“Dammit!” Halfway out of the drive I remembered Buford.
I backed up and parked again, and I was very glad I turned off the lights and the engine, because just about the time I was going into the mud room from the rear I heard a pick up go by on the road out front. I froze, waiting, until the sound of the vehicle faded away. Then I picked up the poor stiff dog and carried him around to the car. I laid him on the floor in the rear seat and covered him with an old towel Rick had left there, probably after a swim in the same hole in which he would now swim forever, and drove away from the Dornan residence.
As I passed back through town, driving with my fingers crossed and hoping no one would see and recognize Ricky’s car, I went over the final step of the plan in my mind.
The previous weekend I had borrowed the Plymouth and gone out to the parking spot off the highway where the trail led down to the swimming hole. There was something I had checked out the last time I was down there swimming, but now I wanted to see how it looked from the opposite direction – from the highway’s edge, looking down.
I stopped the car about fifty feet back up the roadway from where the trail entrance was, with the vehicle pointing to the edge and toward the river. Then I got out and walked around to the front of the car, stood at the edge and looked down. I was very satisfied with what I saw.
You see, when I looked up in this direction from the swimming hole, I noticed that although I knew right where the highway was I could not see it from the river’s level. I was looking up through small brush and past the rock outcropping from which people would jump or dive, and the only way I would have seen anyone up on the road would be if they walked right to the edge and looked down.
On the day I took the Fury there and stood in front of it looking down, I could see that there was absolutely nothing that would slow the weight of a car if it went over the edge at just the right spot, which was right where I was standing.
So the night I had the Dornan men in the trunk of Rick’s car I knew exactly where to go, where to park and how to angle the car.
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I drove back through town. In those days Quincy rolled up its sidewalks pretty early. So my drive through town was uneventful and I went out the west end without seeing a living soul.
When I arrived at the spot I pulled over to the left, off the pavement, aimed the car at the proper angle and eased up as close to the edge as I dared. From this vantage point I could see quite a way down the canyon past an ‘s’ curve in the highway. If anyone was coming up I would see their headlights before I could even hear their engine. If anyone came down the highway from Quincy or Greenville, they’d be on me almost before I knew it. I had to move quickly.
Leaving the engine idling, I turned off the headlamps and took my .22 out of the front seat. I laid the rifle on the ground where it would be out of the way.
There was no neat way to do this and I had to take care not to get dragged over the edge along with the car. So I picked up a rock that felt like it was about 8 to 10 pounds, and cradled it against my ribs with my left hand. Then I reached down into the open driver’s door and pushed the steering column-mounted shift lever down to the drive position. At that exact moment I could have sworn I heard a loud moan from the trunk. It made me jump a little and it was a slight distraction but I couldn’t let it interrupt the flow of my movements because the timing now was crucial. I couldn’t take a chance on the car hanging up on the edge and just sitting there, immovable.
As soon as the lever hit the drive position the car started a slow roll forward. I shifted the rock to both hands, and with a forward pass movement like tossing a basketball to a teammate, I threw the rock between the driver’s seat and the bottom side of the steering wheel. It hit squarely on the gas pedal, pushing it down and causing the car to react as though a driver had stomped his foot down on it.
The tires spun on the loose gravel, the vehicle lurched and it fairly sailed over the edge. As it passed into the darkness there was about a two second interval where there was no noise at all except the dropping of RPMs from the engine. Then there was a loud crashing as it came down on shrubs and rocks. It sounded like it bounced once because I heard a secondary crashing sound, then a brief silence, and then the very faint sound of splashing water over and above the sound that the waterfall had already been sending up the cliff’s side.
Then there was only the sound of the river far below. I stood there for a minute, looking down into the darkness and wondering if the car was submerged in the deep pool as planned. I had carefully calculated the angle, but I was well aware that any number of things could have changed the car’s trajectory. It could be lying upside down above the falls in three feet of water. There was no way of knowing without coming back later in the daylight. But I also knew that I had to just stay away from here for a while. I had read enough crime stories to know that lots of guys got caught because they returned to the scene to admire their work. I wasn’t going to fall for that one.
I picked up my rifle and began the long walk back to town. The events of the night caught up with me all at once now that it was over, and I was so exhausted I almost wanted to lay down at the roadside and sleep. My legs and arms were rubber and my eyes burned with weariness.
I think I walked two or maybe three miles when a tractor-trailer rig came up from the flatlands. As he came around a curve in the highway, his lights swept across me. I was tempted to hitchhike but wasn’t sure that would be wise. I wasn’t really in the mood to answer any questions so I didn’t put my thumb out.
He stopped up ahead anyway, and as I approached from behind the rig the driver stuck his head out and offered me a ride. “Sure, mister, thanks.” I said, and climbed into the passenger side of the cab.
As he pulled back out onto the roadway he said, “Kid, this is a pretty bad spot to be walking in the middle of the night.” I know I looked dirty and I’m sure my weariness showed so I didn’t have to put on an act in that regard. I said, “Yeah. I was camping, and this afternoon I went out to see if I could find a rabbit for dinner.” Here was where I feigned embarrassment. “Well, I got lost and before I could get my bearings and find camp, it got dark. When I stumbled on the highway, well, then I knew right where I was. So I figured on hiking home and going back out tomorrow for my camping gear.” I smiled shyly and turned to look out the window on my side, hoping he bought it.
