by Wen Spencer
“I was coming to see you, actually.” Ukiah told her. “You said that you’d trade information for local color.”
“Ah, local color becomes more interesting when it’s shooting at you.”
“Something like that.”
“Great! I’m dying to know—why were you wearing body armor while looking for a lost hiker?”
“How do you know about the vest? For that matter, what do you know about the shooting?”
“Just what I heard over the police scanner in my office. I caught Kicking Deer’s first call about you being down.” She glanced over at him, green eyes sincere. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks.”
“So, why were you wearing the vest?”
“Max and I were nearly killed by a man that kidnapped a hiker who had been reported as just lost.” Actually Crazy Joe Gary had killed Ukiah—the first of several deaths; luckily, none of them permanent. “Max doesn’t let me track now without a vest.”
“Isn’t that expensive?”
“Not unless someone shoots at me.”
“Does your insurance cover the replacement?”
“I don’t know,” Ukiah admitted. “Max handles the business end of things. He’s really good at it.”
They stopped at a red light, and she gave him a long study. “How old are you, anyhow?”
How old indeed? “Twenty-one.”
“And how long have you two been partners?”
“Three years. I worked with Max before then, part-time, just on tracking jobs.”
“So, he took on an eighteen-year-old as a full partner?” The light changed. She checked the traffic and started up, shaking her head. “And he seemed like such a sane man.”
“Out of the way” meant that the McDonald’s was clear on the other side of town, under the interstate’s overpass, and up the hill beyond.
“Because of the sniper,” Sam said, “most of the search-and-rescue volunteers have been called off the search. The sheriff’s department, your partner and Kraynak, and a handful of weapon-trained volunteers are the only ones still looking. They do have three helicopters up today.”
“Three?”
“The army assists search-and-rescue efforts like this by sending helicopters over—that is when flying weather is clear, which it hasn’t been.” Sam pulled into the drive-through and up to the speaker. “So, what do you want?”
He ordered three of their biggest breakfast meals of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and hash browns. He fumbled out his wallet, paid with a twenty-dollar bill. Sam pulled into a parking spot to let him put away the change and organize his food.
“Your shooting,” she said, “seems to indicate that there is a connection between the fire victims and Alicia Kraynak.”
It took him a moment to realize she meant the six family members that died in a house fire four days before Alicia disappeared. “It does?”
“Statistically speaking, yes. There’s no evidence of arson in the Burke fire, but it’s the third fire in two months that killed the entire family. Statistically, the chance of a house going up and killing everyone is slim. It’s less than a fifty-percent chance that everyone is home. Cut it down drastically that not one of six people gets out alive. Then whittle it to nothing that it happens three times in two months.”
A chill went down Ukiah’s back. “So, what’s the connection to Alicia?”
“Three hundred and fifty people died in Umatilla County last year. Three hundred and thirty-five were natural causes. Only ten were killed by accident during the whole year. That’s an average year. In the last two months, twenty people have died in fires, four people have drowned, six people have died in nonwitnessed, single-car accidents, and five hikers have vanished without a trace. Alicia is just the most recent one. If the hikers are all dead, then that’s thirty-five people in an eight-week span.”
The numbers stunned him. He could see why the deaths were alarming, but not why they pointed to a connection between all of them. “Why do you say that the shooting links it?”
“Do you know how many homicides we have a year?”
“I wouldn’t think many.”
“In a good year, none. In a bad year, one. So, statistically, there’s a connection.”
He looked at her.
“Listen to the details,” she urged him. “The Coles’ house burned down on July third—eight dead. A fire in a trash can, seemingly started by a cigarette butt, spread to some fireworks, and the whole house went up. July nineteenth—the propane grill sitting on a wooden front porch takes out the Watsons’ house. Six dead and the family dog. August nineteenth—the Burkes’ house. Six dead. Cause this time: an apparent toaster meltdown. Nothing’s the same, right?”
He nodded, not sure where she was leading.
