Not Dead Enough (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Jake

“Shit. Out of water again?” Jake tossed his Sierra cup, and it clattered against the rocks. There was no one else to blame and no one else to make the hike along the canyon rim to the spring and back. And the stupid question only underscored how much he wanted to finish up and get the hell out of Oregon. He'd been promised a simple job. But it hadn't worked out that way. He'd botched the hit on that lawyer, Claxton, but once again the Old Man told him to stay put and wait for further instructions.

Further instructions? Are you kidding me? This job's snake-bit.

What could they say if he cut and ran? Nothing. Well, he wouldn't see the rest of the money for the Watlamet hit, but that might be a price worth paying to be out of this nightmare.

Jake picked up the plastic jug, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and started up the ridge. Twenty minutes later he reached the spring. It burbled up through a bed of mossy rocks, dropped over the edge of the ridge, and flowed noiselessly down the hillside, across the road, and into a dry creek bed. He knelt down and scooped up some water with a cupped hand and drank. It was pure and cold, and its taste brought a rush of memories of his first back-country trip with Amy. They weren't married then, but those five days sealed the deal. She took a big buck on that trip, too. Nailed him from fifty yards. He pushed the memories aside, but the effort blurred his eyes with tears.

The water jug was nearly full when movement down in the canyon caught his eye. It looked like a dust devil scurrying along the hardpan road next to the creek bed. Through the Swarovski he saw it was a Wasco County Sheriff's car with a single deputy behind the wheel. He froze for a moment then shook his head in disbelief that quickly turned to fear.

What the fuck next?

Jake watched through the scope as the patrol car came to a stop. The deputy got out of the car and with a hand up to shade the sun, followed the path of the spring up to where he was crouched behind a line of boulders at the top of the ridge. The deputy's face and upper body were now full-on in the scope and Jake crouched even lower, although there was no chance of being spotted at three hundred yards.

He groaned out loud. “Jesus. It's a woman.” Big and tough-looking, but a woman.

She'd stopped where the spring crossed the road in a dark, narrow band. The woman walked around, got down on her haunches for a while and then got up, went to the car and came back with some papers in one hand and a small object in the other.

What the hell's she doing?

She crouched down again and laid one of the papers on the ground and seemed to study it for a while. Then she laid a thin, shiny ribbon on the road using the small object, which he now realized was a tape measure.

“Son of a bitch,” he said out loud, “she's found my tire tracks.”

The woman retracted the tape, picked up the sheet of paper—which he now guessed was a photograph—and began to scan the steep walls of the canyon. He instinctively hunched down again. A panicked thought of running back to get his truck flashed through his mind, but that was stupid because the only way out was the way he came in. He could bushwhack from where he was, try to reach Clarno on foot and steal a car, but they'd have his truck and know who he was in no time at all.

Fuck. He was trapped.

Cop or no cop, woman or no woman, he saw no choice. I can't let her get back in her car to use the radio. He levered a cartridge into the chamber of the Remington, took a deep breath and began sighting-in on her in earnest. The round would sink about three inches at her range, so he would aim to compensate. His pulse rate dropped and a deathly calm came over him as the cross-hairs of the scope steadied on the woman's bulky frame.

“God forgive me,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

Chapter Thirty-two

Philip and I left Archie with George Lone Deer and were on the road in ten minutes. Before we left, Philip came out of the cabin with a rifle and a box of cartridges and stashed them in the back seat of the extended cab of his truck. I must have looked surprised because he said, “Borrowed the rifle from my dad. We're headed for rugged country, and I don't care if Grooms thinks the trail's cold, I'm not going in unarmed.”

We didn't talk much on the drive over. Philip was still fuming about the spat with his father, and I was thinking about the possibility of picking up the sniper's trail and trying not to get my hopes up. Ninety minutes later we rolled to a stop at the turn-off leading into the canyon. The intersection was deserted.

“Huh,” I said. “She said she'd meet us right here.”

Philip pointed down the dirt road and squinted. “That could be a car in there. Maybe she drove in a ways.” He turned his rig onto the road, and we started in. The washboard surface hammered the truck's shocks as we left a plume of fine dust in our wake. A hundred and fifty yards in, Philip said, “That's her cruiser for sure.”

My gut began to clench. “Yeah, but where is she?”

