The Wild Inside

by Christine Carbo

  In addition to still searching for the owner of the gun, I was attempting to track down Hess on the east side, but no one had seen him, and he’d checked into no hotels. Other than that, I was climbing the walls. I could hardly be in my cabin without pacing, could hardly focus at headquarters, and I was drinking too much whiskey at night and waking up with massive headaches and shaky hands after having bizarre and dark dreams. On some level, I knew I was coming apart, and a strong voice in my head kept urging me to keep it together.

  My cabin didn’t even have a TV so that I could channel surf and settle on something mindless. Instead, I’d listen to the radio, mostly to National or Montana Public Radio, where I’d catch political pieces on world news, like Afghan talks between Karzai and Taliban leaders to end the war. Or something light, like shows featuring unique African music. I’d lost my appetite completely, and what I did eat was cruddy and devoid of anything nutritious.

  On about day thirteen of the investigation, I was in the office with Monty going over information on Rob Anderson’s computer records to see if there was anything that could corroborate his alibi when Monty read a headline from the local news: “Bear Kills Hunter,” he said.

  I looked up, the clench below my sternum instant.

  “On the Montana–Canadian border,” he offered.

  “Grizzly?

  “Yes.”

  “Bow hunting?”

  “No. Rifle—black-bear hunting. A group of three guys.”

  “The bear?”

  “One of the other hunters killed it.”

  I nodded, heard the tick of the clock and a murmuring of voices down the hall. Monty put the paper down.

  “You know,” he said, pushing his glasses up. “In spite of what you think, I didn’t tell Ford.”

  I nodded, not sure what I wanted to say. I tried to focus on the notes in front of me, then began to say, “You making any headway on—” when Bowman came in, his face flushed from the cold and high energy jumping from him and permeating the stale, dismal room.

  “The slug,” he said. “We’ve got it.”

  Monty and I looked at each other, then back to Bowman. “You’re kidding?”

  “No.” He smiled. “He finally went. And there it was, right among all the grass he’d been eating to form his intestinal plug and a good mix of bits of plastic and shreds of cloth from the victim’s clothes.”

  I stood up. “Where is it?”

  He held up a plastic bag and grinned.

  • • •

  We got the slug immediately to Walsh, who would send it to the ballistics lab in Missoula just as he had the gun. Even though I should have been ecstatic to finally get what I’d been waiting for all this time, I was still on edge. A humming vibration shot up the back of my skull and settled between my ears. Now we had the gun and the bullet, and once we confirmed the match, we would have solid evidence to convict a perpetrator. We just didn’t have our killer yet, and without other leads giving us probable cause to search a suspect, we weren’t going to get much further. The clock was ticking before I would have to head back to Denver to face my fate and let LaMotto take over my case. At least, I thought with relief, the damn grizzly could be released and everyone would be happy, especially Ford.

  In fact, within the hour, I ran into Karen Fortenson, who told me that after the immediate release, a group of rangers were meeting at a bar in the Chalet in West Glacier to celebrate. She invited Monty and me, and I told her I’d try to make it, but I knew I wouldn’t. I had no intention of going to celebrate the grizzly’s release. It’s not that I wasn’t glad to send him on his merry way to the high country. Something just struck me as strange about my attendance at such a function—the kid whose dad was killed by a grizzly—and I was sure word had gotten around, judging by some of the hushed conversations and the furtive glances I was receiving whenever I came into headquarters or walked by any park personnel.

  I had better things to do, like solve a murder.

  Monty, on the other hand, liked the idea and packed up immediately, saying, “I could use a beer and some company.”

  I suppose I was envious, but determined not to show it. I told myself I could use coffee instead and that I needed to get out of Glacier.

  “You should come,” Monty offered.

  “Nah, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Come on.” Monty frowned. “We need a break, and this is the perfect excuse.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.” I packed up my notes as Monty walked out, saying he hoped he’d see me there.

  • • •

  By the time I hopped in the car, I reconsidered. Monty was right; it was something I should do. At the very least, in the most minimal of ways, it would be like getting back on the horse—facing a party for a grizzly around a group of people who knew my history.

  I headed to the little bar in the Chalet in West Glacier, and I could almost feel the atmosphere as I walked through the lot and up the deck stairs toward it. The music blared, and more bodies than I expected stood behind the steamed windows. When I pushed the door open, a waft of warm, steamy air poured over me and again, I was surprised at how many people had shown in the middle of the afternoon. There were women, men, rangers, and park employees I’d never seen. The mood of the crowd was giddy with people singing along with loud music. Bowman casually leaned against the old richly stained wooden bar, laughing loudly with his head tipped back and a mug of beer in his hand. Karen sat next to him, and beside Karen was a big-breasted woman I’d not seen before, talking and giggling at Monty. Ken Greeley and a group of young rangers were conducting some drinking competition with shots of clear liquid and there, in the middle of them, sat Joe, one arm draped languidly over the back of his chair, his eyes bright and happy. A pang shot through me for no good reason. All I could think of was that I wanted that same contentedness that emanated from him in my own life.