The driver chuckled a little and said, “Yep, it can be easy to get turned around once the sun starts to go down in these hills. You still in High School?”
“Yessir”, I said, “graduating next week.”
“Goin’ to college?”
“No sir, the Army.”
“Oh. Drafted?”
“No sir, I signed up. Figured maybe if I volunteer they’ll send me someplace nicer than Viet Nam”
“Maybe.” He drove in silence for another minute, then added, “Don’t count on it.”
I let the conversation drop there. When we got to Church Street and Main I thanked him for the lift and had him drop me there. When I got to the church parsonage I could see that all lights were off, so I quietly let myself in the back door, went to my room and was asleep in seconds.
Graduation was the 20th. To celebrate, a handful of guys and gals agreed to meet down at that swimming hole the next day to do some diving and lying in the sun. Someone asked if I was coming, and I really needed to know where Ricky’s car had landed so I said yes.
It had been two weeks. Eileen was back at home. I only knew that because she had finally got around to contacting Sheriff Abernathy about the strange disappearance of her father and brothers.
There was even an article about it in the Feather River Bulletin. There wasn’t much to say. Eileen had arrived at the bus station and there was no one there to pick her up. She finally got a ride home from a friend only to find that the men were not home, her brother’s car was gone, and even the family dog wasn’t there. A search had been undertaken and finally a statew
ide lookout issued, but so far no one locally had seen or heard of the Dornan men.
The day after graduation came and a couple of the guys stopped to pick me up. When we got to the swimming hole there were already people there. No one seemed to be acting in any way other than with a party spirit. Beer was flowing, chips and dips and cookies could be had, some folks were sunning on the rocks and there was already some diving going on into the deep pool.
As nonchalantly as I could, I waded across the shallow pool and when I got to the far side I sat down on my towel. Looking up toward the highway I could clearly see the path the car had taken down the steep embankment. Brush was torn up, gravel was turned, at one point I thought I could see tire marks in the loose ground between foliage.
I quickly looked away to avoid drawing anyone else’s eyes upward. After I waited a few more minutes, watching the swimmers and enjoying the view of some of the girls from class sunning in their bikinis, I got up and eased down into the water. I swam around the surface for a minute or two, taking an occasional glance around me to be certain no one was paying me any particular attention.
Then I dove. Taking a deep breath, I dropped under the surface of the water, then turned my body and dove almost straight down. The water got cooler as I went, and then darker. I was at the point of needing to take a breath and wondering if indeed the car had not hit the water at all but was resting somewhere behind growth on the hillside, when all of a sudden right in front of me was a grill and two headlamps.
The car had come to rest at an angle. It had turned around at some point so that it was facing back up the hill, but now rested at the bottom of this deep pool, pointing up in the direction of the surface as though to express a desire to rise back up out of this place where no automobile should ever be.
That was enough. I didn’t need to see more. I went back to the surface and relaxed in the sun until my ride was ready to go back to town.
Well, that’s my Quincy story. I spent the summer doing some odd jobs for pocket change, went to the movies often, saw “The Wild Bunch” and “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” and “Midnight Cowboy” and “Paint Your Wagon”…and I went swimming a lot too. But I didn’t dive deep.
My parents moved out of Quincy in the end of July, headed for yet another church in another town. I stayed in Quincy with friends until my date to ship out, which was September 29. I was in basic training for 12 weeks then had two weeks leave for Christmas, then back for combat training, and by February of 1970 I was in Nam. So much for the benefits of volunteering.
Guess I’ll be writing some things down about my Colorado years. Right now, I need a rest.
CHAPTER 4
Sam closed the folder. He had been reading aloud to Mon while she drove ever since they left the diner in Oroville where they stopped for lunch. Now they were winding up the Feather River canyon toward Quincy.
As he took out his cell he said to Monica, “Well, we need to find a couple of rooms first then let’s find the Sheriff before he goes home for the day. Maybe we can arrange to have his search and rescue people do some diving tomorrow.” He hit a direct dial button on his cell and after a few moments, the Tech person in the Stockton office answered. The Tech had the musical name of Kimberly India. She was a cute, petite twenty-something who knew stuff about computers and finding information that amazed everyone else in the office any time they needed her to dig.
“Kim, how’s it going back at the ranch?”
“Hi Agent Sam!” her cheery voice came back. “We’re all doing fine here; with the exception of missing you and Monica, of course. Are you in Quincy yet?”
“Nope.” Answered Sam. “Still about thirty minutes out according to GPS. Hey, Kim, I’ve got a job for you.”
He heard the familiar lilt that her voice got when she heard that her special talents were needed. “Oh boy! Go ahead with it – I’m ready!”
