Not Dead Enough (24 page)

Chapter Forty-nine

I made a thermos of coffee and put Philip's .357 Magnum, a flashlight, and a pair of field glasses in a backpack. The satellite images showed a small, square house and stand-alone garage well south of the Depoe Bridge on a narrow road on the east side of Highway 101. There were several other houses on the road with ample space between them. About a quarter mile south, another narrow road ran parallel to the one of interest. A patch of densely forested land lay between the two. If I parked on the second street, I might be able to work my way through the trees and find a spot to watch the back of the cabin from a safe distance.

The plan made sense, but I was mindful of my last encounter with this guy. I paused for a moment and had to chuckle. What was that old military saying? Something about battle plans never surviving contact with the enemy. Well, my plan was once again to avoid contact with the enemy.

I made great time on Highway 18 and after cresting the Coastal Range began to follow the twisting path of the Salmon River. Except for a barred owl that flapped through my headlights like a low flying drone, I had the road to myself until an empty logging truck roared up behind me and rode my bumper clear into Otis, where I turned south on 101, and he thankfully turned north. I crossed the bridge into Depoe Bay shortly after five a.m., but it took another ten minutes to find the road the cabin was on, which was set off from the highway and unmarked. I missed it twice. On the third pass, I cruised by and turned left at the next road, which had only two summer rentals on it, both of which looked vacant. I parked at the cul-de-sac and walked back to a point that would put me roughly in line with the Norquist cabin one street over.

I could barely see my hand in front of my face as I moved into the forest understory. Using a couple of short bursts of the flashlight, I saw what I was up against—sword ferns, silal, dense patches of Oregon grape, to say nothing of closely-spaced cedars and hemlocks. I saw no poison oak, but who knew going forward? I tried to plod straight ahead, but the going was tough, and I found myself zigzagging so much I almost lost my bearings several times in the thick undergrowth.

I was a good way in when a faint light flickered through the trees from the direction of the cabin. I moved another step, stopped, and it went off. Shit. Is that light moving toward me? I took another step, and the light winked back on. I stopped and pulled the Magnum out of my backpack as the hair on the back of my neck turned to wire. I stood still and watched. The light remained stationary. I took a step, and it went out again. I relaxed and let a breath out. The light wasn't moving. It was my movement through the trees that created the illusion. I put the gun in my belt and trudged forward as quietly as I could.

I reached the edge of the forested area maybe fifteen minutes later. The light that had guided me was above the back door of the Norquist cabin. The rest of the structure was shrouded in deep shadow. I found a spot behind a red cedar whose trunks had twinned, leaving a narrow gap affording what I hoped would be a good view of the cabin. A thick patch of silal further concealed my perch, which was maybe forty yards out.

I took off my backpack and poured myself a steaming cup of black coffee. I sipped the strong brew, although I didn't need the caffeine. If I had been any more wired, I would have been glowing. There were no sounds except for the occasional high-pitched creek, creek, creek of a colony of frogs, which overlay a rhythmic chorus of crickets. The low wattage bulb above the back door stared back at me like an indifferent eye, and nothing moved in or around the place. The light meant there was a good chance someone was home, I told myself.

Let's see what the morning brings.

The first hint of dawn came when I noticed the bloody scratches on my forearms from the hike in. I was crouched behind the double-trunk cedar with what turned out to be an excellent, if sharply angled view of the back of the cabin. I watched through a pair of binoculars as the structure began to slowly emerge out of the shadows like someone was pulling a curtain back. Features closest to me revealed themselves first—a wrought iron table and chairs, a gas barbeque, a kitchen window. The barbeque was uncovered, another hint someone might be staying at the cabin.

My pulse ticked up when a vent pipe on the roof began emitting a thin wisp of steam. I checked my watch. It was six-thirty on the nose. It could be someone had awakened or the response to an automatic timer on a thermostat. A set of French doors that opened onto the patio appeared next, then another window, and finally, the back of a freestanding garage next to the house. As the light came up, I focused a gap through the curtains on the French doors, which promised a partial view of one room inside the house, probably the dining room.

As the shadows resolved into shapes, I made out a couple of chairs at a table with two glasses on it and what looked like an armchair in the far corner of the room. I put the binoculars down and waited for more light. When I looked back I stopped breathing for several beats.

Was someone sitting in that chair?

I couldn't quite tell. I retreated back into the woods for better cover, moved fifty feet to my right, and repositioned myself. The light and the angle were better now as I focused the binoculars again on the inside of that room.

Someone was sitting there. The head of this person was still not clearly visible, but it was lolled to one side at a disturbing angle. I moved in a little closer, waited for more light, and refocused.

The image, now sufficiently clear, made me flash back to the grisly discovery of Sherman Watlamet. A man sat in that armchair, and the side of his face and most of his shirt were stained the color of oxidized blood.

