In the Shadow of Death (17 page)

“
GEORGE, DO YOU RECALL
the Leonard Smith abduction way back?” Nat asked, when he'd finally managed to make contact with his buddy.

“Sure do. Why?”

“I think Maggie's stumbled onto a lead. Could you see what you can dig up?”

“That must've been at least . . . what . . . ten years ago? I remember they never found him.”

“It was nine years.”

“What's she found out?”

“This is a ten-twelve, George,” Nat said, using the code to tell his friend that someone could be listening in. “But it's serious enough that we might have to contact you officially.”

“Have you told Brossard?”

“Not yet. We've only just got in.”

“Well, you'd better get on to him. Especially if something's happened on his turf.”

“I suppose,” Nat answered slowly, “we'll go into Williams Lake this afternoon.”

“Find a safe way to let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing, George. I'll call from Williams.”

After the phone call, Nat wandered into the kitchen. “Okay for Maggie and I to use the Jeep again?” he asked. “We have to see Corporal Brossard.”

“You'd better call him first,” Kate answered. “He has a huge territory and may be out.”

Nat was lucky and got Brossard on his first try. The corporal reluctantly agreed to meet with them at three that afternoon.

“I see you've brought in the big guns,” he said to Maggie, nodding toward the two visitors' chairs. “What's it this time, more money?”

“Actually,” Nat said, after he'd introduced himself and produced his investigator's licence. “I'm the one that insisted on seeing you. And I think you should listen to what Maggie has to say.”

“Mrs. Spencer,” Corporal Brossard said sarcastically after listening to her story, “are you sure you're not letting your imagination run away with you again?”

“Believe me, corporal, I saw that money and the briefcase,” she answered.

“And who did you say was . . . ahem . . . kidnapped?”

“Leonard Smith.”

Brossard shrugged. “Never heard of him. And then you said that someone tried to kill you with a rock slide.” He gave a tight smile. “It was raining hard at the time, I believe.”

Maggie could feel her face redden. “Mr. Southby's sure it wasn't a natural slide,” she answered him coldly.

“You an authority on rock slides, Mr. Southby?”

“That's it!” Nat stood up. “Corporal Brossard, it's obvious you don't want to believe Mrs. Spencer's story, so I advise you to check into the Smith abduction. Let's go, Maggie.”

Brossard pushed back from his desk and stood. “Okay, okay, sit down. No need to get huffy. Let's go through it again.” He turned back to Maggie. “Now, this money. Was it just thrown in the box or was it in stacks?”

“I told you, stacks of twenties, hundreds, and five hundreds. All denominations,” she answered. “And the briefcase was on top.”

“You didn't take any of the money?”

“No. I left it there.”

“So, if it's gone, you've no evidence of this . . . uh . . . ransom?”

“But I
do
have evidence,” she answered witheringly. “This!” And she handed over the sheet of paper that she'd taken from the briefcase.

He read the paper slowly. “This is a sales contract. What's this got to do with a kidnapping?”

Margaret looked to Nat, waiting for him to take over.

“How long have you been in British Columbia, corporal?” Nat asked.

“Five years.”

“Leonard Smith was abducted about nine years ago. Look at the date on the paper, September 10, 1950. It was about a week after that he disappeared.” Nat paused. “I was with the Vancouver police at the time. The case caused quite a stink.”

“So Smith was never found?”

“There wasn't a trace of him or the money . . . up to now.”

“I'll give you this,” Brossard said thoughtfully, “if you're right and Mrs. Spencer was seen, you could both be in danger.” He turned to Maggie. “I did tell you to leave the disappearance of Guthrie to us.”

“But,” Maggie said with a smile, “if I had followed your advice, corporal, you wouldn't have known about the abduction or the ransom money.” She rose from her chair to stand beside Nat.

“I'll have to keep this,” Brossard said, indicating the contract, “and I do strongly advise the two of you to return to Vancouver as soon as possible.”

“We're here to find Guthrie,” Nat answered. “That's what we've undertaken, and find him we will.”

