farraday looked almost reluctant. “My favorite,” he said. “If the shoulder rig wasn’t so damn ungainly, that’d be my carry weapon.”

  “We get stopped with this, it’s a crime,” I said to Sonia. “Could cost you your job.”

  She thought it over, then picked up the case.

  “Better than the alternative,” she said.

  Forty

  The strip of highway near the Emerald Queen Casino boasted seven motels. Even the run-down flops with their antiquated neon signs had modernized the check-in process, requiring credit cards and photo ID. We drew nothing on Dana Essex’s name and another nothing on her photograph.

  I wondered if she’d changed her appearance. If your natural look is nondescript, what do you change it to?

  The sixth place we visited was especially run-down, and had the look of being stalled in mid-renovation. The neon letters on the roof spelled out U N K I N. A half-dozen canary-yellow Town Cars were parked near the front door. Police auction specials. It looked as if the owners were starting a taxi company, too, their ambition outrunning repairs.

  The lobby was a tiny box stuffed with cab paraphernalia, meters, and roof lights. The clerk had spread a newspaper across the front desk and held a soldering iron in one hand. He looked up and smiled. “Welcome to the Sun King,” he said. “A single?”

  I told him I was looking for a woman named Dana Essex. He consulted his ancient computer and said there was no one registered by that name, now, yesterday, ever.

  I sidled up to the desk, held up my cell phone with her photo displayed. The shot from the Surrey Polytech faculty website. “She’s maybe not using her real name,” I said. “You insist on credit card?”

  He shrugged. “Slow economy,” he said. “But I did not see her today. My son works the mornings. I can ask him.”

  He picked up the phone, pressed a single digit, and had a quick back and forth with someone in Hindi. A moment later a drowsy younger man in a checked shirt entered from the front door.

  “Sanjay,” he said. We shook hands.

  I showed Sanjay the picture. He squinted and pawed sleep dust out of his eyes, looked again and nodded. “What’s this for?”

  “She’s in danger,” I said. “She might’ve been using a different name.”

  Moving behind his father Sanjay tapped the mouse and scrolled down. “Darby Robinson,” he said. “She booked a room early this morning. Paid up front in cash.”

  “She still here?”

  He shook his head.

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “I drove her,” Sanjay said. “Train station, other end of the city.” He checked his watch. “Eleven fifteen I dropped her, right before I went to sleep.”

  “Did she have a train ticket? Did she talk about her destination?”

  “Nothing like that. I had to wake my pops to cover the desk while I drove.” Gesturing to include the motel and cab service, he said, “We’re just starting out. Things are slow. Have to take business as it comes. You’re not police, are you?”

  “Vancouver PD,” Sonia said. “It’s important that we find her. Do you remember if anyone visited with her, or maybe asked about her?”

  Father and son conferred, both shaking their heads.

  “Anything else weird about her stay here?” I asked.

  Sanjay thought it over. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Anything helps.”

  “It’s just, she gave me an address to drive to, originally. Then when we got there she changed her mind, told me the train station instead. That’s where I dropped her.”

  “This first place was a residence?”

  “Restaurant, I think. Close to the water. Not all that far from the train.”

  “Any chance you can recall that address?”

  Sanjay looked at the stacks of gear on the shelves opposite the desk. He picked up a GPS unit and fished a cable out of a margarine tub full of stray wires. Plugging the device into the wall, he tapped down, retrieving the last few addresses. His father had gone back to soldering.

  “Here.” Sanjay held out the device. 416 Eldridge. I copied it down.

  “If she comes back, let us know immediately,” Sonia said.

  “We don
’t like to get involved,” Sanjay’s father said. But his son nodded to us above the older man’s head.

  We headed to the train station to show around her picture, to no result. The ticket agents had no record of a Dana Essex or Darby Robinson. The earliest train left at one, an hour after she was supposed to call us. It was past that now, almost three o’clock.

  “Maybe she picked up something from that address,” I said.

  “Or met someone there. Crowhurst, maybe.”

  Sonia punched the address into her cell. A picture of a restaurant with a purple awning appeared on the screen.

  “Could be she skipped out before meeting him,” I said. “Had second thoughts.”

  “It’s worth checking out, at least.”

  We called Farraday from the parking lot to let him know where we were headed. Before I could speak, he cut me off.

