Mortal Fall (38 page)

Adam took off running without even waiting for my reply and I followed, my small legs pumping faster and faster to try to catch him and my lungs sucking in the frigid air. When we came out of the store, the dog wasn’t far away. He had followed us. We held the treats out for him, grabbed him, and slipped the collar on him.

I don’t know why I kept the collar when I packed my things to move away for college. It wasn’t anything special really. We didn’t even get to keep the dog. We had brought him home, walking him and stopping to pat the top of his head and tell him that he was a good boy. Adam had already picked out a name by the time we got to our driveway. Reggie—that’s what he said he wanted to call him. And when I said,
You know dad won’t let us keep him
, Adam had frowned and gotten angry.
Yes he will; he’ll have to. The poor thing needs a home
.

But Dad came marching right out before we even got to the front door, stumbling slightly with half a bag already on him. He wagged his finger back and forth at us, “Oh no, you don’t. Whatever you boys are thinking, you can forget it.”

“But, please, Dad,” Adam had whined. “He’s really good, and Monty and I will take care of him.”

“Yeah, right you will.” He’d laughed. “A dog, no goddamned way.” The swearing came out more when he had had a few.

“But, please, Dad. Please.” Adam elbowed me hard in the ribs to chime in, so I did.

“Please, please, Dad. We’ll take care of him. We will, really.”

“Yeah, right. You’ll buy him dog food, walk him, and clean his shit out of the yard?”

“We already bought him a collar and leash,” Adam said.

“With what? You use the money I gave you this morning for that?”

Adam looked down.

“Christ,” he mumbled. “Can’t trust you with anything.”

“Can’t we please keep him, Dad? We really will take care of him.”

“What are you? Crazy? Can’t you see it’s way too much? Shit, your mom, she can’t even take care of the two of you.” He gestured meanly at us. “Can’t even take care of herself, can’t even take the medicine the doctors give her,” he said loudly. “How’s she supposed to handle a damn dog, for Christ’s sake.”

Both Adam and I said nothing, just stared at him.

He shook his head when he realized what he’d said, maybe had seen the expressions on our faces, and looked at the ground as if he recognized that he’d shared too much, even if what he was saying wasn’t anything we didn’t already know.
Can’t even take care of herself.
But to hear it from him—that was a different matter. We were six and ten years old.

“Tell you what, we’ll keep him tonight.” He looked back at us. “But tomorrow he goes to the shelter. Understand?”

Adam wouldn’t reply, but I said, “Yes, sir,” and Adam glared at me for doing so.

That night, Adam and I doted on the dog. We called him Reggie anyway and walked him around the block several times out in the cold after Dad made some mac and cheese. I took him in to show Mom—thought petting him might make her smile—but she was stone-asleep and wouldn’t wake. Reggie slept on Adam’s bed at his feet and the next morning we got up early on that Saturday and took him out and fed him part of our ham and eggs. Mom had gotten up and made us breakfast and she
did
smile at the dog, thought he was cute, she had said. But Dad wouldn’t listen to Adam’s pleas when he stated that,
See, even Mom likes him
. Eventually, with Dad and Adam arguing, we put a quivering Reggie in the car and took him to the animal shelter. Adam wouldn’t speak to Dad for days.

Still kneeling over the box, I pulled a plastic bag out of my pocket and dropped the collar in it. I knew why I had kept it; it was the last
time I remembered my brother being human. “Game on, Adam,” I whispered into the dim basement, then let out a big, drawn-out sigh. I petted Ellis one more time, stood up and left Lara’s house.

When I got to my car, I called Gretchen and asked her to run fingerprints for me on all the box traps that Wolfie had used in the South Fork area. Sam Ward had gathered them for me and Ken would deliver them.

“Not you?” she asked when I told her that Ken would swing by with them later in the afternoon.

“No, as much as I’d like to see your gorgeous smile, I’m a little too busy,” I said, but I felt relieved that she’d asked.

“How many elimination prints do you think we’ll have to run?”

“Well, there’s Sedgewick, Pritchard, Ward, Kaufland, and Bowman. Those are the only researchers who have handled them.”

“Okay,” Gretchen said. “I’ll see if I can get my latent print examiner to put a rush on it.”