Before returning to the ranch, Nat stopped at the phone booth and put in a call to Sawasky. “As promised,” Nat said, when he heard his friend's voice. “Listen, I'll fill you in.”

“I've made enquiries about Guthrie, Teasdale and Nordstrom,” Sawasky said, after listening to Nat. “There's nothing so far on Guthrie or Teasdale, but Nordstrom was questioned on an investment scam about five years ago. Just penny mining stocks on the VSE, but with a couple of suspicious twists, though nothing that could be proved.”

“How about that!” Nat answered. “And Smith? What did you find out about him?”

“His sons took over the business after the old man went missing. They told me that just before he was abducted, someone had approached Smith to get him to invest half a million in a mine. The son I talked to said that after getting his lawyers to investigate, his father declined. Seems it was too risky even for him.”

“Did they say who it was that made the offer?”

“He didn't know. Could've been Nordstrom, I suppose. But as far as I can tell, he's clean as a whistle now. Anyway, I've put in a call to one of my pals down in Seattle to see if they know anything about Guthrie.”

“Why did you have to see Brossard?” Kate asked, when they finally got back. “Was it about Doug? Do you know where he is?” She bit back the tears. “I think there's something you're not telling me! Has he been hurt? I've been trying to keep calm, but . . . but . . . it's all getting too much.”

Maggie put her arm around the younger woman and led her to a chair. “We're still in the dark about Doug, but there have been other developments, Kate. You see, I found another entrance to that old mine . . . ” And she proceeded to tell her all about the cache of money in the mine and Leonard Smith's abduction.

“A
re you sure you've ridden before?” Al looked Nat up and down, noting his five feet ten inches and rather rotund figure.

It was nine o'clock in the morning, and after a quick breakfast; Maggie had led a somewhat reluctant Nat to the stables. She was determined that he was going to experience the joy of riding, but now she was wondering if her enthusiasm had been wise.

“Uh-h-h, sure . . . lots of times,” Nat replied, sizing up the huge black animal.

“How long ago?” Al persisted.

“Well, it's been quite awhile,” he admitted, still looking warily at the horse. Maggie was already astride Angel, and he realized he couldn't put his own moment of truth off much longer.

“This is Satan,” Al replied, still looking dubiously at Nat. “Don't worry, he's not at all like his name. Do you want to use the block?”

“No. I can manage.” He'd seen how easily Maggie had swung herself up and wasn't about to be outdone. He grabbed the horn on the saddle, put his foot in the stirrup and strained to lift himself. Satan, not enjoying the fumblings of this inexperienced honcho, shifted his stance. Then hot urine cascaded like Niagra Falls, splashing off the concrete floor and onto Nat's new jeans and boots. Jumping back to get out of the way, Nat lost his footing. “A-a-agh!” He floundered backward and sat in the pool of pee. “Bloody hell!” Imperiously, Satan turned his head and the two of them glared at each other. Noting the glint of triumph in the horse's eyes, Nat rose to his feet and grabbed a handful of hay to wipe his jeans down. Then he seized the saddle horn again, determined to be master.

“As you haven't ridden for awhile,” Al said, trying his best not to laugh, “perhaps the block would be a good idea?”

Nat was about to protest, but Maggie was laughing so hard that he couldn't help but join in. “Okay,” he said sheepishly. But even with the help of the block, it took a lot of effort to get him astride the huge beast.

“I think I'd better come along,” Al said. “Sit tight,” he commanded, and headed for his own horse's stall.

“But aren't you going to the rodeo?” Maggie asked. Kate had told her that there was one held in Williams Lake each year on Canada Day, and that all the local ranch hands took part in it.

“Yep, later. It can't possibly be as much fun as last year, anyway.”

“Why? What happened?”

“First off, Princess Margaret came all this way to officially open the event, and as if that wasn't enough, a helluva big Brahma bull went crazy and charged the first-aid tent.” He chuckled. “Shoulda seen 'em scatter. It was real funny.”

“What a shame I missed it,” Nat said dryly.