  I raised my hand to wave, but he didn’t see me, so instead of trying further to grab his attention, I went to the other end of the bar, away from Bowman, Monty, and crew, and bought Joe the best Scotch they had in stock and watched the bartender carry the drink over and set it on the table in front of him, pointing over to me. Joe raised his chin, smiled, and waved me over, but I shook my head and held up my palm that I was fine.

  I looked down the length of the bar and saw Monty waving me over as well.

  “Glad you could make it.” He grinned and introduced me to Wendy, a secretary at the Chalet who’d just gotten off her shift.

  “Decided you were right.” I gestured at the scene all around. “Is it me or is it a little strange that there’s so much energy over this in the middle of the afternoon among a bunch of strait-laced rangers and Park Police officers? You’d think we solved the case, but apparently the bear was more important.”

  Monty cringed. “Maybe to some of these people, but you’d be surprised—any excuse for us Montanans is usually a good one.” He took a swig from his mug. “Who the hell you calling straitlaced anyway?”

  I held up my palm. “Sorry, no offense.”

  “Word of celebration spreads fast around here.,” Bowman added, smiling.

  “I suppose it does.”

  Monty handed me a mug of beer. “It’s Bud. Cheers.”

  “Good with me. Cheers.” I looked around, and as I took a sip of the cold brew, the door opened and Ford came in. I noticed Monty throw me a cautious glance. “How’d it go with the bear?” I asked.

  “I guess smoothly. Ask him.” Monty tilted his head to Bowman.

  “What?” Bowman said.

  “How’d it go with the bear?”

  “Aw, man, it was great—Ford and I drove him out past McGee to the Logging Lake area. The moment we opened the door, he hit the woods running north.” Bowman slid one palm across the other, one hand shooting out ahead to imitate the bear b
reaking speed. “Didn’t even need to pepper his ass with pellets to get him going. And he’s collared, so we’ll have an idea where he ends up.”

  “I’m sure he was one happy bear.”

  “Yes, yes, he was.”

  “Good work.” I nodded approvingly. “With the bullet and all.”

  “Thank you.” He held up his drink to toast mine, then took a sip and turned back to Karen.

  I looked back to Ford, who had now joined Joe. He glanced at me, then said something to Joe and laughed. I turned back around and faced the bar. Some high-pitched country music singer wailed in the background. I tried to relax and enjoy the music and the vibrating atmosphere I hadn’t felt since I’d arrived.

  “Too bad he didn’t bring his daughter?” Monty said, looking toward the table with Joe and now Ford.

  “Who?”

  “Joe.”

  “Joe?”

  “I mean Heather, of course. Not Leslie.”

  “Why?”

  Monty shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You interested in her?”

  “Are you kidding me, with the shit I’m in the middle of, I can’t afford to have an interest in anyone. But . . . ” He took a sip of his beer.

  “But you do anyway?”

  Monty wiped his mouth with his knuckles. “She’s, well, she’s nice. Got some class, you know. But I was thinking about you.” He lifted his chin to me.

  “Me?” I cringed. “With the shit I’m in the middle of?” We both laughed, and I excused myself because I felt my phone vibrate. I stepped around the corner to the hallway, where it was a bit quieter. It was Walsh. He wanted to let me know that they’d just sent the slug with another shipment of evidence the county needed to get to Missoula to the lab with one of his officers. They’d have the slug by tonight and would be able to study it tomorrow.

  “And,” he said, “I’ve got something else for you.”

  “Oh?” I waited.

  “Your man Hess has finally made it back from the east side. I’ve had one of my boys checking his place regularly, and suddenly there’s some dead antelope hanging from his back porch.”

  I thanked him and went back and told Monty about the slug but not about Hess. I didn’t want to pull Monty away from his fun, and something made me want to go see Hess alone.

  “So by tomorrow we might have solid evidence,” Monty said. “What then?”

  “We’ll still need the owner of it. And that’s where we’ll continue focusing.”

  Monty looked serious and nodded.

  “Listen,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me. I’m actually enjoying it here, but I’m just not going to be able to relax until I can find the owner of this gun. You stay; enjoy yourself for a bit.”

  “But there’s nothing to do but wait to hear if it’s a match. You should stay.”

  “Nah, I appreciate it, but I’ve got some things I need to do. But again, you stay.” I looked at my watch. It was still business hours. “Maybe give the pawnshop guy a call when you leave and see if he’s had a chance to check his records yet. I’ve already given him all the details.”

  “I can do that.” Monty nodded and smiled his white grin. “It was big of you to stop in.”

  I set my empty mug down and pulled out a twenty and left it on the bar for him to do whatever he wanted with it.

  “No, man, take that.”

  “No, get another round. It’s on me.” I playfully slapped Monty’s back, turned to go, and found myself looking straight into Ford’s eyes. He didn’t say a word, just glared at me for a moment before making his way to the bar.

