The Last Annual Slugfest (26 page)

Taking a firm grip on the rope, I clasped my knees around the width of the pole and pulled on the rope. It took eight pulls till I could grab the bottom rung, and then the next one. From there I coiled the rope around my shoulder and climbed.

The training poles were a hundred feet high. This one was only forty. At the top was the transformer tub.

I clung there, catching my breath. I could see well out into the ocean. A flotilla of tugboats rode the choppy water out past the jetty. I counted them—nine—before I jerked my attention back. I tightened my grasp on the crossbar and looked over the tub toward the ranch. When the lights went out, either the guard would stay put or he would head for the auxiliary generator at the south side of the compound. Either way, he would be occupied for three or four minutes. I wasn’t primarily worried about him. Edwina’s killer was the one I wanted to see. When I got to the far side of the building, I wanted to find the door open and that figure running across the looping cement channels to the generator—leaving Leila Katz inside.

Avoiding the wires, I worked my way up till I could reach the fuse cartridge above the tub. I looped the rope around it and gave one sharp pull. It snapped—cutting off all power to the fish ranch. I lowered myself hand under hand down the pole and jumped to the ground.

The gatehouse door opened. The guard rushed to the gate, unlocked it, and locked it behind him.

With the rope on my shoulder, I ran full out across the bridge, along the gatehouse road, past the gatehouse to the fence. Was I fast enough? Once the guard got to the generator and threw the transfer switch, the juice from the generator would make the fence live again. It would fill me with enough volts to light half my H-l route. I grabbed the mesh on the fence, yanked myself up, stuck one foot on the top, and flung my body over, landing with a thud. I didn’t wait to hear the sizzle of the wires as the power came back on. I ran, leaping over the fish channels, racing for the side of the building, and flattened myself against it.

The sky was lighter. My mouth was dry, but I could taste the salty ocean air. The guard would be on his way back now. I ran for the ocean side of the building, hearing the splat of my feet against the cement, picturing that hulking guard as I had seen him last night. If he caught me now—I forced that thought back and flung myself around the corner, onto the narrow rock seawall, onto the dock, and to the seawall on the other side. At the corner, I peered around.

The guard was at the door, his head inside. I pulled back, feeling my throat tighten with fear. I counted to ten, then looked again—he was stepping back. Flattening myself against the building, holding my breath, I listened for the sound of footsteps approaching. The ocean water splashed onto the seawall and against my legs. I peered around the corner again. The guard was turning the far corner. He was on his way back to the gatehouse.

The door to the building was shut! I had counted on the sudden darkness driving the murderer out. But it hadn’t. Now the murderer knew the power had gone out. A warning? Enough to remove my hope of surprise? And the door was shut. It was the worst possible combination.

“
And Leil protecting her!
”

I hurried along the side of the building, past the closed door. As I rounded the far corner, I could see that someone had started to remove the end of the prefab building. Started, but stopped before there was any space wide enough to give me entry inside. The workmen would be arriving to finish the job any minute now. That siding had to be out of the way before the first truck arrived. I didn’t have much time.

I looked up till I spotted the wires running in from the transformer. Following them to the edge of the building, I found the service drop, halfway along the side of the building—in full view of the guard. The weatherhead, where the wires connected, stood up a foot above the edge of the roof. I looped the rope over it, braced my feet against the side of the building, pulled myself up till I could catch the gutter, then clambered over the edge.

Recoiling the rope around my shoulder, I made my way along the slippery metal roof to the far corner over the office. The skylight was clouded with sediment of dirt and salt, but I could see in. Trying to keep my steps silent, I hurried across the roof and looked down into the lab.

Leila was there, on the floor. She lay unmoving. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like her hands and feet were bound.

“
And Leil protecting her!
”

But, of course, that was just Harry Bramwell’s interpretation of what Edwina had said. In fact, she had no more said “her” than she had said “Lyle.” Harry Bramwell had thought she said “her” because he didn’t know Edwina shortened relatives’ names, and because he didn’t know those names.

But I knew who that “her” was. I also knew that if it came to a fight, I would end up like Leila Katz. I had been up all night; I had been exhausted hours ago.

