Above the Waterfall (12 page)

On that late-summer morning, we'd been spraying conditioner on the hay baler's belts, C.J. on the left, me on the right. It was an old Vemeer, the rollers no more than an inch apart and its metal tines grabbing whatever they touched. We wore long-sleeved flannel shirts so the bales wouldn't chafe our arms. I let a sleeve get too close and a tine grabbed the cloth and jerked my arm toward the rollers. There are times when a single second can stretch like taffy and that happened when the baler snatched my shirtsleeve. I saw my sleeve and the button on my cuff and my hand and I saw where my sleeve and cuff and hand were about to go. C.J. grabbed my wrist just before my flesh touched the spinning rollers. Another few inches and both our arms would have been torn off. The tines missed my hand but not C.J.'s. Scars
he yet bore. I'd never thanked him for what he'd done, never even acknowledged to him or anyone else that it was my fault. I'd been silent when the doctor scolded C.J. for being careless, silent when his great-uncle drove us to the hospital.
He can say what happened easy as I can
, I'd told myself
.
It's his choice to take the blame.

I went up the lodge's porch steps and into the lobby. It was an impressive room, corbeled creek-rock fireplace, exposed beams on the ceiling. The wormy chestnut paneling held the smell of wood smoke. Two huge trout, one a brown, one a rainbow, made frozen leaps above the receptionist's desk. I sat down and waited, thinking about C.J. Classmates who'd bullied him called C.J. a coward when he hadn't fought back, but he'd been brave and selfless when he'd risked himself to save me.
In the very core of my being, who am I?
C.J. had answered the question that day on his uncle's farm. There were people who live their whole lives never knowing the answer. Others do, and, whether with pride or shame, they lived with that knowledge.

“You can go in now,” the receptionist said. “It's the last room on the right.”

Tucker didn't stand when I entered, simply nodded at the armchair opposite his desk. On the wall was a framed photograph of the resort staff, C.J. among them.

“So why this visit, Sheriff?”

“I wanted to talk to you about C.J.”

“What about him?”

“I don't think he should lose his job. Whatever's happened was more my fault than his. I knew Gerald might come over here and I should have made sure that he didn't. Even more so with the fish kill. If Gerald's responsible, that's on me too. I could have locked him up for threats, like you said.”

I paused to let Tucker respond but he didn't. Except for a slight frown, his face was expressionless.

“Look, Mr. Tucker,” I continued, “even if C.J. didn't handle things perfectly, he's done well for you otherwise. You know how hard he worked to get where he is. You know how he grew up too. I mean, even if you blame this whole mess on him, it's still just one mistake.”

“I don't have to justify my employment decisions to you or anyone else, Sheriff.”

“I know you don't, Mr. Tucker, but C.J.'s been working for you so long. He can rub people wrong sometimes, but he's as decent a man as I know. Loyalty's very important to you. I've heard you say that more than once.”

“You don't think I know these things?” Tucker said, but not harshly.

“I do. All I'm doing is reminding you of what to weigh against one mistake.”

“But it wasn't just one mistake and loyalty cuts both
ways,” Tucker answered. “When he came here, C.J. had us change some policies. We allowed the locals to pick blackberries, gather mistletoe, that kind of thing, even when some clients complained about them being on the property. Good public relations and something we owed the community, C.J. said, and I went along with it. But this April a poacher pretty much cleaned out the creek between here and the waterfall. I'm talking about fifty to sixty trout, and a lot of them our trophy fish. The smaller ones the bastard caught, he threw on the bank to rot beside his empty corn cans and cigarette butts.”

“I never heard about that,” I said.

“What could you have done about it if you had?” Tucker asked. “It's not like those trout would show up at a pawnshop. But you know as well as I do that it had to be a local and he ruined it for everybody else. I bought extra security cameras and changed our policy. You've seen the signs. Hell, how can you
not
see them when we've got them posted every twenty yards, and every one makes clear we
will
prosecute. Gerald went up there in June and we got him on camera. Did you know that?”

“C.J. told me Monday.”

“Well,” Tucker said. “Did C.J. also tell you he lied so I wouldn't find out?”

“No.”

