Harmon raised a brow. “First time I’ve ever seen you refuse a brewski.”
“Won’t be the last time, either. “No more booze of any kind for me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on the wagon again?” Harmon’s amused tone matched the skeptical look he gave Sam. Sobriety was an elusive goal that Harmon knew Sam had never been able to achieve. “Going to give A.A. another try again, too?”
Sam hadn’t always had a drinking problem. Growing up, he was too busy helping his father run the family farm to spend time hanging out with his beer-guzzling pals. In fact, he never drank a drop of alcohol until after he returned from the war. His father had always been the drinking man in the family, although they never referred to him as an alcoholic. The term back then was “hard drinker.” But Sam’s absence during the war and Mary’s illness had made things worse. By the time the peace treaty with Japan was signed, his father had lost the farm, Mary was dying from cancer and Sam’s life was forever changed. Drinking became his way to cope. Despite his growing dependence on alcohol, he’d secured a decent job with the FBI through an officer he’d served with in the Seabees. He liked the work and his partnership with Jess Harmon. He even had a reputation as one of the rising stars in the Portland Bureau. All that had come undone in one night of careless drunken stupidity. Harmon’s jagged facial scar was a constant reminder of how much pain his drinking had caused others.
“Look,” Sam said, “I might as well get this off my chest. I deeply regret my role in the injuries you suffered. If I hadn’t been drunk as a skunk that night . . . well, let’s just say, the incident was a wakeup call. The Feds gave me a second chance and I don’t plan to blow it. Besides, I promised Ellie that things would be different in The Dalles.”
“Suit yourself,” Harmon said, dropping into the other chair. “I just want us to work together like we did before. If we solve this case, I’m guaranteed a promotion to Bureau Chief and I’ll take you with me.”
It would never be like it was before but Sam owed it to his friend to at least try. “Okay,” he said with a shrug.
“Now that we’ve got that settled, here’s where we are with the case: The killer was probably someone he knew and let into his house. And that’s the problem. Chambers was practically a saint. All the good things you said about him were confirmed by his crew, poker buddies, and neighbors. He had no enemies or even a single person I could find who disliked the guy. No crazy relatives or sordid past deeds on record, either. Everyone said he had an amiable relationship with his ex-wife who died several years ago of natural causes.”
“Where does the girlfriend come in?”
“I was getting to that. Her name’s Lucy Williams and she lives across the street. Supposedly she’s known Chambers for over thirty years. I got the impression that their relationship was a little one-sided on her part. Unrequited love and all that. Anyway, she’s a nice old lady who spends her day baking cookies and brownies. A real grandma type. She liked to cook for Chambers, too. She usually made breakfast for him when he got off work at seven o’clock. Then he’d go home and sleep most of the day until his next shift. When he didn’t show up at her place as expected, she called him. He told her that he’d be over shortly but he never arrived. That was the last she heard from him.”
“She didn’t go check on him?”
“I asked the same thing. She claimed that he was often exhausted when he got off his shift. As you know, he had a lot of physical ailments which she says wore him out, too. He hadn’t made it over for breakfast as promised on other occasions, because he’d fallen asleep. She just thought it had happened again and she didn’t want to disturb him. It wasn’t until a couple of guys from his crew came looking for him later that night and the cops were called that she realized something was wrong. She didn’t have much else to say except to confirm something you’d said about Chambers.”
“What was that?”
“That Chambers hadn’t been himself lately. He was smoking one cigarette after another and had started drinking more than usual. Said he couldn’t sleep. Missed several poker games in a row and had lost interest in fishing. She knew he was obviously worried about something but he wouldn’t tell her what it was.”
“Did she think it was work-related or personal?”
“No idea. Whatever it was, it might’ve been what got him killed.”
“Have you checked his finances yet? He didn’t have an extravagant lifestyle, but he was due to retire soon. Maybe he was concerned about whether he had enough savings or if he could make it on a fixed income.”
“I went to his bank today. Got nothing but a run-around. These small-town bureaucrats can be stubborn as hell to deal with. I plan to go back tomorrow with a search warrant and meet with the bank’s manager. I can play the stubborn game, too.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Continue looking into the Indian situation. There may be a connection to our case. This town doesn’t have much experience with murder and now there’re two violent deaths within days of each other. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t, either. What I do believe is that George Featherstone didn’t kill the Rossi kid.”
“What about that young Indian you were telling me about, Danny something?”
“Danny Longstreet. He’s been causing a lot of trouble but it has been mostly annoying pranks up to now. Whether he’s escalated his game is another question. I have confirmed from a reliable source that the rumor the bureau chief heard is true—they’ve joined up with another group in town that supposedly has money and means to cause us real problems at the dam.”
“You used to get most of your sources from your network of talkative bartenders. I’d think your no-booze policy would make it kind of difficult to do that anymore. Bartenders don’t generally trust a man who just drinks soda.”
It was true. Sam had found bartenders to be valuable sources in the past, supplying late-breaking stories, tips, gossip, rumors, local color and important background information. “No bars,” he said. “I met someone at A.A. who likes to chat.”
Harmon snorted as he opened another beer. “You’re calling a drunk a reliable source?”