Chapter Fifty

From the front page of The Oregonian the following day—

Body of Suspected Killer Found

DEPOE BAY, Oregon—An Oregon State Police spokesman reported that a man named Jacob Norquist of Boise, Idaho, was found dead inside a house in Depoe Bay on Wednesday, April 3. The body was found by state troopers at approximately 8:45 a.m. following a tip from an undisclosed source. The spokesman said that the cause of death was under investigation, but initial indications suggested that the victim used a handgun to take his own life with a single shot to the head.

Dubbed the “Oregon Sniper” in the media, Norquist was the subject of an intensive manhunt in the Northwest. An itinerant hunting and fishing guide, he was wanted in connection with the recent murder of one person and the wounding of another near Clarno, Oregon. Both victims had been shot at long range with a high caliber rifle. The victims were Sherman Watlamet, killed on March 16, and Deputy Sheriff Cleta Grooms, wounded on March 24. Norquist is also a suspect in the bludgeoning death of Cecil Ferguson of Portland and the attempted murder of Calvin Claxton III of Dundee, Oregon. The spokesman said the motives for these crimes have not been fully determined at this time, and it is not known whether others were involved.

A rifle matching the caliber of the weapon used in the shootings in Wasco County was recovered at the scene along with undisclosed physical evidence connecting Norquist with at least one of the crime scenes. The house in which the victim's body was found belongs to his mother, Shirley Norquist, of Independence, Oregon. According to the spokesman, Ms. Norquist is cooperating with the investigation and stated that she was not aware her son had taken refuge at her beach cabin. Ms. Norquist could not be reached for comment. The spokesman also indicated that a witness has positively identified the victim as the man seen leaving the murder scene in Wasco County.

Asked to comment on the death of Norquist, Oregon State Police Captain Harvey Patterson said, “Thanks to the diligent police work and outstanding interagency cooperation between the Oregon State Police and other jurisdictions, we believe another criminal is off the streets of Oregon. We were closing in on Mr. Norquist, and apparently he realized this and decided to take his own life. We're all a little safer now.”

Anyone with information related to these crimes is encouraged to contact the Oregon State Police or the Sheriff's Department in Shaniko, Oregon.

Chapter Fifty-one

Two Weeks Later

An irritating sound began ricocheting down the deep well I was in. I tried to will it to silence, but it was insistent. My phone. The first thing I thought of was my daughter, Claire. Has something happened? It wasn't Claire. It was Philip. “Can you bust free?” he said the moment I quit fumbling and managed to put my ear to the phone.

“What? Jesus, Philip, what the hell time is it?”

“It's four-thirty. You want to fish? I had a party cancel on me and sent my guides home. I'm on the Deschutes with an empty boat.”

I exhaled a breath and tried to clear my head. “Uh, I don't know if I can get away.”

“Aw, come on, Cal. The weather looks great.”

My mind started to clear. “Is the salmon fly hatch on?”

He chuckled at my fishing naiveté. “No. It's too early, but the fishing's still good, man.”

“I, uh, would have to rearrange some things and get Gertie to feed Archie.”

“No problem. I've got some repairs I can work on, so I'll just hang here until you arrive.”

He left me no out. Philip had a way of doing that. “Okay. See you in three hours.”

After sending off a volley of e-mails to clear my schedule, I began to pack my gear. When the inevitable feelings of guilt and anxiety arrived, I took a breath and told myself my business would be there when I got back. After all, this was the Deschutes River. It occurred to me that my old self—that uptight prosecutor lusting for glory down in L.A.—would have never, ever agreed to something this spontaneous.

Apparently, I was starting to get the hang of this Oregon thing.

***

We put in at the Warm Springs Reservation, which stretches better than twenty miles down the west side of the river, a pristine section of the Deschutes off limits to all but tribe members and their guests. Our plan was to amble downriver with the intent of catching some native rainbows, called redsides for the hue dominating their iridescent sides.

It turned out Philip had exaggerated a bit—the fishing wasn't that great, at least for me. The fish were “looking down,” as they say, meaning they weren't looking up for bugs on the surface of the river, where we hoped to fool them with Philip's hand-crafted flies. But that was okay. There would be plenty of time to talk, something Philip and I hadn't done face to face since I discovered Jacob Norquist's body in his mother's beach house.

I was back at the boat after working what looked like a good stretch of water but without any luck. I poured myself a cup of coffee and watched as Philip fished his way upstream along a grassy bank. Meanwhile, an osprey across the river was busy building a nest atop a bone white, forty-foot snag. I turned back to Philip just as his four-weight rod bent double. It was the second redside he'd taken along the bank. Apparently the fish were only looking down for me. He held the fish up for a moment before releasing it.

I called across the water, “You gave me your defective flies, didn't you.”

He shrugged, showing his palms. “They were free, weren't they?”

I laughed. “I'm hungry. Let's eat.”

We found a place to eat out in the open, the spring sun warm on our skin. “So how does it feel not to have to watch your back?” Philip asked as he took a bite of sandwich.

“Good. There's something about the threat of getting your head blown off that wears on you. By the way, I forgot to give you your Magnum. It's in my car. Thanks for the loan.”