Sam smiled into the cell. “I need you to start with a young High School aged girl from about 1969 or 70 named Eileen Dornan. See if you can trace her down. If you have to search birth certificate records, I would suggest trying the early 1950’s; maybe ’52 or ’53. Find out if she ever married, what her name is now, address, etcetera, etcetera. Oh, but first, please call the Plumas County Sheriff and tell him we’re almost there. Ask him if he can spare us a few minutes this afternoon.”
“Got it!” she chirped. “I’ll get back with you.”
Sam said “Great, good-bye” but Kim was gone, already on the hunt.
As they continued up the canyon, Sam kept an eye on the GPS. When it indicated they were twelve miles out of Quincy he said, “Start watching for a turnout on your right. There’s no point in stopping now, but according to Everman’s account there should be at least a spot wide enough for vehicles to park…there it is.” He pointed ahead.
They drove past, looking at the parking area off the highway’s edge and Sam glanced at the GPS. Eleven miles to Quincy. “Well,” he said, “that must be the place we need to come back to.”
As they entered the community Mon pulled over into the parking lot of Gold Pan Lodge. After they secured adjoining rooms and put their suitcases away, they got back in the car and headed for the Sheriff’s Department in East Quincy. Kim had called while they were checking into the lodge. The Sheriff was out of town at a conference in the Bay area, but Undersheriff, Velma Matheson had sounded excited to meet them. She promised a tour of the facilities and said she looked forward to discussing the agents’ mission.
They turned up Abernathy Lane in East Quincy and as they were passing the Jail’s Visitor Center they saw a woman in uniform talking to a man and woman who were walking away from the front door. Monica parked the car and as they got out the woman in uniform said goodbye to the couple she was with and turned her attention to the agents.
“Hello. Would you be Agents Sterling and Runyan?” she asked, extending a hand toward Sam as she approached.
“We would be, Undersheriff”, he answered as he read her name tag and took her hand in greeting. “I’m Sam Runyan and this is my partner, Monica Sterling.”
She waved him off with a flip of her hand as she shook Monica’s with her other and said, “Oh, call me Velma. Everyone does, even the jailers.”
Velma Matheson was a squarely built woman in her early to mid-forties. Sam noted that she was about three inches shorter than Monica, putting her at around 5’5”, but when they shook hands he discovered that her strength more than made up for her lack of height. She had dark red hair and a ruddy complexion and a quick smile.
“You two have been on the road for a while.” She noted “How about a stretch of your legs while I give you the grand tour? We’ve had a lot of changes in the last couple of years and we’re proud of them. I don’t get to show the facilities off to folks very often these days.”
Sam nodded and Monica shrugged and in unison they said “Sure!” As they followed Velma gave them a brief recent history of the jail. She said that the employees had fought a good fight to get some improvements approved that would make things more convenient and safer for inmates and visitors, but also for the jail staff.
She walked them through beginning with the visitors’ waiting area and explained that it had been expanded from a tiny entrance way with a buzzer to call for assistance, to a lobby with seating and carpeting with an attending staff member behind a glass partition for signing in.
As they went she pointed to cameras mounted in strategic places along the corridors and at corners so that officers monitoring could track a person’s movements through the entire facility. She smiled broadly as they entered the break room and she explained that it was new, as were the refrigerator, microwave oven and sink. Pointing to one side of the room she indicated that the small corner had once been the entire break room and had been uncomfortable and unpleasant. Across the hall were new bathrooms, locker rooms and showers for which the jailers and deputies alike were very thankful, since every once in a while a person under arrest for publi
c intoxication or DUI would throw up and they somehow often managed to find a uniform upon which to deposit the content of their stomach.
She didn’t take the agents out to the back, but she explained that they also had a brand new sally port for the transition of prisoners from a patrol car to a holding area for booking. These were all big improvements over what the staff had worked with, and endured, for many years, she explained, and the overall morale of the staff had improved greatly along with the renovations.
The tour ended at an office door with Velma’s name and title on it. She opened the door and welcomed Sam and Monica in. They took chairs in front of her desk and she pulled her desk chair out to the side so they could chat less formally.
Tapping a small stack of paper on the corner of the desk with her index finger, Velma said, “I read the file you had your perky-sounding computer tech email to me this morning. That’s quite a story! I haven’t had time to check old files for a missing person’s report on the Dornans, if there is one, but it shouldn’t take long to dig up whatever might have been filed back then.”
Monica nodded and was asking about the availability of divers for a check of the swimming hole mentioned in the confession, as Sam’s cell beeped and he looked at the caller ID.
“It’s Kim” he said, “Let’s see what she has for us.” He tapped the cell and put the call on speaker. “Kim, I’m here with Agent Sterling and Velma Matheson, the Plumas County Undersheriff you spoke with earlier.”
Kim’s voice came over the speaker. “Hello everyone. Well, I’ll get right to it. I found Eileen, and it wasn’t too difficult. She was married in July 1968, to a Michael Brandenberg,” Sam interrupted. “Wait. Excuse me, Kim. Did you say 1968?” “Yes..” she came back.
Monica voiced what the three of them were thinking. “According to Everman’s account, he murdered her family in June of 1969. He didn’t mention anywhere that she was married.”
The Everman Journal Page 13