I looked through the skylight again. I would have only one try at the killer. If I missed …

Leaning back away from the skylight, I smashed it with my boot, kicking till the shards from the edges fell to the floor.

Running footsteps slapped the cement. The door opened. I could see the killer standing at the doorway, too far out of range. He looked down at Leila Katz, then around the small room. He stepped forward, under the skylight, and peered up, right at me.

I jumped on his back.

He came down hard on the floor, the wind knocked out of him, his face in the glass. My boots hit his mid-back. I grabbed his hands and pulled them behind him. Gasping for breath, he drew them apart. His feet flailed. I yanked on his arms, jerking them back from the shoulder sockets. He let out a yelp of pain. I lifted up off him and slammed my bottom down on his ribs. He gasped. His arms went slack. I pulled the rope around his wrists and yanked it tight, then hauled his arms up, pushing his face back down into the glass. Once more, I lifted off him and came down hard. When he gasped, I flung the rope around his bent legs, made one more loop around his feet and, getting up off him, pulled his feet toward his hands.

“ ‘And Leil protecting Curr!’ That’s what Edwina said, wasn’t it?”

But Curry Cunningham, Edwina’s nephew, didn’t answer.

C
URRY
C
UNNINGHAM GOT HIS
wind back. He pulled and kicked against the rope. I braced my feet into his back and hung on to both ends of the rope. It cut into my hands. Curry flailed with the strength of panic. The rope slipped. Where was the sheriff? Grabbing tighter on the rope, I yanked Curry’s head up and let it slam down against the floor. I hadn’t even had a chance to pull the gag out of Leila Katz’s mouth. I wasn’t even positive she was breathing.

Those tugboats outside the jetty! The men already out of their transports along the road! They had had plenty of time to assess the trees, get out their chain saws, and start to work. They could be making the wedge-shaped undercuts in the bases of the trees right now. Once those cuts were in, it would be too late to save the trees. Where was the sheriff? Minutes were precious. Harry Bramwell had left the motel an hour ago. The sheriff had to be on his way by now.

Curry kicked. This time I didn’t wait. I lifted his head and slammed it down again. “I can do this as long as you can,” I said. “It’s your chin.”

There was blood on his cheek and chin where they’d hit the broken glass. But those slightly bulging eyes that he had inherited from his aunt Edwina didn’t look acquiescent. He was biding his time. He didn’t know the sheriff was on his way. Rather than expecting the sheriff, he assumed his workmen would be driving in any minute to finish removing the side of the fish ranch building. He figured that it wouldn’t be long till the first of the logging trucks pulled in and backed into the building, right up to the double doors. He figured one of those tugboats would be docking at the jetty any minute, ready to carry his cargo out to the waiting Japanese ship.

The sheriff would only know what I had told Harry. He wouldn’t suspect this plan. I needed to call him before it was too late. But I couldn’t let go of the rope. I glanced at Leila Katz. She still lay unmoving. Could I pull Curry across the building to the office and the phone? Leaving one foot braced against his back, I stood.

The sheriff’s siren seared the air.

Curry started, then flailed with newfound force. I dropped, my knees in his back. He groaned.

“It’s too late,” I said.

He didn’t move.

I glared down at him, thinking of Edwina as she lay on the floor in the Steelhead Lodge kitchen, surrounded by her own vomit. “Death—even the awful way Edwina died—wasn’t much worse than what you had planned for her, was it?”

He grunted.

“You never intended to fell your own trees back in the hills like you told me. That wasn’t what all those logging trucks were for, and those cargo boats. It was the Nine Warriors you planned to cut down, wasn’t it?”

His grunt sounded strangely like a chuckle.

“Edwina was worried about kids carving their initials in them; that’s what her ordinance dealt with. But your plan was to send her to Sacramento with the treaty, to let the experts there expose the fake, and then to let Edwina, shocked and humiliated, drive home along River Road and find nine stumps.”

Now he did chuckle.

I recalled that one time I had seen Edwina look peaceful, as she sat staring up into the huge redwood behind her shop. I yanked the rope up one more time, and let Curry’s grin smash down into the glass.

Sheriff Wescott ran in. The ambulance men were right behind. One bent down and removed Leila’s gag. She groaned. A deputy took charge of Curry. Wescott surveyed the broken glass, the rope. “Vejay, what the—”

“He killed Edwina. He kidnapped Leila. And he’s got men cutting down all Nine Warriors right now.”