“I’d greatly appreciate it. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got another item I want you to run prints on. I’ll send it with Ken. The item’s over twenty years old, but it’s been well kept. It should have two sets on it. One will be an elimination set: mine.”

40

I
T WAS TWO
weeks into the investigation, and Ken and I finally met Rick Phrimmer, assistant superintendent of Glacier National Park, for lunch at the West Glacier Café. Personally I had the feeling it was a waste of our time. We went because Dr. Pritchard had thrown out our own assistant super’s name, Rick Phrimmer, as someone potentially unhappy with Wolfie because his wife and Wolfie dated years ago. Apparently, Phrimmer felt he came in as second choice. I wasn’t considering him a real suspect, but if I wanted to be thorough, I needed to follow up on the information.

I thought about sending Ken by himself, but I knew that was a copout, unfair to Ken, and totally not my style. I was getting better at delegating and not feeling the need to do everything myself, but if I needed to question one of our own higher-ups, I had to do the dirty work.

Phrimmer had been in DC arguing against cutbacks of federal funds for the national parks and had just returned the day before and agreed to meet. He had a beak of a nose and a full mane of reddish-brown hair, giving him the appearance of more the artistic type than rugged outdoorsman, but both Ken and I knew that Phrimmer probably spent more time at a desk and in council meetings than out in the field anyway.

We ordered from Carol, who was happy to see me, telling me that I hadn’t been in enough lately. I told her I’d been busy, but planned to get back to my more regular eating schedule soon. When she sashayed
back to the kitchen, I turned to Rick. His eyes were yellowed and bloodshot, and he looked tired.

“Long trip?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, always a pain in the ass to hit DC. It’s all about the economy and jobs right now. No one wants to hear about our precious wild lands, about the air we breathe, about the complexities of our planet. It’s all about cuts, cuts, cuts. So yeah, I’m a little jet-lagged and grumpy. But what’s this about? What do you need from me for your investigation?”

“Just some general stuff. Did you know Sedgewick?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course I did. All of us knew Wolfie around here.”

“Were you involved in any way with his research?”

“Me?” Phrimmer rubbed his eyes as he considered the question. “Sorry,” he said. “Not much sleep the past few days,” he reiterated, then added, “Me involved?”

“In terms of press, administrative funding, or anything?”

“A little. I mean, I discuss all of our projects at length with a lot of people when I’m in DC and elsewhere, but especially in DC. The wolverine project is an important keystone study to present to politicians. Makes them get how crucial Glacier is that it’s one of the few places left where you can find such a special animal that so readily exemplifies how the loss of our snowfields affects animals, and in general, upsets entire ecosystems. Plus I’ve had discussions with NRDC to help coordinate efforts for the park studies. But mostly, no, I don’t have a lot to do with the actual program. Wolfie and Sam and all their other helpers did a pretty good job of keeping a tight ship.”

“So you were actually interested in keeping the studies going?”

“It’s complicated. There’s only so much money to go around. We’re forced to prioritize what we fund. But in general, yes, I’d say the wolverine studies have been a priority.”

“It was my understanding that you weren’t interested in continuing the studies.”

“Whoever you heard that from, it’s not true.” He stared at me blankly.

“Did you like him? Get along?”

“Me and Wolfie? What does it matter?”

“I don’t know. I heard that your wife used to date him at some point.”

“Some point is right.” He looked at me incredulously. “Some point long ago.”

“I figured. Just asking. It can be a very small world around these parts.”

“Yeah, it can. And quite frankly, I don’t have time for this nonsense. I’m shocked that you would even bring something so trivial up.” He pulled his chin in.

“Just covering all territory.” I cleared my throat. “Did you know Mark Phillips?” I plowed ahead, changing the subject at the risk of irritating him further.

He laughed with disbelief. “I knew that the park had contracted Phillips to do some mapping projects, but I didn’t know him well. Maybe met him once or twice around at some function or other.” He scratched his scalp and looked up. “Maybe it was the spring for a Glacier fundraiser at McDonald Lodge. That’s where I think I was first introduced to him. And, no, my wife did not date anyone that Phillips was involved with. At least, not to my knowledge. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up and threw some cash on the table. “I have a lot of paperwork to do.”