We both saw her at the same time. At least we saw what looked like a body on the ground in the middle of the road, next to the patrol car. “Is that her?” We drove a little farther. “She's down,” I cried. Philip gunned the truck, and when we slid to a stop we both jumped out and knelt down next to the body.

She was sprawled on her back with her legs pointed in the direction of the west canyon wall like a couple of accusatory fingers. One boot heel lay in the shallow runoff of a small stream angling across the road, and several photographs and a tape measure lay scattered near her body. Her neatly pressed uniform top had a hole punched in it at the center of her chest, her eyes were closed, and blood leaked from her mouth and nose.

Visions of Watlamet's corpse flashed in my head. “What the hell happened? Has she been shot?”

Philip leaned in close. “Looks like it. I think she's still breathing.”

I checked her neck for a pulse—a faint flutter, if anything—and looked closer at her chest. The puncture in her uniform looked like a bullet hole, and the torn edge of the fabric rose then fell perceptibly. “You're right! She is breathing, but just barely. “Big C,” I said, “it's Cal and Philip. Hang on. We're going to help you.”

No response.

Philip nodded in the direction of the west wall of the canyon. “Keep your head down. By the way she fell, the bullet came from that direction. The sniper could still be up there.”

I nodded impatiently and unbuttoned her uniform top. “She's wearing a vest.” The black, tightly-woven mat was seemingly punctured, an indentation the diameter of my thumb. But it was free of blood.

“It's a Kevlar vest.” Philip unclipped the shoulder straps of the vest and lifted off the front section. Grooms coughed, and blood oozed from a jagged hole directly above her sternum.

I winced and swallowed down an urge to puke. “Doesn't look like the vest did her much good.”

He held it up. The Kevlar fabric had a bloody protrusion about the size of a finger joint jutting out from the inside surface.

“Is that what did the damage?” I said, pointing to the protrusion.

He nodded, turned the vest over, and shook it. A small chunk of something fell out of the tiny pouch and bounced off the toe of his boot. He picked it up and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. “This is the bullet that hit her, man. Looks like that vest kept it from boring a hole straight through her.”

I stripped off my shirt and tee-shirt and bunched the latter into a crude compress. “Is there any duct tape in the truck?”

“Glove compartment,” Philip said, springing to his feet. “I'll get it.”

Once we had the compress in place, I bent down close to Grooms' ear. “We got a patch on you, Big C. Your vest stopped the bullet. Now we're going to get you the hell out of here.” Her eyes fluttered, and I heard a faint gurgling sound as she struggled for a breath.

I flipped my cell phone open. “No service. We need to use her radio.”

“I know those radios. I'll call it in,” Philip said. When he stood up, he glanced down at a faint wet patch emerging from the streambed. He knelt back down and studied it for several seconds before starting for the patrol car. “Don't worry about the sniper, Cal,” he said over his shoulder. “He's long gone.” When I asked how he knew that, he waved me off and got into Grooms' car to use the radio.

The dispatcher's response to Philip's account reverberated in the narrow canyon. “I'm sending deputies, an EMT team, and a medivac helicopter,” she told us. “Is the area safe?”

“Yes,” Philip responded. “The shooter left the scene maybe thirty, forty minutes ago. Probably the same guy who shot Sherman Watlamet. I think he's heading east on the Shaniko Fossil Highway.”

“Copy that.” Her voice broke as she added, “Take good care of her, you hear.” An officer was down, a friend, a colleague. The nightmare of every law-enforcement organization.

When Philip returned, I looked at him, incredulous. “How do you know all that?”

He shrugged and pointed at the wet patch he'd spotted earlier. “That's a fresh tire mark.” He dropped down and peered under his truck. “The other one's under here. Someone drove out of here not too long ago. They were in a big hurry.” He got up and jerked a thumb in the direction of the west wall. “The sniper shot her from up there and took off. We didn't pass any pickups on our way here, so I figured he headed east.”

I nodded. “Well done.” My friend never ceased to amaze me.

Grooms coughed again, and I wiped some blood from her lips with my handkerchief. We covered her with a blanket from the truck, and I took her hand. “Stay with me, Big C,” I told her. “Help's on the way.” There was nothing we could do but wait at this point. I felt a frustrating sense of helplessness interspersed with waves of boiling anger. The sniper had hit another person, a friend, a good cop, and the son of a bitch was still out there. There was something else, too, something more insidious. Come on, I told myself, this wasn't your fault. No guilt trips.

