by Lisa Jackson
“Don’t mention that Phil was inside. Liz doesn’t even know. No one does. No one can. If Mom and Dad found out, they’d freak. So just say that we figured it out.”
“I got it.”
Inside the house, the older boy was wrapped up with Legos in his bedroom, the baby asleep, and Virgil caught a glimpse of Liz, one of Katy’s younger sisters hovering near the doorway, pretending to read a book, but probably eavesdropping. Ann braced herself against a counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and Jim sat in a recliner angled to an oversized but bubble-faced TV tuned into a muted baseball game. Virgil and Katy explained what they thought happened. Without admitting that Phillip had ever been in Katy’s room. The parents bought the story without too many questions, so Virgil didn’t have to lie.
“Never liked that guy,” Jim Waller said, flipping down the footrest of the recliner and getting to his feet. He eyed his oldest daughter and shook a finger at her, “If I ever see that kid around here . . .” He let the sentence trail off, but by the looks of it, Katy got the message just about the time Johnson showed up.
What Jim and Ann Waller wanted Virgil and Johnson to do was to go up the road and confront Bart Weeks, the father of Phillip.
Virgil said, “I’m not a cop here in Montana, I’m just a guy. A guy who’s up here to fish.”
“But you’re a police officer,” Ann Waller said, glancing nervously at her husband. “Wouldn’t someone with authority scare him? Make him tell the truth?”
“It’s not like it looks like on TV. People just don’t open up to cops because they flash a badge.”
“Jim and I, we’re not good at confrontation.”
“We aren’t?” her husband asked, perplexed. Scratching at his beard stubble, he glared at his wife, and Virgil noticed their younger daughter, Liz, shrink farther into the shadows.
Hiding?
“We have a business to run,” Ann reminded him. “Neighbors to get along with.”
“Hell, we’re great at confrontation,” Johnson said with a wide grin. “We’ll be glad to do it.”
“We will?” Virgil asked.
“Absolutely. C’mon, it’s raining, we got nothing to do. Don’t be a pussy.” Johnson glanced at Ann and Katy and said, “Sorry about the language there.”
• • •
VIRGIL DIDN’T WANT TO DO it. “That’s why I go fishing, so I don’t have to do this shit,” he told Johnson as they trudged back to the cabin to get their rain suits. The drizzle had increased, puddles widening in the sparse gravel yard, the big Montana sky opening up. “I don’t appreciate you signing me up for this shit.”
“But we’re helping out a hardworking girl,” Johnson said. “I don’t understand how you could even think of saying no.”
“Fine.” But Virgil was still burned.
When they got out to Johnson’s Escalade, Katy, now in a rain jacket herself, was leaning against the rear passenger-side door.
“I’m going,” she said.
There was some talk about that, but she went, because she said if they didn’t take her, she’d walk, and making her walk in the rain would be mean.
• • •
The Drake place consisted of a two-story log cabin that sat on a high rocky bank over the trout stream. A hundred-yard-long pool backed up into a natural stone dam. There were two outbuildings. A machine shed, in which they could see the back of a BMW truck and an older Jeep, and another square log building that might be a guesthouse. A huge silvery RV was parked on a gravel spur off the house and a wrist-thick black electric cable snaked from the house to the RV.
“Nice place,” Johnson said, nodding his approval.
“Yeah, he’s rich, Drake is,” Katy said. “The Weekses live right at the end of the road, a little farther.”
They drove on and found the Weeks place, a broken-down single-wide mobile home set up on concrete blocks, well back in a notch in the woods. A stream of smoke seeped out of a can-size chimney on top. Virgil pulled in, and they all got out. He led the way up to the front door, climbing the graying stoop while Johnson and Katy waited below, and rapped on the door.
He heard feet cross the floor inside, and then a man yanked the door open, peered out, saw Johnson and Katy behind him, looked back at Virgil and asked, “Who are you?”
Weeks was a tall, thin man, with ropy muscles in his arms and neck, big battered hands, and small suspicious blue eyes.