“I’m a drunk. You’re taking a chance on me.”
“That’s different. We have a history together.”
Sam glanced at Harmon’s scar and grimaced. “A history that didn’t end so well. In any event, the tip may not prove useful but I think it’s worth pursuing.”
Harmon raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Do what you need to do. Just keep me informed.”
***
A red Cadillac pulled into the driveway next to the motel office. The driver turned to his passenger and said, “I’ll just pop into the office and grab the room key from Floyd.”
“Wait, Tony,” said Clarice, tugging on his arm. “There’s a light on in room six.”
“Damn that idiot Floyd. I told him not to rent our room out. It’s not like this shithole is short on available rooms.”
“Well, well. Would you look at that,” Clarice said, pointing to two men who’d come outside the door to room six. “That’s the FBI guy who came nosing around the bank today.”
Tony squinted in the dim light to see who she was pointing at. “I’ll be damned. Looks like Sam Matthews is with him. Wonder what that’s all about?”
“Hmm, a lover’s tryst perhaps?”
Tony laughed. “You would think of that.”
“You know Sam Matthews. Why don’t you find out why he’s talking to a G-man?”
“Now?”
Clarice gave an exasperated sigh. “Of course not. You’re his realtor. I’m sure you can make up some excuse to talk wi
th him. You can then steer the conversation to Monty’s.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Matthews is mixed up with the debacle at Baker Bluff.”
“Good God, do you think he’s bringing the FBI into the Baker mess?”
“I don’t know but their midnight rendezvous is worrisome and we better make it our business to find out what they are up to.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was a warm moonlit night; a romance-is-in-the-air kind of night. The white kids making out in the Pioneer Cemetery certainly thought so. For Danny, it was a night that proved what he’d thought all along: whites had no respect for their own ancestors. The kids’ clumsy attempts at lovemaking on sacred grounds was proof. It made the raid on the cemetery more justifiable in his mind. Staking out the place was a drag, but sooner or later the last of these kids would leave and Danny and his friends could get down to business.
While he waited, he drank a beer and thought about the last time he was there. Ellie’s unlikely appearance in the middle of a graveyard had thrown him off balance, but Danny believed he’d recovered quickly and held his own during their brief exchange. Their meeting was a curious episode, but he’d put it out of his mind soon after she’d left the cemetery with her silly friend. Then she showed up at the village. Once again, he was caught off guard. There had to be a reason that she kept popping up in his life; he didn’t believe in coincidences.
Her father seemed like an all-right guy for a white man. Danny liked the way he’d stood up to the sheriff. Of course, that could just be an act to get on the villagers’ good side before he ruined them. After all, he was a foreman at the dam. That his mother had so quickly accepted Matthews’ promises and believed him to be their friend bothered him. Trusting a white man had never proved wise in the past. Sam Matthews had been back to the village several times since the Memory Feast, supposedly to report on how George was faring in jail. He’d heard from more than one villager that Reba and Sam had been seen taking long walks together down by the river. Matthews even brought her flowers the last time he was there. Danny had never seen his mother so . . . he didn’t know what. In love? With a white man? That was too wild to even consider.
This whole business with Matthews and his daughter confused him, made him doubt himself and his own motives. Walter had picked up on his uncertainty and challenged him at the Pit Stop. “Man,” he’d complained. “What’s the matter with you?” Going soft on me again?” Walter hadn’t quite accepted that Danny was as committed to their new alliance with the Communists as he’d claimed. “You need to stop over-thinking everything. It’s clouding your judgment.”
According to Walter, destroying the pioneer cemetery like they’d already decided to do, was the right thing. Just like it was the right thing to do when he’d leveled the car dealership by setting it afire. It was not only right, but inevitable. Graves and Memaloose Islands would be gone for good, covered with a ton of water when the government got through with them. Walter claimed the pioneers didn’t deserve any better treatment than their ancestors were getting.
“I know,” Danny said. “But why destroy their cemetery? We could just swipe some of the tombstones and make a statement that way.”
Walter and the others hooted. “A statement?”
“Yeah, it would be a symbolic thing. They take our ancestors’ bones, we take their ancestors’ markers.”
“That’s what we’ve been doing, man,” Walter declared. “Symbolism is a load of unproductive shit, which you’ve said yourself. I think you’re losing your fighting spirit over a little white dolly.” That’s when Danny charged like a bull and got them thrown out of the bar by a bat-wielding Fitz. Once outside, they’d danced around each other with their fists raised for a minute. It took about that long for Danny to realize that Walter had a point. He’d allowed Ellie and her father to mess with his head. It was a big mistake and he wouldn’t let it happen again. The original game plan was back on.
Danny didn’t know how much longer Walter and the others would wait before chasing the kids away. He’d like to run them off himself. It was after midnight now and they’d been waiting at the edge of the cemetery for over half an hour. More important, the beer was almost gone. As he reached for the last bottle in the sack, Danny heard an eerie cry pierce the night air. “Who-o-o. Who-o-o.” A second cry answered. “Yee-ee-ee.” And then a third. He hadn’t seen Walter and the others sneak off, but they’d obviously started things without him.