“All fires started after midnight.” She ticked the points off with her fingers. “All family members were found dead in their beds or bedrooms. And the kicker, all family members had missed work, school, doctor appointments, et cetera, the day of the fire. No one had seen or talked to them the day they died.”
“All twenty?”
“All thirty-five people, actually, with maybe the exception of Alicia, who had been seen the morning she disappeared. And a large number of them hadn’t been seen for two or three days prior to the fire: Kids were off school for summer, some of the homemaker mothers didn’t have appointments to miss, or one of the adults wasn’t employed.”
“Why ‘maybe’ for Alicia?”
“If she was killed Monday, then she was seen the morning she died. If she died Tuesday or Wednesday, then no one saw her the day of her death.”
“We have to assume she’s still alive.”
Sam glanced at him in surprise. “Despite the shooting?”
“There are reasons why my shooting might not be related to Alicia’s disappearance,” Ukiah stalled, and then changed the subject. “Do you think these people are killed and put into their beds and the house burned down to cover the murders?”
Sam shrugged, sighing. “So far the autopsies don’t show any cause of death beyond smoke inhalation and massive burns. The firefighters say that some of the victims obviously woke up enough to try to escape but never made it to safety.”
She saw that he was finishing the third meal and indicated a nearby trash bin. “Want me to toss the papers?”
“Sure, thanks.”
She strolled over to the trash bin, stuffed the bag in, and turned. She looked past the car, swore, and started for Ukiah at a trot. Even forewarned, Ukiah was still startled by the man that suddenly leaned in the Jeep’s window.
“Hello! Who are you?” the stranger asked. He had an infectiously cheerful smile and ice-cold blue eyes that swept down over Ukiah, inspecting his wounds.
“None of your business, Peter.” Sam jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Peter Talbot.” The stranger put out his hand to be shaken. “I’m Sam’s husband.”
“Ukiah Oregon.” Ukiah extended his right hand out of habit, and checked the motion as his bulky white cast reminded him that his right arm had been recently broken. Sam is married? Peter Talbot reached out and caught Ukiah’s hand before he could retract it.
Just looking at him, Ukiah couldn’t imagine Sam married to this man. Ukiah recognized that Peter Talbot was good-looking in a scruffy sort of way. Tall, lean, chisel-featured, he could have graced a magazine ad. From wispy blond hair that fell into his eyes, shirt unbuttoned to show lean chest muscle to battered shoes, though, he seemed completely mismatched to Sam’s orderly neatness.
In the driver’s seat, Sam nearly bristled with anger. “Let go of him and get away from the car.”
“I’m just shaking his hand.” Peter kept hold of Ukiah’s hand, giving it a painful shake.
Sam started the Jeep. “You know you’re not supposed to be within a hundred feet of me.”
“That’s cute, Sammie Anne. You come to my place of work and tell me to stay away from you.”
“Sin
ce when are you working at McDonald’s?”
“Sammie Anne, private eye, you’re supposed to know all this! I started last week. I’m the morning manager.”
Sam glared, revving the Jeep’s engine. “Let go of him.”
“So, who the hell are you, Ukiah Oregon?” Peter flashed him a smile that might have been charming if not for the coldness in his eyes.
“I’m a private investigator from Pittsburgh,” Ukiah said, trying to extract his hand.
“The uncle of the lost hiker flew him in.” Sam gunned the engine again.
“Couldn’t cut it, Sammie Anne?” Peter grinned.
“He’s a tracker. It’s not my area of expertise,” Sam stated.
“So, what happened to you, Ukiah?” Peter asked, ignoring Sam’s anger. “Did someone else catch you messing with their wife?”
“I’m not your wife anymore,” Sam said. “Now, let go of him.”
“Now, honey, give the man a chance to answer.” Peter tightened his hold.
“I had a rough day.” Ukiah stopped trying to free his hand, instead squeezed back. Recently he’d discovered he was considerably stronger than the average man.