“I’m with the MBCA,” Virgil said.
“What the hell is that?”
“The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“Minnesota?”
And Virgil gave him a look at his badge.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Y’re a long way from home.”
He ignored that and said, “Katy Waller here lives and works down at the Wallers’ ranch.” He turned and motioned at Katy. “Somebody stole more than six hundred dollars from her chest of drawers, probably last night. We’re hoping that Phillip Weeks could help us figure out who took it.”
“Can’t help you,” Weeks said. “Little asshole ran off last night, said he ain’t coming back, took his clothes and he’s outta here. And he ain’t coming back. He shows up here again, I’ll kick his ass and throw him right back out. Time he was workin’ on his own anyway.”
At sixteen. Sure.
Weeks started to close the door, but Virgil said, “Do you know if he took the money?”
“Shit. I don’t know about any money,” Weeks said. “I didn’t take it, and I told you, he’s gone. Now get off my fuckin’ porch.”
“Do you know where he might be headed?”
“I don’t know and I don’t give a shit.”
A Montana cop might have had more to say about that, but Virgil didn’t, because he wasn’t one. Weeks slammed the door and Virgil backed down the steps and said to Katy, “I think I believe him. I don’t have any resources here to try to track the kid. If he really took off with that money, he could be on a Greyhound halfway to California or Seattle by now.”
“Goddarnit,” she groaned. “I was gonna buy clothes.”
“On the way out,” Virgil told Johnson, “let’s stop at the Drake place. I’ll ask if anybody talked to Phillip before he left.”
Back down the short road Johnson pulled in behind the RV, gave a low whistle, and said, “A Rosestone recreational vehicle. Never seen one in the flesh, but I thought about buying one of ’em. Those are the Cadillacs of RVs.”
“But you’ve got the Cadillac of Cadillacs, why would you want the Cadillac of something else?”
“Think of where you could go with that thing,” Johnson said, eyeing the big rig, practically salivating.
“No place too far from an interstate highway or a gas station,” Virgil said. “Almost as close to nature as Grand Central Station.”
Virgil and Katy walked up to the door of the cabin, while Johnson made his way slowly around the RV, giving it a closer look, running his fingers over the smooth finish. Virgil knocked, and a minute later, a youngish, soft-faced man opened the door, looked out, and asked politely, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Drake.”
“I’m Michael Drake.”
He was an inch or so over average height, slender, and older than he looked at first impression. Somewhere around forty-five, he was wearing black slacks with pleats, a black dress shirt, and tasseled black loafers. An expensive-looking watch circled one wrist, a turquoise bracelet on the other.
Virgil told him about the missing money and looking for Phillip Weeks, and halfway through the explanation, Drake started shaking his head. “I haven’t seen Phillip at all this trip. Don’t see him much anyway.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Have you asked his father about him? He lives with Bart.”
Drake hitched his chin in the direction of the mobile home.
“Yeah, not a lot of help. He thinks Phillip might be off looking for a job.”
There was a fuss out at the RV. A smal
l, round woman in jeans and a sweater had come to the back door. Her short, dishwater hair was spiked and she wore half glasses. Her eyes, over the lenses, were focused like icy lasers on Johnson. “You get away from there. You hear me? Move. Who the hell are you?”
A flustered Johnson backed away, said, “Sorry, there, just interested in the RV.”
“Yeah. For the love of God, don’t go peeking into our windows.”
And she slammed the door.
Virgil said to Drake, “Sorry about that; Johnson really does like the RV.”
“Cheryl gets a little spooky,” Drake explained, casting a what’re-ya-gonna-do smile at Virgil. “She’ll cool off. No worries.”
Virgil nodded, not thinking the woman was going to calm down any time soon. Spooky? More like going ape shit. She was mad. “Thanks for your time, we’ll be on our way.” He motioned to Johnson and they headed to the Escalade.