I looked at Ken, who had a closed-lip smile on his face. “Nice try,” he said.

I nodded. “A waste of time maybe, but necessary.”

• • •

Since I seemed to be chasing lost causes, I went to see my dad even though he’s not easy to talk to, complains a lot, and sees no reason to take any advice, even if it might help him or make him feel better. But
it’s my nature to not let things just sit and plague my conscience, and Adam had mentioned that Dad had thrown his back out. Basically, I’d end up guilty as hell no matter what I told myself if I didn’t eventually check on him.

My dad lived in the far eastern part of the valley in the foothills in a small timber-framed house he’d built after my mom died with the remains of the money he made from selling his construction company, Harris Construction. Eventually, he struck up a relationship with a woman named Tracy whom he met online and she moved in with the rest of her family—her thirtysomething pot-smoking, on-disability son, his wife, and their two children, a boy diagnosed with ADHD on Ritalin, and a younger girl named Gracie. My father never could say no to a woman, and when Tracy said her kids and grandkids needed a place to stay for just a month or two, he opened his arms and his house. Later, when a month or two extended to a year, he couldn’t broach the subject of kicking them out without thoroughly pissing Tracy off. And I couldn’t broach the subject of how things would be better if he didn’t enable them and made them go make their own way in the world without pissing
him
off thoroughly. But my father was chronically unhappy and that gave him an excuse to continue drinking.

Tracy, who perpetually smelled like cigarette smoke, handed me a beer to take over to my dad who was propped up in a La-Z-Boy recliner with an extra pillow or two behind his back. She offered me one too, calling me honey and setting her hand on the small of my back. It made me cringe. She was always hugging me a little too long, and when she kissed my cheek hello or good-bye, her lips would always aim for the corner of my mouth even as I tried to turn my head. It made me feel ridiculous and like a little boy squirming away.

It was going on eight p.m., and they had just finished dinner. I had timed it this way on purpose: any earlier, my dad would be too cranky; any later, he’d be too drunk. Tracy had gone back to cleaning dishes in the kitchen. I was relieved that Tracy’s son and daughter-in-law and kids were out on a camping trip with some friends. Tracy’s son, Seth,
drove me crazy. He was always acting like he was on top of everything, ready to fix anything that had broken down, or had been working hard all day. In reality, he rarely lifted a finger to help anybody with anything. If he mowed the narrow patch of lawn they had beside the patio, you’d hear about it for days. I have no idea how my father put up with it: he may have been a drunk the majority of my life, but he never tolerated laziness from Adam or me, ever.

I sat on the couch kitty-corner to him. He was watching ESPN, and it was like pulling teeth trying to get him to engage in small talk, but eventually he wanted to know how long it had been since I’d stopped in and told me where exactly his back hurt and how the pain had now migrated to his hips and neck. He explained that Tracy’s car broke down the other day, but it hurt too much to lean under a hood so they had to take it to a mechanic and that cost a shitload of money that he wasn’t expecting to dish out.

“Why didn’t you have Seth take a look?” I said, unable to resist and against my better judgment. “He claims to know a thing or two about cars.”

“He does,” Tracy yelled from the kitchen. “He knows a lot, but he’s been busy.”

“Busy with what?” I said. “He get a job?”

“No, honey, he can’t ’cause of his elbow, but he’s a trooper and has been working on the lawn. Made it beautiful out there.” She motioned outside the kitchen window.

“The lawn.” I nodded, observing my dad who seemed oblivious to how ridiculous it was that a grown man like Seth with a wife and two kids, who had no job, was
busy
working a lawn about the size of a basketball court. He simply stared at the TV, belched once, and blew it out in front of him, then took another swig of beer.

“Come on, Dad,” I said, selfishly wanting to get outside away from the stench of nicotine. “Let’s go see your lawn. You should get some circulation going. Be good for your back.”

After several minutes of him protesting and me grabbing him another
beer, I finally got him out of his chair to show me the new and improved yard and to get some fresh air. We had walked over to a rock wall near the edge and Dad pointed out how Seth had hauled in some rocks to make it.