“He told my security people that he'd report Gerald
being up there to me and then he told them he had and that it was taken care of. But C.J. didn't report it to me. I didn't find out until this Monday when Gerald came and threatened me. Security pulled up C.J.'s e-mails to prove he'd lied.”

“Because C.J. didn't want Gerald prosecuted,” I said. “That's the only reason he did it.”

“I don't know why. What I do know is that he lied to three of my employees. He lied to me too, with his actions if not his words. And now you've seen the consequences of his lying. It was out there in the creek. You're right about me, Sheriff, loyalty is important, and loyalty and honesty are inseparable. My workers know that, and every time one of them has broken that trust they've been fired. No exceptions, and there never will be. C.J.
has
done good work for me though and I'll do what I can for him. I'll write job recommendations and I'll say only positive things. I'll blame the economy for his being let go. But he's never going to work here again.”

I waited a few moments. As with the tone in his voice, nothing in Tucker's face gave hope he'd change his mind.

“C.J.'s been a friend of mine since we were teenagers,” I said. “You know that.”

“Yes,” Tucker said.

“How did he take it when you fired him?”

“Not very well. He tried to get me to change my mind.
He brought up his sons, told me how hard he'd worked to give them a good life and how if I fired him they'd not have that. I told him I was sorry but he'd made a choice and had to live with the consequences. Then he left.”

“Was he angry?”

“Not at me,” Tucker said. “He was mad at himself, and at Gerald, of course. He knew I was in the right.”

Tucker had told me more than he'd intended. He grimaced and turned his attention to a spreadsheet on his desk.

“Go on about your business, Sheriff,” Tucker said, “and I'll go about mine.”

When I went back outside, a fisherman was in the creek, his rod curved and throbbing. Then he dipped his net and raised it, in the mesh a foot-long rainbow. He removed the hook and gently lowered the trout to the water, opened his hand and the fish slipped free. Instead of getting back in my car, I walked across the road and tried to spot Becky. I needed to talk to her but didn't see her in the meadow or near the bridge.

My phone buzzed.

“I got your Verizon info,” Rance said, “and I've got a feeling you'll find it pretty damn interesting.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me.”

“A guy named Levon Carlson bought the phone in Knoxville last January. I figured to save you a bit of time so
checked ole Levon out myself. If you're wanting to lock him up, you're too late.”

“How's that?”

“Levon is in prison.”

“
Prison
?”

“That's right, prison.”

“Where?”

“Over in Tennessee at Roan Mountain. He's been locked up for three months. Got busted in Knoxville for dealing drugs.”

“And the phone hasn't been confiscated?”

“Hey, that's your area of expertise,” Rance said. “All I know is it's his phone that made the call you asked about.”

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

What the hell is going on
? I thought. Gerald claimed the call was from a woman, yet a woman's voice could be faked. But why would a convict in Tennessee call Gerald? Carlson sure as hell wasn't the one who'd been up there poisoning the trout. A wrong number was still possible. Or maybe Carlson was some distant relative, who, like Darby, wanted something, probably money. Or some pal of Darby's looking for him, and figured his uncle would know.

Or someone had used Carlson to set up Gerald
.

But if that was it, whoever asked Carlson to call would surely want any evidence destroyed, meaning the phone would already be broken apart and flushed into the
prison's sewer system. Though if that was true, why would it still ring only a couple of hours ago? A call to the prison would give me an answer, but before that I decided to look at the security video again.

“I need to get permission from Mr. Tucker first,” Randall Cobb told me.

“I understand.”

“Mr. Tucker didn't sound happy about it,” Randall said when he hung up, “but he said okay.”

I studied the video of Gerald coming up, then had Randall show Gerald going back down. Even though I couldn't see his hands, I saw enough.

“What is it?” Randall asked.

“Look how level his shoulders are, coming and going. If he was carrying a can that weighed forty to fifty pounds, surely one shoulder would be lower, especially after carrying it a quarter-mile up a ridge.”

“He's a stout man,” Randall said.

“I know, but still. Do a lot of people here know where the cameras are?”

“Of course. Our job's easier if they aren't tripping them all the time.”

“I understand,” I said.

When I came out of the security office, Tucker waited on the lodge's porch.