  “I might have something here,” he said. I could hear dogs barking on his end.

  “Where are you?”

  The phone burped static. I repeated the question.

  “Sammamish,” Farraday said. “Near Redmond. Just drove up to Crowhurst’s place, and it looks like there’s a woman inside.”

  Forty-One

  Crowhurst’s property was a half acre of muddy and overgrown land, outside the city of Redmond and far from its prosperous industrial parks and software companies. The house was a two-story colonial, mossy and paint-stripped. A second building had been thrown up, sided with corrugated aluminum, one dirty window and a salvaged door. The husk of a wrecked muscle car, a Torino or Galaxie, separated the two buildings.

  We found Farraday parked on the gravel road leading off from the highway. He was talking with a blonde woman in sleeveless black denim and enough silver pendants for a mall kiosk. A pair of rambunctious dalmatians had been locked in the back of her minivan, and she leaned against the vehicle, posture defensive, arms crossed. The conversation broke off as we approached.

  “This is Mr. Wakeland and Ms. Drego,” Farraday said to the woman.

  “More of you,” she said. “You’re just making a bigger molehill outta this.”

  Farraday said to us, “This is Arlene Crowhurst. Henry’s sister.”

  “And landlord, as I was explaining.” She shook a cigarette out of a pack of Dunhills, mostly it seemed to give her hands something to set fire to and her teeth something to gnaw. “Henry doesn’t own this place. He pays what he can. Sometimes he pays for three or four months up front. One time he paid for ten.”

  Her match burned out and she swore. Farraday held his lighter cupped for her to use. “Your brother ever gripe about his job to you?” he asked.

  “He works in a warehouse,” Arlene Crowhurst said.

  “Doing what, ’zactly?”

  “Drives a pallet jack, forklift, that kind of thing. Keeps inventory. Why?”

  Sonia said, “We’re worried your brother is involved in a dangerous situation. We’d like to take a look around his place.”

  “That’s up to Henry.”

  “Actually it’s up to you,” Sonia said, “you being his landlord and these being exceptional circumstances. You can observe us.”

  “Otherwise we gotta go through official channels, get us a warrant and whatnot,” Farraday added. “This way’s easier on all of us.”

  Arlene Crowhurst relented. She led us up the gravel road, over the chain strung between two posts that barred the driveway, and onto the porch.

  “You’ll have to take your shoes off out front,” she told us, before unlocking the front door.

  Nothing about the house was flat or square or true. The hallway was a ramp leading down a good two inches, the floorboards sunken and warped, a minefield of knotholes and nails. Hell with taking off my shoes. Runs and water damage beneath the paint in the living room. An antique television set, a VCR, stacks of cassette tapes in blue plastic cases. I opened a couple. Barb Wire, Bloodsport, The Birdcage. Stickers on the tapes—MONTY’S MOVIES AND ONE DAY DRYCLEANING and BE KIND PLEASE REWIND. No cable hookup. A recliner and a garbage bag full of takeout wrappers, a slashed-up can of High Life repurposed as an ashtray.

  Smoke hung in the air, the pungent, woody smell of pipe smoke. It seemed to cling to the walls, yellowing the furniture, masking other smells. I recalled Blatchford’s description—wet coals after a beach fire.

  “I had no idea,” Arlene Crowhurst said. She seemed more ashamed than worried.

  “What’s your brother like?” I asked.

  She’d picked up the trash bag, squashed down its contents, dumped out the makeshift ashtray.

  “He’s a good man, though he’s had his share of troubles. Shy, not very social. Some people think he’s slow, but it’s just how he is around people.”

  “No close friends, girlfriend?”

  “Shy,” she repeated.

  The other rooms were similarly foul. One greasy coffee cup lay in the kitchen sink among a collection of dishware and utensils. Several knives but nothing incriminating. I drew one out and held it up. The handle was cheap chipped plastic but the blade itself had been honed.

  “May we see the shed?” I asked.

  We came out the back door, over a patch of waterlogged ground. Crowhurst had laid down car mats to create a path.

  The shed door was padlocked. Arlene Crowhurst tried every key on the small ring but none fit. She held the keychain up by its orange plastic Husqvarna fob. “This is all he gave me,” she said.