But there it was, that old familiar feeling of guilt I couldn't shake.

Philip stopped his restless pacing and dropped to one knee next to a large photograph lying in the road face up. He looked it over without touching it. “This is a shot of one of the tire tracks I found at Watlamet's ranch.” He got up and scanned the stream bed again, stopped and pointed. “There's a track going the other direction, toward the canyon. It's old but pretty well preserved. The mud's thicker there.” He knelt back down, studied it, and looked over at me. “Matches the photo.” He looked down the road leading into the canyon. “Grooms had the bastard dead to rights, man.”

I shaded my eyes and looked up at the canyon wall. “I think that was the problem. He was trapped and knew it. She said the mine was pretty far into the canyon. I guess she thought it was safe at this point.” I shook my head. “I wish to hell she'd waited for us.”

“For sure,” Philip said. “But at least she was smart enough to wear the Kevlar.”

The wait was agonizing. I sat talking to Grooms, whose breath came in barely audible gasps so ragged I thought each and every one would be her last. I felt her grip tighten on my hand a couple of times, and I wanted to believe it wasn't a spasm, that she was with me at some level. I kept talking and talking while Philip paced. Finally, he said, “I can't stand this anymore. That bastard's getting away. I'm going after him.”

“Cool your jets, man. You told them which way he was heading, and you're a material witness here. Besides, what would you do if you caught up with him?”

He glared at me. “I've got a weapon, too, you know.”

I exhaled a long breath. I didn't doubt for a minute that Philip could take care of himself, but the last thing I wanted was to put him in harm's way. “I'd like to chase him, too, but this isn't an action movie. He's already shot two people at long range. Let the sheriff handle this.”

Philip kicked a couple of loose stones into the runoff. “Okay. But, damn it, Cal, they're spread so thin out here it's pathetic.” He opened his arms. “Wait till you see how long it takes them just to get here.”

My friend had a point, but so did I. And as I thought about it while we waited, I couldn't shake the feeling that this thing ran deep, and that it was going to fall to me to piece it all together. This was a long way from prosecuting bad guys sitting in jail cells down in Los Angeles, and it sure as hell wasn't what I expected when I opened my one-man law practice in Dundee.

But on the upside, I felt like I had a purpose for the first time in a long time.

Chapter Thirty-three

We heard the faint wail of sirens out on the highway twenty-two minutes later. Two patrol cars arrived first, skidding to a stop abreast of each other some twenty yards away. An EMT truck stopped well behind them. A deputy got out of each car and stood behind his open door with his service revolver drawn. “Put your hands where we can see them,” one of them ordered. “Now,” the other one called out.

They holstered their weapons and approached us cautiously, but only after I'd recapped the situation. They both knelt down next to Grooms, their faces twisted in anger and grief. The older of the two, a heavy set man with a florid complexion, bent down next to her face. “It's Hank, Big C. The EMTs are here. You better not die on us, you hear me?”

The EMT crew huddled around Grooms, assessing her injuries. An IV was hooked up, chest monitors and a finger clip were attached, and finally her nose and mouth were covered with an oxygen mask. After what seemed an eternity, she was transferred to a stretcher and loaded onto the truck. “We're taking her south to meet up with a medivac helicopter coming up from Bend, the lead EMT explained. “It's the fastest way to get her into the ER.”

As they pulled away, I felt a sense of relief, like a lead-weighted burden of responsibility had been lifted. I looked at Philip and he said, “She's got a good chance, I think. She's strong.”

The Sheriff, a man named Grover Bailey, arrived shortly after the EMT truck left. Tall with sloped shoulders and big, strong-looking hands, he came straight up to us, his eyes as friendly as a hawk's. “What in God's name happened here?” He said it in a low, strained voice dripping with anger and accusation.

Both deputies hesitated, so I stepped forward and introduced Philip and myself. “Grooms got a positive on the composite sketch at a gas station near here. She thought the shooter might be holed up at an old mine back in this canyon.” I nodded toward the photographs and the tape measure lying next to the body. “She was looking at tire tracks in the mud when she was shot.” I pointed at the west wall of the canyon. “Looks like the shooter was up on that ridge.”