As Johnson drove Virgil twisted so he could see Katy in the backseat. “Listen, even if the local deputy isn’t any good, you’ve got to report the theft. If they can show this Phillip kid took the money, and he’s not eighteen yet, his old man might be held responsible by a court, and you’d get the money back. Some of it, anyway. Or if your father has homeowners’ insurance.”
“That could take forever,” she said, lower lip extending, looking miserable. Lost in her thoughts she drew on the condensation on the Escalade’s window, and Virgil decided to give her some space as the Escalade bounced down the rutted road to the dude ranch.
• • •
They dropped off Katy, then headed into Grizzly Falls, the local town, where Virgil bought a copy of every newspaper the convenience store had, and Johnson bought some tourist crap that he planned to give to his girlfriend. The town was tiered, a newer section built on the crest of a hill, homes and businesses running along the ridge, the older part of town in the lower section spread out on the shores of the river where falls fell across shelves of flat rocks.
They stopped at a restaurant called Wild Wills where a stuffed grizzly bear stood on display in the lobby. Not only did the thing seem to be on guard near the front desk, it was dressed in a witch’s costume, black hat tilted jauntily on its head, the brim dipping below a glass eye, black cape tossed over its huge shoulders, a broom tucked under one forearm. A black pot with steam rising from inside sat beside the thing’s huge feet.
“What the hell is that?” Johnson asked, recoiling as he stared at the bear’s shining claws and teeth gleaming, frozen in a perpetual scowl.
“The official greeter,” Virgil guessed.
“Man, this is one weird fuckin’ town. All those statues of Big Foot lining the street and now this.” It was true, they must’ve passed half a dozen statues of Sasquatches on their way into town, including a ten-foot-tall wooden image in the parking lot of the convenience store where Johnson had bought the touristy crap.
They ordered cheeseburgers and fries and ate them in silence.
On the way back to the dude ranch, Virgil said, “You’ve gone kinda quiet. What’s with that?”
“I dunno,” Johnson said. “Thinking things over, I guess.”
“That doesn’t sound like Johnson Johnson. Thinking things over.”
On the way back, the Rosestone RV passed them, going in the opposite direction.
They didn’t wave.
At the ranch, Johnson said he was going to take a walk.
“In the rain?”
“I can’t tell it’s raining; this is a seven-hundred-dollar rain suit,” Johnson said.
“Still thinking things over?”
“Yep.”
Johnson rubbed the back of his neck and looked across the golf course where two men in Gore-Tex were chipping near a soggy green.
The door to the owners’ cabin burst open and Katy, carrying a waterproof bag, leaped across the porch to dash through the drizzle. Ignoring the rain, she grinned widely. “You guys won’t believe what happened.”
“From the way you’re smiling, I’d say you found your money,” Virgil said.
“Nope.” She was shaking her head. “Phillip’s dad came down here.”
That didn’t sound like good news.
She went on, “He said Phillip called from the bus station and said he was going to Minneapolis and wasn’t coming back. He told his dad he’d taken the money for a bus ticket but felt bad about it. And then Bart Weeks told my dad he didn’t want any trouble, and he wanted to pay it back.” Her grin widened and she blinked against the rain, oblivious to the fact that she was getting wet. “So he did, every penny of it. In cash.”
Virgil said, “That’s a little hard to believe.”
Johnson spread his arms and said, “Hard to believe, but we’ll take it. We’re gold.”
Katy said, “Yes, we are. I want to thank you guys for what you did. Thank you so much.”
Then she looked directly at Johnson.
“I’m sorry I said you look like a crook.”
• • •
THE NEXT DAY WAS COOL, the sky still tinged with darkness, the remaining clouds occasionally spitting some drizzle, but they could see stars far to the west, the cloud cover breaking up as night surrendered to dawn. Virgil and Johnson got their gear together and pulled on rain jackets, then took the insulated bag from Ann Waller who had made sandwiches and filled a thermos with coffee for them.
“An extra thanks for helping with Katy,” she explained. “It’s a big deal to her. To us.”
They were on their way to the Escalade for the trip to the river when Dan Cain stepped out on the porch of his cabin with a cup of coffee in his hand and called after them, “Good luck. Leave a couple fish for us.”