  I tried the door but it was solid, the hinges and latch rusty but strong. I looked at the window, reached a palm up to the pane and slid. It opened an inch and caught. Tiptoeing to look inside, I could see a twig propped into the window’s trough. Before Arlene Crowhurst could say anything, I put two hands on the window and rammed it. The twig bowed and broke. With the window open I looked at Sonia.

  “Alley oop,” I said.

  Farraday was speaking in a placating tone to Arlene Crowhurst. “Better to know now, clear up any confusion. Scandalous times we live in, where absence of proof can be proof of guilt. This way, least we know what we know.”

  I formed my hands into a stirrup and helped Sonia up to the window. The interior was dark and as she dropped through she seemed to vanish. Brown-gray dust roiled and danced through the open window.

  “Light,” she called from inside.

  Farraday passed me a penlight. I reached through the window and felt Sonia’s fingers grasp at my own. She took the light and played it over the walls.

  “Some kind of workshop,” she said.

  Rusty tools hung from spikes on the pegboard walls. A wooden workbench and vise. Aluminum garbage cans, dented lids shut tight.

  I heard Sonia exhale, the sound of muted frustration and horror so common with cops.

  “Skins,” she said, “hanging off a hook on the door. Maybe a half-dozen.”

  “Animal?”

  “Deer, I think. They’re moldy.”

  “His co-workers hunt,” Arlene Crowhurst said. “I think they bring the animals here for him to butcher. Not a crime, is it?”

  “’Course not,” Farraday said. “I got a good-sized bighorn last season.”

  “Freezer,” Sonia called out. “Meat inside.” I heard a screech as she pried up a garbage lid. Sound of revulsion as she peered inside. “Help me get the hell out of here, Dave.”

  I held out my hands and she took them and walked up the wall. Crouched on the sill before dropping down onto the soggy grass.

  “Now we know,” Arlene Crowhurst said. She and Farraday started across to the kitchen. I closed the window and wiped my palmprint from the glass, removing all trace of our presence.

  I hung back with Sonia as she breathed, hands on her knees.

  “It’s all dirty,” she said. “All the meat had spoiled. I don’t think the freezer was even plugged in.”

  “So you’re not hungry?” I asked.

  “Ugh.”

  “Maybe we should stop for some nice rare veal, huh? Maybe some haggis?”

 
; “Ech.”

  “Or what’s that British breakfast, fried pig’s blood? Black pudding? Maybe some steak and kidney pie?”

  She bent over and clutched her stomach. “I’m going to murder you so badly,” she said.

  Forty-Two

  In the kitchen, nursing a beer, Arlene Crowhurst explained that her brother’s murder charge had been just one of those things. People were always provoking him. A shy, shambling outcast. I held up a kitchen knife and asked if her brother had a fondness for blades.

  “This used to be our farm,” she said. “This and the two properties nearby. When our daddy died we parceled it out to pay off the mortgage and his debts. Well, I parceled it out. Henry was in jail by then.”

  “When you owned the farm,” I said, “he did the butchering?”

  “We all did. But yeah, he would’ve done more since he wasn’t at school.”

  “Any violent behavior prior to his murder charge?”

  “Nothing unusual. Once he got in a fight over me, sticking up for me against a bully named Tommy Riordan. He lived a few miles east, closer to the school. He used to pinch and grope me. I told Henry and Henry made him stop.”

  “He beat him up?”

  “Badly,” she said, smiling a little at the memory. “Knocked out two of his teeth. He gave them to me and said, ‘Arlene, he ever does that again, I’ll bring you the full set.’”

  “Where’s your brother at now?” Farraday asked. “Any idea what his schedule’s like, when he’ll be home?”

  “He works on the receiving dock, Goldschmitt & Goldschmitt Logistics.” Holding up her cell phone she said, “I made him give me the number in case of emergency.” Sonia wrote it down.

  “There was a killing ’cross the border up in Vancouver,” Farraday said. He nodded in our direction. “These folks are looking into it. Young girl embezzled some money, found with her throat slit. A third party has implicated your brother.”

  Sonia had ducked out the back door to try the number. Arlene Crowhurst left her half-finished beer on the edge of the sink. Her hands covered her mouth.

  “Henry’s not capable of that,” she said. “Not against a woman, especially.”