Bailey looked up at the ridge and back at me, his eyes narrow, his jaw set. “Why the hell were you first on the scene?”

“She called us, and we drove over from the Warm Springs Rez. Philip, here, is the guy who found the boot prints and tire tracks at Watlamet's ranch. Grooms thought maybe he could help pick something up here.”

“Why are you so sure it's the same person who killed Watlamet?”

Philip pointed at the photographs lying next to the runoff. “There's one halfway decent tire print there in the mud, and it matches the one I found at Watlamet's ranch. The sniper must've slowed down coming in. Probably didn't want to muddy his rig. And the wheelbase looks right, too.”

Bailey nodded and looked up the canyon road. “How do you know he's not still up there?”

“Someone came out of here in a big hurry,” Philip answered. “We saw the tracks when we first arrived, but they've dried out. Had to have been him.”

By this time, Bailey was a believer. He nodded again, impatiently, and turned to his deputies. “Was she told to wait for backup?”

Deputy Hank looked down at his boots. “She called in, and Elva told her to wait for me. I was over in Clarno on a domestic call. Wendell, here, was out on the highway doing traffic.” The second deputy shuffled his feet and nodded.

Bailey blew out a breath, pure frustration. “Why am I not surprised? She never listens to anyone. At least she wore her vest. The EMTs told me it caught the bullet. Otherwise, she'd be on her way to the morgue.”

“That's right,” I said. We took Bailey over to the hood of Grooms' patrol car, where we had laid out the vest and the flattened piece of lead we'd recovered from it. Bailey picked up the spent bullet and looked at it. “Hard to believe this little piece of lead could do so much damage. The EMTs told me she has a shattered sternum and God knows what kind of internal injuries. He looked at us, his eyes suddenly bright with moisture. “You know, we've only had those vests for a year or so. He rapped on the vest with his knuckles. “This one's got a ceramic plate between the Kevlar. It cost more, and the grant we got from the DOJ only paid for half.” He barked a laugh. “Big C bitched like hell, but she finally ordered one.” He shook his head. “Kevlar alone will stop a handgun, but without that plate that rifle bullet would have gone right through the vest and right through her.”

Bailey turned to his deputies. “Hank, you go on up to the junction at Route 207. I told the State Police we'd meet them there. We gotta find this fella. Wendell, you secure this crime scene. I'm going to take these two gentlemen up this canyon and see what we can find. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything about Big C.”

We located the shooter's campsite near the abandoned mine, and Philip quickly found the signature boot prints, including the pigeon-toe flourish. He'd left nothing behind except a pit full of garbage that was bagged for forensic examination. We also hiked up the west rim of the canyon to the source of the spring, which we figured was the most likely site of the ambush. Philip spotted another boot print in the damp earth adjacent to the source of the spring, but we found no shell casings or other physical evidence.

Other than the hope that a fingerprint or DNA fragment might turn up, it looked like our boy had made another clean escape.

When we got back to the scene of the shooting, Bailey interviewed Philip and me at length. With me, he wanted to know anything new on the case, anything Grooms hadn't already briefed them on. I didn't have much to add, except that the only link I'd found to Cecil Ferguson, Sherman Watlamet, and Nelson Queah was a man named Braxton Gage. I told him about the letters Queah had written, the fact that Ferguson had worked for Gage, and the rumors about the graft at the dam that Fletcher Dunn was investigating prior to Queah's disappearance.

When I mentioned Gage's name, Bailey's eyebrows rose. “The Braxton Gage, from The Dalles?”

I nodded. “His dad's company poured the cement for The Dalles Dam. Braxton Gage ran the project.”

Bailey whistled. “Now there's a big fish. So, you're saying this mess is to cover up a little financial hanky-panky when the dam was going in fifty years ago?”

“That and the murder of Nelson Queah and a kid named Timothy Wiiks. Maybe Gage was worried the whole thing was coming unglued.”

Bailey puffed a breath. “We'll never know, will we. Watlamet and Ferguson are both dead. And I'm gonna need way more than that to take on Braxton Gage. The son of a bitch's richer than God and meaner than a rattlesnake.”

I shrugged. “It's all I got.”