The Deader the Better (25 page)

We shook hands. “Long time no see,” he said.

“Nothing personal, man, but I’d just as soon not see you at
all.”

“I’m kind of like the dentist that way,” he said. He tilted
his head toward the nondescript-looking guy who was wedged up against
the wall on his right. “This is the Russian.” He was about forty,
five-ten or so and narrow all the way down. He sported a hair helmet
that I suspected he dyed and a pair of those Moscow snow-cutter
eyebrows that Russian men seem to sprout in middle age. “Does the
Russian have a name?” I asked.

“Peek one,” the Russian said.

“How about Boris?” I suggested.

“Vhy you Americans tink ve are all named Boris?”

His English wasn’t any worse than, say, a drunken Canadian’s.

“It was a cartoon we all watched when we were kids.”

Floyd snapped his fingers. “That’s right…Boris Badenov,”

he said.

“Oh…” The Russian nodded. “Propaganda.”

He’d been a major in the Russian Army and was a veteran of the
Afghan war. Been in the country for a year and a half. He had a
résumé of villages sacked, livestock slaughtered and crops burned
that was second to none. Seemed like just the guy I needed, so I took
him on.

“Seriously though,” I said. “It’s got to be real names on
this one. Valid ID. The whole ball of wax. No weapons without
permits.”

“How come?” Inquiring Floyds want to know.

“Because we’re going to be taking on the powers that be, and
the powers that be can instantly check on those kind of things.”

“The cops?”

“Yeah,” I said. For a second, my answer surprised me. I guess
it was because I’d never verbalized it before. I’d spent a lot of
time thinking about the night Rebecca and I were pushed over that
cliff, and every time I ended up with the same question about the
timing of the thing. How had they known we were coming? No way they
could have been sitting there with the road blocked for very long. A
couple of dozen families used that road. No…they knew just when we
were going to arrive. Really, it was simple. I’d made two stops
before starting back to J.D.’s. First one at Beaver Building Supply
for a new lock and chain. Second one to leave a gate key with Deputy
Spots. The former had no idea where I was going from there. Spots
knew exactly where I was headed next. Pretty much a no-brainer.

I went over everything I had on my list. Used a napkin to draw a
crude map of the cabin and the surrounding terrain. They were coming
up on their own. Shooting for three or four tomorrow afternoon. They
loved the river at our backs but hated the forest at our throats. I
gave Floyd directions to the homestead and twenty-five hundred bucks
for up-front expenses. He slipped a thousand to the Russian and
pocketed the rest. He slid out of the booth so that the Russian could
get out. I stood up and shook his hand.

“Seriously,” I said, “what’s your name?”

“Boris,” he said with a smile. “Vould I lie?”

I laughed. “Okay, Boris. See you tomorrow.”

Floyd and I stood next to the booth and watched him leave.

“What about you?” Floyd asked.

“What about me?”

“You capable of taking care of yourself or are we gonna need to
wet-nurse you, too?” I pulled up my pants leg and then took off my
cap. I was used to sympathy. Floyd looked at my wounds like they were
mosquito bites.

“I can’t be duking it out with anybody,” I said. “Other
than that I’m okay.”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

I made a show of pulling five hundred-dollar bills from my pocket
and then flourished the cash in hand as I approached the
receptionist’s desk.

“Lenny’s got some work ready for me,” I said boldly. She
didn’t look up from her typing. “You know the way.”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks to go get it for me.”

She chuckled. “No way.”

“Fifty.”

“Forget it.”

Suffice it to say that Lenny was as I’d left him. “Over
there,”

he said.

Sure enough, five official-looking envelopes, Seattle postmarks,
canceled postage. Perfect. Beneath the envelopes, two typed pages.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The one on top is Charlie’s phone spiel. He wrote it down so
he wouldn’t forget. I thought maybe your phone guy could use it.
The other one is directions to the addresses on the envelopes.”

“You know Stevens Falls?”

He made a disgusted face. “It’s on the web, Leo. Maps of every
damn place in the world. If you want to waste your time on that
crap.” He slapped the computer on its top.