Johnson stopped, turned, and asked, “You coming?”
Cain shook his head. “Not yet. That fuckin’ Lang had one too many last night. He’s just getting up now. We’ll be a half hour behind you.”
• • •
The river was shallow and quick, with occasional pools, and it was gorgeous, with the stone-cut bank on the far side looking like a piece of petrified wood rising a hundred feet above them, the dawn coming, sunlight glinting on water. As dawn gave way to daylight Virgil spent almost as much time looking at the landscape as he did fishing, and the fishing was decent. A little after eight o’clock they stopped to sit on a rock and eat the egg-salad sandwiches that Ann Waller had made them for breakfast, when they heard a pop from upstream.
The report of a rifle echoed over the water.
They both stared downriver and waited.
No second shot.
Nothing to disturb the silence but the lapping of the water and the cry of a blackbird, its red wing visible in the brush on the shore.
“That was a rifle, a center fire,” Johnson said with a frown. “What the hell was he shootin’ at?”
Virgil didn’t know, and he had no idea what was in season for a hunter here in Montana. “If that was target shooting, the shooter was easily satisfied.”
“I don’t like the idea of people shooting around in heavy brush when there are lots of folks out on the river, fishing,” Johnson said. “It gives me an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades. Like we oughta be wearing our blaze orange.”
They finished their sandwiches as the sun rose over the eastern horizon, then climbed back into the boat and went down the river. Fishing. Catching nothing for half an hour.
And then a man started screaming.
“Virgil Flowers. Where the hell are you?”
The voice sounded frantic, scared as hell.
They both looked back upstream, trying to pinpoint its location.
• • •
They’d just pulled their boat to the side of the river and were heading toward the sound of the shouting, when Jim Waller, driving a John Deere Gator on what was little more than two ruts in the brush, found them. His face was grim, his lips compressed.
He didn’t bother climbing off the idling utility vehicle but shouted, “Dan Cain’s been shot. He’
s dead. For the love of Christ, some dumb ass shot him in the back.”
“You call the cops?” Virgil asked as he and Johnson slogged through the reeds, mud, and bitter brush to Waller’s vehicle.
“Yeah, but they’ll be half an hour.” Waller said. “We told them you were here, they want you to go up and take a look at the body.”
• • •
There was nothing to see.
No crime scene.
Virgil’s gaze swept up and down the river as he stood over the body and listened to a barely coherent Lang who had been fishing with Cain, the men in separate boats.
“I don’t know what happened. I mean, he was trailing me down the river about a hundred yards or so.” He was sweating and breathing hard, though it wasn’t from the temperature. Exertion and adrenaline had turned his face beet red. Fear rounded his eyes and he kept swiping at his forehead, wiping away the sweat.
The man was freaked.
As was Johnson.
He wasn’t good with dead bodies, and at the first chance he took off along the road, heading back to the spot where the car was parked.
Virgil listened as Lang explained in short bursts, his gaze traveling from the body to Virgil, along the river’s edge and back to the body.
He had looked Cain over, the shot had gone through his back, exited his chest, probably caught him right through the heart. Good shot, Virgil thought, if Cain really was the intended victim. If the whole thing was an accident, then both Cain and the shooter were damned unlucky. But if it were an accident, why hadn’t the shooter showed himself? Run for help?
A kid? Or just a coward?
Or a cold-stone killer?
Cain had been trailing Lang down the water by a hundred yards. Lang had gone around a bend in the river when he heard the shot. He’d gone on, but when Cain hadn’t reappeared around the bend, Lang, now worried, went looking for his friend and found him out of the boat, in the river, already dead, aground on some shallow rocks.
Lang said he’d dragged Cain’s body to the riverbank and pulled it up on shore. He believed Cain was dead, but wasn’t sure, and he’d run to get help.
“I found Jim, here,” he said, pointed at the owner of the ranch who was standing near his Gator, taking in the entire scene. “And we called 911.”