Wescott’s tanned face turned red. He yanked Curry to his knees. “That right?”

Curry kept silent, but he couldn’t hide a smile of triumph. It was enough for the sheriff. “Read him his rights,” he said to the deputy. Then he ran out.

It was a moment before I followed. I tried to run, but I was too exhausted. By the time I reached his car, he had the radio mike in hand and was saying, “Make it fast. Ten-four.” He started the engine.

“I’m coming,” I said.

I expected him to argue. He hesitated, then opened the back door. I was barely in when the car raced out of the complex, over the bridge, and inland on River Road. He didn’t speak. He kept his eyes on the road. The siren squealed above. I couldn’t tell how fast he was driving, but it was way faster than I had ever taken these sharp curves. The tires slid on the slick surface. I braced my feet against the front seat. The radio crackled as the dispatcher sent cars to Guerneville, to Henderson, all along River Road and North Bank Road to the sites of the Nine Warriors. Wescott slowed behind a camper, pulled out around it, and cut back in, nearly taking off its fender. He pressed harder on the gas, came abreast of St. Agnes’s, and slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop behind the last logging truck. He was out of the car before it had settled. I shoved open my door and ran past the trucks to the nearest of the two Warriors here.

The drag cables were already stretched in lines between the nearest logging truck and the tree. A group of plaid-shirted men stood beneath it. And in its base was a deep gash—the undercut. The huge tree looked ready to crash down.

Wescott stared, his face flushed with fury. “Sheriff’s department,” he yelled. “Back off from the tree. Get those men away from the other one. Now! Move it!”

“Hey, man, we’ve got a contract,” one of the loggers said.

“Illegal. There’s an ordinance protecting these trees.” He looked back at the undercut and asked softly, “Can this redwood be saved?”

No one answered. From the looks that passed between the men it was clear that “saving” was not a term they associated with redwoods.

A car pulled up and two deputies got out. Sheriff Wescott walked over, and I could see him explaining and sending one of them to the far tree, the other to take charge of this one. He took a last look at the gouge in the trunk, let his eyes climb the full length of the tree to where the branches pierced the fog and disappeared. He stood. Then he turned and walked back to his car.

He sat on the seat, his feet in the dirt outside. The wind blew in off the Pacific, but he seemed impervious to its cold damp touch. Without looking at me, he said, “Once this area was a rain forest so thick that even the Indians lived only on the edges. When I was a boy, there were so many trees on the riverbanks you could barely see the houses. The redwoods stood like pillars; they looked like they were lifting the hillside up to the clouds.” He swallowed hard. “Every year something is destroyed. The river is filled with sewage, the salmon are killed, assholes set fires …” More softly, he said, “The redwoods
are
the Russian River area. They give us distance from each other. They remind us we’re a part of nature, swept by the same current as the river. Every year more are gone.”

I was stunned by the depth of his feeling. I stood still, unwilling to intrude. Perhaps he would regret revealing his anguish in front of me. He sat, staring into the dirt. I hesitated, then put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shake it off. Neither of us spoke.

Then he motioned me to the back of the car, turned, and started the engine. With that, he became all business, asking me about Curry Cunningham and Edwina, and Leila. He drove carefully now, occasionally interrupting me to answer the dispatcher or to call in another order. By the time we reached the fish ranch, his questions had tailed off.

A deputy was keeping two workmen at a distance from the end of the building. They were insisting they needed to get it off and out of the way by eight
A.M.
Beyond the jetty, those nine tugboats were treading water.

Sheriff Wescott told a deputy to take me back to the station in Guerneville to make my official statement, then headed inside the green pre-fab building.

Wescott had never admitted that I was right in my suspicions. It didn’t need saying. But after the deputy took my statement, during the time it took to have it typed, have me check it, and retype the corrections, he did stop by the station and tell me that, faced with Leila Katz’s accusations and the rest of the evidence against him, Curry Cunningham had confessed. He answered my questions with a patience that came close to blotting out the memory of his patronizing tone Friday night. And he called the café and had them send an order of eggs, chorizo, and kraut, and a pot of real coffee, with real cream.