“Goddamn phone lines are so friggin’ slow during the day. Got
every little bastard in every school clogging up the airways. Ought
to keep the little bastards off—”

I pointed at the screen. “Can you print that?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “You want one?”

“Please.”

A minute later he held a piece of paper by his fingertips.

“It’s wet,” he said.

I took the picture, left the money in place of the work and
scrambled for the door.

“Thanks, Lenny,” I said on the way out.

“Wait…wait, you gotta see,” was the last thing I heard him
say.

On my way by the receptionist’s desk, I slipped the picture onto
the counter. She was reaching for it as I hit the door. I’d have
walked right by her on the street. The blond hair was gone. So were
the green contact lenses and the slinky raincoat. The woman who slid
into the booth opposite me was the All-American Girl. Drop-dead cute.
Curly brown hair worn close to the head, blue eyes and the kind of
makeup job that makes you wonder if she’s wearing any.

“G said you wanted to talk.” She waved at the waitress, who
seemed to know what the gesture meant. We were sitting in a booth at
the Five Spot. A trendy café at the top of Queen Anne Hill. She read
my eyes. “I’m a chameleon,” she said.

“Is Narva your real name?” I asked.

“Nobody’s named Narva.”

I told her what I knew about Constance Hart and Misty McMahon.

“The kid’s lucky to have her,” she said when I’d finished.
The waitress showed up with a double tall latte of some sort,
something brown sprinkled on top. “Hazelnut,” she said and took a
sip. Ended up with a milk mustache, which looked great on her. “So?”
she said.

“I have need of your services.”

She frowned, which also looked good on her. “Really?”

“Not for myself. For somebody else.”

Her brow smoothed out. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad to hear
that.”

I wasn’t exactly sure how to take that, so I shut up.

“Not like that,” she said. “I meant good because I like to
think I’m a good judge of people, and I didn’t make you for the
type.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that, either, so I said, “Thanks. I
didn’t make you for the type, either.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you still fishing for a story?”

“Not me.”

“Let me ask you a question, Leo.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you involved with a woman?”

“Yes,” I said and gave her the abridged version.

“So you guys…you know…get it down once in a while…” She
held up a hand. “I don’t mean to be personal. I’m merely making
a point.”

“I understand.”

“So, Leo…Is it free?”

“Is what free?”

“The sex.” Before I could speak, she went on. “I’m not
asking whether you leave money on the nightstand. I’m asking you as
a man who’s involved in a long-term, committed relationship. I’m
asking whether psychologically, emotionally…or even financially
whether you’d characterize the service as being free.”

“Relationships have other benefits,” I hedged.

“I didn’t say otherwise.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is
it?”

I thought it over. “Not strictly speaking,” I admitted.

“My point exactly. It’s not a question of whether you pay.
It’s a question of what the price is and over what period of time
the payments are made.”

“It’s like that joke about the difference between a pigeon and
a dove.”

“Which is?”

“The dove has a better agent.”

She laughed and said, “So what is it you’ve got in mind?”

I told her. When I finished, she said, “That’s not very nice.”

“You abuse the public trust, you take your chances,” I said.
She looked at me over the coffee. “My, my,” she chided.

“Indignation. And from the son of the legendary Wild Bill
Waterman?”

“That was sharks bilking other sharks. The public didn’t enter
into it.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I guess we all have our stories, now,
don’t we?”

If this were a boxing match, I’d be stopped on cuts, so I
changed the subject.

“So what do you think?”

“I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m concerned
for my safety.”

“I’ll be right there. Less than a hundred feet away.”

“Watching.”

“In a purely clinical fashion,” I said.

“No doubt.”

“Be a chameleon.”

She leaned back in the booth, hugging the coffee cup to her chest
as she thought it over. “You were pretty impressive that night in
Bellevue.”

“So were you,” I said.

“No…I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“I was terrified.”

“Me, too.”

“Bullshit. You were having fun. I could feel it.” She raised
an eyebrow. “Trust me. I’m in the fun business. I knows it when I
sees it.”

“So…we’ve got a deal.”

“My rate, plus expenses, plus you’ll owe me.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“We both know you can get this done a lot cheaper, Leo. I’d be
glad to give you some names and numbers.”