Peter winced slightly. “Well, you better not even think about touching my wife.”
Sam reached into the backseat of the Jeep and fished out a cattle prod. She snapped it on and jabbed it out within an inch of Peter Talbot’s nose. “Let him go!”
“Easy, Sammie, I was just doing just that.” Peter released his grip.
Sam must have shifted into reverse earlier while Ukiah was grappling with Peter. She let out the clutch and the Jeep leaped backward. She snapped off the cattle prod, dropped it into Ukiah’s lap, and wrenched the Jeep around. Shifting into first, she roared out of the parking lot.
They drove in silence until Sam suddenly pulled into a small shaded park.
“I’m really sorry about that,” she said. “People do silly things when they’re young. Start to smoke. Get tattoos. Get married to complete jerks.” Sam parked the Jeep and killed the engine. “Of course later you grow up enough to realize how stupid you’ve been, but getting rid of your mistake requires lots of pain and messy procedures.”
“You’re divorced.”
“Coming up on two years. Not that Peter has acknowledged it. He thinks since I haven’t shacked up with anyone else, I’ll be crawling back to him any day now. He’s even taken steps to speed up the process, so I needed to get a restraining order on him. I try to keep track of where he’s working so I can avoid him; but he’s never happy at anything very long, so he quits most jobs after a few months. He just started working at the post office a few weeks ago. I guess that got tedious fast.”
“He must find work easily.”
“He’s a charming, irresponsible bastard. People love him. Most people forgive him for all the shitty things he does, mostly because when he’s truly cruel, he makes sure he isn’t caught. I caught him at it one too many times, and just ran out of forgiveness. Screwing with your broken arm is so like him. I didn’t want to pull away while he had hold of your arm. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a girlfriend, kid?”
“Girlfriend isn’t the right word.” It wasn’t a strong enough word. Fiancée also seemed weak.
“Oh! Okay. Well, this might be useless advice then, but don’t rush into anything permanent. Love isn’t enough to base a life together on.”
“Max thinks it is. He says when you find someone, you grab hold and you don’t let go.”
“Oh.” She said and started the car. “Sooooo, Max is married?”
“He was. His wife was killed in a car wreck. He thinks you should make the most of life because you don’t know when it’s going to end.”
Sam made a sound of enlightenment and pulled out of the parking space. “Well, love is a good start, but love can blind you to the monster inside. People are rarely what you think they are on first sight.”
What if you’re the one with the monster inside? He wondered about Indigo’s comment of “If we get married.” Was she beginning to see what life with him would be like and having second thoughts? Could he blame her?
“I should have asked earlier,” Sam went on, unaware of Ukiah’s turmoil. “Should you really have eaten so soon after abdominal surgery?”
“You heard about that?”
“It’s a small town and I like to nose into other people’s business. What the hell was that all about, anyhow? And why did it piss off Kicking Deer so much?”
“Ahhhhhh.” Ukiah drew a blank on how to explain. “That one is hard to explain. Can we get back to it?”
Sam threw back her head and laughed loudly. “Oh, come on, that’s the interesting one, especially since it’s put a bug up Kicking Deer’s back end something awful.”
“Kicking Deer is annoyed because I’m trying to find his grandfather.”
She stopped laughing. “Jesse Kicking Deer?”
“Yes. I would like to talk to him. Do you have any clue how I could do that?”
“Ah!”
“Ah?”
“The Tuesday-night disaster. You drove out to see Jesse Kicking Deer and got jumped all over by one big, mean county sheriff.”
“Yeah. So Jesse still lives at the ranch?”
“Is this part of the Kraynak case?”
“No,” Ukiah admitted. He shifted uneasily in his seat. Boy Scouts, with all the emphasis on truthfulness, hadn’t been the best training for a private investigator. “A couple years ago, Max was hired by a client in Pittsburgh to find the identity of a John Doe. The case brought him out to Pendleton and dead-ended. Some new information has turned up, and we think the John Doe and the Kicking Deer boy are one and the same. Sheriff Kicking Deer, however, won’t let us talk to his grandfather.”