  I gave a curt nod and began to move past him as the loud rumbling and whining of a freight train barreling by on the Burlington Northern Santa Fe consumed the place. It ran through West Glacier, across the street from the Chalet. I didn’t catch it if he nodded back or not. I made my way to the exit as the bar grew louder and people raised their voices to compete with the deafening train. When I got to the door I waited for it to pass, paused to distinguish between the pounding of my heart and the loud click-clack of the wheels rolling over the joints in the rail. I saw Joe watching me while the train’s diesel engine roared so loudly that it drowned the music. People quit trying to compete and halted their conversations as they waited for it to pass. Joe smiled at me and waved me over again. I pointed to my phone to indicate that I had business to attend to, and he pointed to the drink I bought him and mouthed “Thank you.”

  At that moment, with the arresting and vibrating howl in my ears and the kind look in Joe’s eyes, my defenses melted. I felt shaky, and my heartbeat reverberated in my chest. Somewhere between Ford, Hess, my visit with Ma, and my trip to the woods, I was beginning to realize that Ford was never going to give me any satisfaction or release from my own demons. But even with the progress on the case—finding the gun and finally getting the slug—something needled me, and the train seemed to crash that unease and angst deeply into me at full speed.

  Finally the freight passed and the sound subsided, leaving only the music as the patrons’ voices tried to fully recover their cadence. I caught Monty, Bowman, and Karen smiling at me and laughing playfully at something. I ignored the clench in my sternum, put on a nice grin, and nodded back, then opened the door and stepped out into the cool air.

  • • •

  Of course, we’d run Tom Hess through the system and came up with a few poaching complaints, but no real evidence that it was with him, so he was never charged and fined. But if there was one person whom I was going to lose it with, it was him. His cold, hazel eyes coated with arrogance, his shit-eating grin filled with bad teeth, his lopsided sneer, and his militant stance with his chest pushed out so far that his shoulder blades must have touched in back, all made me want to rip his throat out. But I knew that the only way interrogating him was going to work in my favor was to try to get along nicely with him. But he must have known one of Walsh’s guys had been keeping tabs on him since he’d returned because when I got to his small house with faded-brown peeling paint and wood gone to dry rot, we were already off to a bad start in spite of my best intentions.

  Tall dead weeds choked the lawn and the sides of the house under the windows. An ATV sat on one side under a slumped overhang with an aluminum roof. I’d stopped and talked to one of Walsh’s guys around the corner before walking down the block and found that Hess had gotten home a few hours before and that he’d only left once to go to the store. He informed me that the place had two doors and that Hess had been using the back one. Also, he said that Hess had at least four or five dead antelope hanging from the top of a porch overhang covering the back concrete patio.

  I strolled casually to the front door with a pleasant face in case he was watching and knocked several times. On the third attempt, he answered, his eyes narrowed in anger.

  “What do you want?” He was the same height as me, if not a bit taller, his nose turned up.

  I ignored the rude greeting and gave him my best smile and friendly tone. “Hi, I’m Ted Systead. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions about a friend of yours, Victor Lance.”

  “It’s not all right with me,” he said. “I’m busy.”

  I swallowed my irritation. A wet chill hung in the air around me and bit my cheeks. “I appreciate your candidness, but”—I pulled out and showed him my badge, which I wasn’t wearing but had in a small leather case—“I’m afraid I misspoke. I will be asking you a few questions about Victor Lance.”

  Hess stared at me for a second, one side of his upper lip raised in disgust. Then he dropped his hand from the knob, left the door ajar, and walked down the hall without saying anything more. I slowly followed him into the dark hallway, placing my hand on my gun, which I can honestly say I hadn’t felt the urge to do in nearly a year, not even with Stimpy.

  At the end of the hallway, the house o
pened up into a small kitchen with an old, round Formica-topped table. Two dirty kitchen windows showed a junky backyard filled with old engine parts and trash, and the windows to his right all had the shades drawn. I suspected he had shut them to hide his antelope from my view. Hess leaned his backside against a dirty counter next to his old stove and crossed his arms before him. “What do you want to know?”

  I stood at the kitchen entry and noticed a door at its other end, which I assumed led to the backyard. I began by asking him some simple questions: how long he’d known Victor and whether he even knew what had happened. He said he’d known him about two years and yes, he knew he was dead.

  “Do you know when he was killed?” I asked.

  “Over a week ago, right?” His smile was too large and fake, a few of his teeth missing, as if he was pretending to be a proud student in a classroom answering a question correctly.

  “That’s right. Between Thursday afternoon and Friday evening. That’s why I need to ask you where you were during those two days?”

  “That’s easy.” He continued to smile a wicked grin. “Huntin’ antelope. Been on the east side for ten days now.”

  I nodded, lifting my chin toward the pulled blinds. I was pretty sure that if I stepped out the back door and asked him for the tags, he wouldn’t have them. When I looked back, his top lip had resumed the curled-up-in-disgust position as he eyed me. His face appeared amorphous, constantly changing like it was made of clay or rubber.

  “You stay at any motels over there?”

  “Hell no.” He looked indignantly at me like I was a total pussy for even suggesting it. “We slept in our trucks.”

  “I’ll need the names of the guys you were with.”

  “Whatever.” He began to laugh, and I could feel my blood begin to boil.