He shot me a look bordering on exasperation. “You know, you really ought to get yourself a gun.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why? The damn things make me nervous. Actually, I ought to feel a lot better than I do about having Norquist off the board, but this isn't over. And he didn't kill himself, either.”

“The gun that killed him was found in his hand. What more do you want?”

“Oh, right. A cheap thirty-two with the serial number filed off. No way Norquist uses a street gun like that, even to kill himself. You, of all people, should understand that. I mean, they found his rifle in the house, meticulously cleaned and oiled. No suicide note, either.” Philip flashed me a skeptical look that annoyed the hell out of me. “I talked to Norquist's mother at length afterwards. She's not buying the suicide, either.”

“So what happened then?”

“Someone shot him, then put the gun in his hand and squeezed off a second round. That way he's got powder residue on his hand.”

“And then they replaced the bullet to make it look like only one shot was fired?”

“Something like that. It's done on TV all the time.”

“Where'd the second round go?”

“Who the hell knows? They didn't find anything at the cabin. The killer probably opened the French doors and popped one into the woods behind the cabin.”

Philip nodded and paused for a couple of beats. “What about his truck? They ever find it?”

I shook my head. “Nope. He stole another one in Spray. Drove it right through their roadblocks. Go figure.”

We ate in silence for a while, and then I said, “At least the evidence proving he was the shooter is tight. I saw him leaving Watlamet's ranch, the boot tracks you picked up there and in that canyon matched the boots he was wearing when they found him, and the bullet that killed Watlamet was fired from his Remington. The one you found in Grooms' vest was too flattened for a match, but it was the right caliber. By the way, Bailey said that was the slickest tracking job he'd ever seen.”

Philip allowed himself a modest smile. “That wasn't much. My grandfather tracked a wounded elk in a rainstorm once.” He sipped his coffee. “You identified the body, I guess.”

I exhaled. “Yeah. Funny thing about that. I didn't feel the anger I expected when I saw him. Just pity. He, uh, looked like he was at peace, you know? And I got this feeling—it just came over me—that he'd been manipulated somehow. It was weird.”

Philip nodded knowingly. “The dead speak to us sometimes, Cal.” He paused to unwrap another sandwich. “So, what are you going to do about the rich dude in Portland and Braxton Gage and the whole mess at the dam fifty years ago that started this?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Truth is, there isn't much I can do. Everything I have is hearsay or came from someone who's dead now. I told the cops everything I dug up.”

“And they're stymied?”

“Completely. Bailey told me they're taking a hard look at Royce Townsend, but he has an ironclad alibi for the night Norquist died, and nothing else has turned up showing any recent contact between him and Norquist.”

“What about Ferguson? He made that first call to someone, right? No record of that?”

“No, and that fits because Ferguson bragged to me that he used a pay phone.”

“But he wouldn't tell you who he called, even though Waltlamet was his buddy?”

“Right. His screwed-up code of honor wouldn't let him. Anyway, Townsend admitted to using Norquist as a hunting guide numerous times over the years. But there's no law against that. I told Bailey he could be Norquist's father, but Shirley Norquist isn't talking about that, and there isn't probable cause to force a DNA test. I assume they're also questioning Townsend's son, Jason, and his political team, but that'll take some time.”

“What about that son of a bitch Gage? Maybe he was the one Watlamet was going to expose. That kind of publicity, even if it came from some hermit Indian, would ruin his chances at doing a casino deal with the Tribes. My father tells me the Governor's on the fence. A piece of bad publicity about one of the players would help kill the deal.”

I nodded, thinking not only of Braxton Gage, but his business manager, Stephanie Barrett, and the fire in her eyes when she warned me about making trouble for them. “You're right, the stakes are high for Gage, too, but there doesn't seem to be any connection between Norquist and him, except that he knew Norquist's mother back when the dam was being built.”

Philip smiled, but his face turned grim. “Yeah, well, I'd like to see that bastard go down in flames and take the casino deal with him. I have the greatest respect for my father, but a casino in the Gorge is the worst idea I've ever heard of.”

We kicked this around for a while, and then Philip changed the subject, saying out of the blue, “What's going on with you and my cousin?”

I shot him a look. “Nothing's going on. She's engaged to be married.”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I meant your business arrangement. You still working for her?”

I managed to suppress a sheepish smile. “Uh, not officially. But I'm worried about her because of her proximity to Royce Townsend. She's going to be a member of his family, for Christ's sake. I don't like it.”

“Have you told her what you suspect?”

“Well, she knows about the connection and all, from the newspaper accounts. She called me, and I filled her in on the details but didn't connect any dots. She seemed relieved that the sniper was dead, but that was about it. I think she's in denial, what with the engagement and the Senate race and everything.”

Philip considered this for a long time. “Maybe you've done enough, my friend. You've brought Winona the peace of knowing what really happened to her grandfather. You figured out who the sniper was and where he was holed up. Maybe it's time to let it go, and besides, Winona's a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

“Maybe you're right.”

At the time I think I really meant it.