“The Umatilla Wolf Boy ended up in Pittsburgh? That’s a new one. Is this John Doe still alive, or are we talking heirs of the estate—so to speak?”
“He’s still alive.”
“What the hell is he doing in Pittsburgh?”
“He was adopted after found running feral. His parents tried to establish his identity when they found him, and when they couldn’t, they decided to keep him instead of informing the authorities. They believed a feral child in a state institution would receive minimal loving attention.”
There, the Boy Scouts would be proud of him. Each and every word the truth!
“And?”
“And what?”
“Well, that happened back in the 1930s. What’s the Wolf Boy doing now? Can he talk? Is he in a nursing home? Is he running naked in the back woods of Pennsylvania? Is he a millionaire?”
Ukiah hunted frantically for a safe answer. “What he is doing really doesn’t matter if I can’t get to talk to Jesse Kicking Deer.”
Sam clicked her tongue several times, thinking. “Jared’s sister, Cassidy, just bought Zimmerman’s, the Pendleton hardware store. She might not talk to you, but she’d be stranded behind the store counter, having to listen to you.”
“Hopefully, she won’t take a swing at a wounded man.”
Sam smiled. “Or shoot him again.”
Ukiah frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying that Jared Kicking Deer might have a good alibi, but there are over a dozen Kicking Deer families in the area. It’s common knowledge that the Kicking Deers are quite annoyed by all the claims to the Wolf Boy legacy. Jared seems to have his nose particularly out of joint—perhaps he said something to a sister or uncle or cousin and now suspects they did something rash.”
“A dozen? Jared is the only Kicking Deer in the phone book.”
She laughed. “They all have unlisted numbers. Now tell me, why did your partner feel the need to do surgery on you?”
“Let me think on that one.”
She frowned in annoyance. As she pulled onto Main Street, though, she shrugged. “You owe me, Oregon. Just remember that. You owe me.”
CHAPTER SIX
/> Zimmerman Hardware, Pendleton, Oregon
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Zimmerman’s sat midblock on Main Street, hemmed in tight on either side. There were no parking spots available, so Sam stopped near the door.
“There’s parking in back, but it’s really uneven. This will be easier on you. Go ahead in, I’ll catch up with you.”
Ukiah climbed carefully out and she pulled away. Tools and signs crowded the window front, an overload of information complete with a historical plaque. A cowbell over the door clanged as Ukiah came through the door, but it was doubtful anyone heard it over a loud banging coming from the back of the store. Like the window front, the store was a tight pack of everything imaginable. What caught the eye was a moose head, stuffed and hung on a support column, looking dolefully down at Ukiah.
The banging continued in the back. No one was at the front counter, so he limped to the back of the store. A second checkout counter formed a small conversation niche in the back. Four men gathered there, Native Americans, in blue jeans, T-shirts, and baseball hats. The oldest seemed in his seventies, the youngest only nineteen or twenty. They nodded in greeting, eyes curious.
The noise came from an old Coke machine, which rattled and banged as if it was about to fling machine parts across the room. The hot grease smell coming from the soda machine’s compressor competed, strangely enough, with the heavy scent of fresh-cut cedar.
“Turn it off! Turn it off!” the man leaning against the counter was saying. “Just give it up, it’s dead!”
“It’s still running, Lou!” A woman wedged in behind the Coke machine called.
“It’s time to get a new one, Cassidy,” Lou said.
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” Cassidy shouted over the noise.
The eldest man shook his head. “She’s not going to throw it away because that’s the way the white man thinks. Throw it away instead of fixing it.”
“What did I tell you about that, Uncle Daniel?” Cassidy said. “White man this and white man that. Bleah on the ‘white man.’ You give him power by assigning everything to him. Think of it instead as human nature. We see something better and grab hold of it, even if what we’ve got is perfectly good.”