He tossed the sack of beer aside and headed for the entrance to the graveyard. Creeping along the perimeter, he crouch-walked as low to the ground as possible. Another piercing cry.
“Yikes, what was that?” a nearby girl asked.
Danny inched his way toward the direction of the cry. A dark form looking suspiciously like Ernie knelt behind the large tombstone where Danny had first spotted Ellie. Danny crept up behind Ernie and tapped his bony shoulder. Ernie shot upright and spun around to face his would-be attacker with fists raised. He dropped his fists when he saw it was only Danny and not one of the kids or a wayward ghost. “Jeez, Danny,” he said. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Where’re Walter and Henry?”
Ernie shrugged, “I don’t know exactly. We split up so we could answer each other’s cries. It’s working, too,” he said, grinning. “You should’ve seen those kids scatter. They high-tailed it out of here like the devil was after them.”
“Good,” said Danny. He poked his head around the tree and, using the moonlight to good advantage, noted a few stragglers. “We need to ratchet up the program.”
“What’re you gonna do?” asked Ernie.
Danny slipped off his white tee-shirt and tied it around his head so that just his eyes were showing. When Ernie saw what Danny was doing, he followed suit. “On the count of three,” Danny said. The two masked boys took off hollering and waving their arms. Trying hard not to laugh, the boys pranced about as if possessed by evil demons. A couple lying on a blanket was the first to panic. Their bloodcurdling screams so frightened the other kids that they ran off shrieking. Walter and Henry quickly joined the melee and a few confusing, noisy moments later, a half dozen terrified kids had dashed to the safety of their hotrods.
“Hey, look,” said Ernie, holding up a wine bottle. “They beat feet so fast they left their booze behind.” All the boys laughed as he took a swig and then swung the bottle against one of the tombstones, shattering the glass into tiny pieces.
“Wow,” exclaimed Walter watching the hotrods tear off in a trail of dust. “I didn’t know you could burn rubber on a dirt road.”
“Holy cow,” said Henry, still laughing. “That was fun.”
Pulling off his shirt-mask, Walter said, “Now the real fun begins.” He told the group to stay put while he went back to his truck.
Danny joked with the others as they untied their masks. Then Henry and Ernie started swatting each other with their shirts and imitating the teenagers terrified screams. Danny watched their antics with growing annoyance and rebuffed their attempts to draw him into their childish play. It was one thing to have a little fun running off the teens, but despite what Walter had said, the idea wasn’t to have fun. They were here on serious business. That should’ve been obvious, but they were still clowning around when Walter rejoined the group. “Here you go,” he said, handing one of the sledgehammers he carried to each of them. “Let’s do it!”
That’s all it took for the rampage to begin. Walter swung first, toppling an already crumbling tombstone. “Hee-haw!” he cried. Ernie and Henry followed his example, whooping it up as the smashed stone markers fell to the ground. It didn’t take much force to destroy the old stone crosses and other small markers, but they swung
the sledgehammers with a wild, ruinous abandon anyway. Pausing to survey the damage, Walter declared the effort too easy. He pointed to the center of the graveyard where the larger, more ornate monuments were. “That’s where we should go,” he said. Ernie and Henry agreed and headed out. When Walter noticed that Danny wasn’t following his lead, he asked, “You coming, man?”
“Yeah, sure,” Danny said, but he was unable to stop staring at the first and only gravestone he’d toppled. The sledgehammers were overkill. All he’d had to use was his boot heel to kick over the small marker. The effort hadn’t given him a thrill or sense of triumph like his friends had experienced. All he felt was a chilling numbness. The etching of a baby lamb on the downed tablet caught his eye and he knelt to read the engraved inscription. ‘In memory of our beloved daughter,’ it began, ‘thou hath left us and we are lost. Serena Jackson B. 21 April 1885 D. 22 April 1885.’ A baby. A day-old baby. Danny had seen baby graves at Memaloose Island, too. He felt bad every time he saw them, but there was one that never failed to get to him. It was a simple wooden cross with a pair of tiny weathered moccasins tied to it. Whenever the wind blew, Danny imagined the shoes were dancing to the sacred beat of little drums.
Danny stared at the inscription for several minutes. In the distance, he could hear Walter and the others hollering and smashing their way through the graveyard. He brushed the dirt off the marker, lifted it upright, and returned it to its original place in the ground. Looking at the restored grave did little to shake the melancholy that had wrapped his heart in a fierce embrace. A prayer his mother had taught him years ago suddenly came to mind. Grandmother Earth, from your womb all spirits have come. When they return to you, cradle them gently in your arms and allow them to join their friends in the skies. May the Great Spirit watch over you, and may you be at peace.
When he caught up with others, they were struggling to topple the base of a large gray monument. The statue of an angel that had once rested atop was on the ground, smashed almost beyond recognition. Danny carefully stepped over one of the angel’s broken wings and approached his friends who were grunting and swearing as they pushed on what was left of the heavy marker. Seeing Danny, they stopped to catch their breath. Walter wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Hey, man, where’ve you been? We could use some help here. This is one heavy son of a bitch.”
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