With Al leading, they headed for the trail. Grim-faced, Nat clung for dear life and thanked God that Al was setting a leisurely pace. “Nice Satan.” He patted the majestic neck. Satan's reply was a snort and toss of his head, and Nat decided to concentrate on savouring the earthy smells of the range and praying that the trip would be short.

The trail took them through several acres of rape, its tall fronds rippling in the gentle breeze. Al, dropping back to ride beside Nat, told him that it was grown for fodder and that it was almost ready for reaping. Holding on tight, Nat took a cautious look and nodded wisely. As they neared the foothills, Al took the lead again, leaving the trail and guiding them onto a back road that skirted the river.

“This is the trail Hendrix and I took,” Maggie called back to Nat. “It follows the river and goes around the east side of the mountain.”

When they reached the river, Nat watched Maggie slip easily off Angel and lead her to the water. “Would you like to dismount too?” Al asked.

Nat shook his head ruefully. “I don't think I'd be able to get back on.”

Al laughed. “There's lots of boulders around.”

“It's my backside I'm worried about. It's numb.” He sat quietly, enjoying the sight of the horse nudging at Maggie's pocket, where she knew the apples were kept. Laughing, Maggie found the fruit and held one out to her and another to Satan. Al's horse, not to be outdone, ambled over for her share. It was so peaceful and quiet that the only sounds they could hear were the three horses chomping, the soft breezes that whispered through the aspens, and the birds chirping as they flew from branch to branch.

“You're an old softie,” Maggie murmured, stroking Angel's nose. “I suppose we'd better get back.” She was about to swing up into the saddle when a glimpse of white caught her attention. “What's that over there?” she said, pointing to a clump of trees upriver.

“It looks like a pickup,” Al replied. “What the hell's it doing here?” He led his horse forward, with Maggie following on foot and Nat still up on Satan.

“I've seen that truck before,” Maggie exclaimed, as they got closer. Then she stopped and lowered her voice. “There seems to be someone asleep inside.”

“Sure looks like it,” Nat said, from the lofty height of the horse. “But . . . ” He urged Satan to get in front. “Keep back, Maggie,” he said. “I don't think he's sleeping.” But she had gone on and was already tethering her horse beside Al's, and Nat realized there was nothing for it: he had to get off the damned animal. This proved to be a very difficult operation, and by the time he had slithered down Satan's flanks, Al and Maggie were peering into the driver's open window. The man was oddly still and—they quickly realized—very dead.

“He's been shot!” Maggie turned her pale face to Nat. “Oh, Nat, he's been shot.” She turned away from the window, ran over to an oak tree and held onto the trunk for support. It took several minutes for her to stop retching, her thoughts flashing back to when she first started to work for Nat and her discovery of the brutally murdered body of Ernie Bradshaw.

“Do you know him?” Nat asked Al.

“Never seen him before.” The two men walked around to the open window on the passenger's side and peered in. On the bench seat beside the dead man's outstretched right hand lay a gun, a couple of half-eaten, dried-up sandwiches, an unopened bottle of Coke and a packet of cigarettes. The bullet had entered the man's right temple and left a jagged hole, his skin burned from the closeness of the weapon.

Maggie straightened and walked over to the two men. “Did he shoot himself?” she asked.

“Sure looks like it,” Al said. “We'd better call the cops.”

“You said you'd seen the truck before,” Nat said, turning to Maggie. “What about the man?”

Maggie steeled herself to have a closer look. “It's the man who stopped Angel from bolting.”

Nat pulled a wallet out of his back pocket, extracted the small photo that Sawasky had supplied, and compared it with the dead man. “Chandler.”

“The man who was in jail?”

Nat nodded. “Mmmm.” He walked around the truck to the driver's side again, with Maggie following, and peered closer at the dead man. “The bullet's gone right through,” he said, pointing to the exit wound. “God knows where it is.” He studied the angle of the hole. “Probably in one of those trees over there.”

“Who's Chandler?” Al demanded.

“One of Guthrie's old partners,” Maggie answered.

“Must've been before my time,” Al replied.

“He's just out of prison,” she explained. She turned to Nat. “How can you tell it's Chandler? This man in your picture doesn't have a beard.”