“Why did you need to see that video again?”

“To be certain that someone other than Gerald poisoned those trout.”

“Someone other than Gerald,” Tucker said, “and who in the hell might that be?”

“One of your workers.”

“It wasn't a goddamn accident, Sheriff. I've already gone over this with DENR. My men would have reported it to me. Like I told you fifteen minutes ago, I don't abide anyone who's not honest around here.”

“I'm not saying it was an accident. What if one of them had a grudge against you? Or some locals like that poacher. They wouldn't like those
WE PROSECUTE
signs.”

“Someone did have a grudge against me, Sheriff, and his name is Gerald Blackwelder.”

Go ahead and say it,
I thought, because Tucker was already so royally pissed that I didn't have much to lose.

“Or a worker might have thought he was helping you and the resort get rid of a problem.”

Tucker's mouth opened wide enough to show the gold crowns in his back teeth. Then a huffing sound, as if dislodging something in his throat.

“My God,” he said, as if marveling at his own words. “You think I did this.”

“I'm not accusing,” I said, “but—”

“Get off my property,” Tucker said. “And if you
ever
come back up here you'd better be hiring a goddamn good lawyer, because I've got three and they'll be on you like a pack of pit bulls.”

I drove straight to the courthouse and dialed Roan Moun-tain prison. After a few transfers, I got Carlson's wing. You had to be diplomatic in these matters, so I mentioned the former warden, a guy I'd met a few times. Joseph, the tier guard, had worked for him and liked him, which was all good for me. When I asked if they'd confiscated a cell phone from a prisoner named Levon Carlson, Joseph said no.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I ought to get my superior's okay on this, but hell, I'll have one of my men check. If that phone's in there, even if it's up Carlson's ass, we'll know.”

“And if you don't mind, could you tell the guard not to mention what he's looking for?”

“He can say he's searching for contraband.”

Joseph asked for my office number and said he'd call back.

“Better that way,” he said. “Just so I confirm who you say you are.”

“Thanks,” I said, and gave my number.

I didn't have to wait long for the call back.

“It's not in his cell, or on him, or in him,” Joseph said. “The guard checked every cell on Carlson's tier. No phone.”

“I'd still like to talk to Carlson,” I said. “Could you let me, by phone?”

“I can't without the warden or his assistant's okay. They've gone to Nashville on state business and won't be back before five.”

“It's important.”

“I understand, but keeping my job is important too,” Joseph said. “I can get it set up in the morning.”

“What's the earliest?”

“Nine or so. When I find out, I'll call and let you know.”

I gave him my cell phone number and thanked him. I called Dr. Washburn and then met with Jarvis. I got him up to speed on the phone call and what I'd seen on the video.

“I talked to Dr. Washburn,” I said. “He doubted Gerald's heart could stand that kind of strain.”

“This horse is getting some stripes on it,” Jarvis said, “but still, who else would do it?”

“An employee, or former employee, someone who wants to get back at Tucker but not take the blame.”

“C.J. Gant would fill that bill,” Jarvis said. “He wouldn't mind getting Gerald into trouble either.”

That notion was like a scratched match that flares up a moment, but then doesn't catch.

“No, C.J. couldn't do this, even if he was angry enough to.”

“Why not?” Jarvis asked.

“Because of his sons. He grew up knowing what it's like to be humiliated by your father. He'd not risk the same for his boys.”

“What about someone getting back at Tucker
because
he fired C.J.?”

That was something I'd not thought of. Far-fetched but everything seemed far-fetched now.

“Of course it could be something besides a grudge,” I said, “something we haven't even considered.”

“What about Darby Ramsey?” Jarvis asked.

“How so?”

“If Gerald got put in prison or declared senile he could do what he liked with the farm, right?”

“No, Darby doesn't have power of attorney,” I said. “He knows the only way he gets the farm is when Gerald's dead.”

“So it can still be Gerald.”

“Yes, it can,” I said, “but if my chat with Levon Carlson doesn't settle this, we'll get a list of current and former employees. That will give Tucker something else to be pissed off at me about. I can find out who worked closest with C.J. and I'll have a visit with Darby too. He may be so drug-addled he's forgotten what has to happen for him to get his inheritance.”