I’d made up my mind. If I was going to do this, I was determined
to give it my best shot. “No,” I said. “I need you.”

“It would have to be Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday
nights I have class.”

Monday was perfect. As Carl had so lyrically said, by then some of
the turds ought to be floating. And by then I’d be a better judge
of the tide.

“Monday, then,” I said. “Gives you, like, two whole days
for…you know, in case he turns out to be hard to get.”

She laughed. “Sure,” she said.

She finished her coffee while we worked out the details. I threw a
five on the table as we got to our feet. “A pleasure doing business
with you,” I said.

“That’s the idea,” she said.

HAROLD AND RALPH DON’T GET OUT IN THE COUNTRYmuch. Passing out
in Volunteer Park was their idea of confronting the unspoiled
wilderness. I wish I’d had a camera when they first got out of the
car at the Springer place. Tenthirty on a Friday morning. About the
time they usually get out of bed. Hazy sunshine. Bright blue sky to
the west. Fifty degrees. The rivers wearing a layer of fog like a
mantle. Absolutely gorgeous. I don’t know whether it was the scale
of the wilderness or whether it had dawned on them how far they were
from the nearest liquor store, but they were blown away.

“Jesus,” Harold said. “You mean people lived here?”

“On purpose?” asked Ralph.

“What the hell do you do in a place like this?” Harold asked.

“Commune with nature,” I said.

“I could commune with a drink,” Ralph said.

“No shit,” said Harold.

They were getting sullen. It was understandable. After all, it was
going on eleven in the morning and they were still sober.

“I’m going to drop you guys off at a tavern,” I said.
Eventually, the cheering subsided.

“You’ve got the right men for the job,” Ralph declared.

“What do you need us to do?” Harold asked. I told them
everything I knew about Ben Bendixon. How he used to be a regular at
the Timbertopper. How he moved to Port Townsend to live with his
daughter. How I needed somebody who knew the daughter’s name, or
maybe somebody who’d kept in touch and had a number or an address.
Anything. I wanted to talk to Ben Bendixon.

“I know you guys can do this,” I said. “Just go in there and
do what you do best. Don’t mention me. Don’t mention J.D.
Springer or this place. Tell ’em whatever you want. And promise me,
if anybody gives you a hard time or takes offense at you wanting to
know about Ben, back off. Play it cool. Just asking. No big deal,
right?”

“What is the big deal?” asked Harold.

“The big deal is that I don’t know what the big deal is.
Things keep happening around here that I don’t understand. I just
want you to be careful. Okay?”

They said it was. I gave them Cabin Number One. To those two it
was the Taj Majal. A real bed, a kitchen and bathroom that worked. A
front porch overlooking the river. It was like Ralphie said. “Nice
place. Too bad it ain’t somewhere.”

I packed them into the rental car and started back for town. I
must have missed it on the way in. Probably so intent on getting off
West River Road alive that I had tunnel vision. I turned right out of
the driveway as Harold groped the dial for a radio station; my eyes
drifted to the left and the Fox Creek Bridge.

I slid the car to a stop, backed up, turned left over the bridge.
Drove out to the middle and stopped. The Bogachiel was running hard
but clear, one of those blue-green colors for which women have a
specific name. Teal, maybe. I rolled over to the far end and looked
around. Everything was gone. The gate, the barriers, the signs,
everything. “Is this the way we come?” asked Ralph.

“No,” I said.

The bridge changed the trip to town from twenty-five minutes of
curves and dips to ten minutes of smooth pavement. Whitey and the
crew had finished painting the yellow line. It wavered in a few
places. But, all in all, looked pretty darn good.

Monty was sweeping up in front of the Black Bear when I drove by.
I tooted the horn. Without looking up, he waved with the broom.

Another mile up the road, I pulled the Malibu into an alley behind
the Stevens Falls Veterinary Clinic, hidden from view, diagonally
across the street from Freddy’s Timbertopper Tavern. “This is
where we’ll meet,” I said. “I can’t have anybody seeing you
with me.” I gave them twenty-five bucks apiece. “Right here,” I
said. “Three o’clock.” It’s not often you see them jog.