Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (25 page)

I pulled the maps from the tube and spread them over the counter.

"These?" I asked, pointing at the highlighted areas.

Without answering, he pushed a few keys on the computer. The screen filled
with a list of names and numeric notations. Stratton methodically worked from
the maps to the screen and back.

Finally, after several rechecks, he ran his fingers through his thick beard
and said, "You've got one too many." He pulled at his beard again.

"Which one?" I asked.

"This one." He pointed to a yellowed spot on the center map.
"We haven't done this one."

"You sure?" I asked. He breathed a sigh of exasperation.

"Of course I'm sure. These were the best damn sites I've had to work
with in twenty years. I'm sure as hell not going to forget one of them."

Silence settled over the little office as the three of us stared at the spot
on the map. Finally Stratton said, "Check with Winthrop Logging. Maybe
they'll know something. They get there before we do. Maybe it's new."

"Thanks," I said.

"Glad to help. If we could just get more companies to be - "

While Daniel and I rolled the maps up, Stratton rambled on. Without being
asked, he wrote down Winthrop's address on a pink Post-It note. My hands were
full. He stuck it to my coat.

"Listen, Mr. Waterman," he said as I opened the door, "if you
get a chance, thank Winthrop for the cleanup job. It's so seldom that anybody
bothers to - " I assured Stratton that I'd convey his appreciation.

"Bullshit," was the first word out of his mouth.

"What's bullshit?" I asked.

"You're bullshit." I was glad we'd cleared that up. He wasn't
through. "Who the fuck do you think you're fooling? You're just some kind
of goddamn inspector." With one brawny arm, he swept the maps to the
floor. They covered my feet. "Take those fucking maps and get out, before
I shove ‘em up your ass. You got any complaints about those sites, you go see
the tribe. We got it in writing. It's in the contract. It's all there in black
and white. If they'd wanted cleanup, we'd never had taken the job. Barely
turned a profit as it was. Shitty little sites. Damn near not worth dragging
the equipment up there. Fucking regulations."

His eyes narrowed. He reached out quickly and grabbed my shirt front,
pulling me halfway over the counter. "Let me tell you something, pal. My
family's been logging this area for forty-five years. Used to be lots of
families around here made their living logging. We're damn near all that's
left. You understand that? Huh, do you? Rest of them are working in some
stinking factory somewhere. You come in here with that bullshit about -
"Disgusted, he let go and straight-armed me back two steps. "Get
out." He pointed toward the door. Daniel crumpled the maps to his chest
and backed out the door. I wasn't far behind.

Daniel and I sat in the truck as he refolded the maps.

"Did you catch his name?" Daniel asked.

"We never got that far. Sounded like a Winthrop, thought."

"Planters were a lot friendlier than cutters."

"Considerably," I agreed.

"Was interesting, though."

"Very," I agreed again.

Daniel read my mind. "If the loggers aren't cleaning up the sites, then
who is?"

"Good question, Daniel. A mighty good question." I mumbled
absentmindedly. "Be right back," I said. I headed back inside.

The little bell over the door tinkled my arrival. He came out from the
office in the back, took one look at me, and started around the corner for me,
fists clenched at his sides. I began to babble.

"Look, Mr. - " I held up both hands in front of me. "I'm not
here to make trouble. I'm not with the EPA or the Forest Service or any other
agency." He kept coming, his eyes pinched down to slits.

"You got big balls, pal," he muttered, still advancing.

"A friend of mine's dead," I blurted as he stepped up to me. He
stopped. "Dead?" he repeated.

"Murdered." He momentarily relaxed, then tensed again.

"If you're some kind of insurance - "

"No insurance," I said quickly. He again relaxed slightly.

Before he could regroup, I told him as much of the story as he needed to
know. He listened without interrupting. When I'd finished, I handed him a
business card. He studied it.

"So who are you working for?" he asked. Good question.

"Myself, I guess." He stuck out a hand. I flinched.

"Winnie Winthrop," he said. My hand disappeared into his.

"Leo Waterman."

"Busted his fingers and then shot him in the head?"

I nodded. He shook his head sadly. "An old guy, you said?"

"Sixty-six."

"Jesus Christ." More head shaking. "My dad's sixty-six."

He leaned back against the counter, folding his big arms across his red
suspenders. "Who did the replant?" he asked.

"A company called Greenside Up."

"Bunch of goddamn hippies." He pulled at his ear. "But they
do a good job," he added grudgingly.

He massaged the problem for a moment. "Wait here," he said and
stalked back into the office. His cutoff pants ended six inches above his work
boots.

I walked back out to the truck and retrieved the maps. Daniel seemed
surprised that I was still in one piece. I went back inside. Half of a muffled
phone conversation leaked out of the back room. I waited.

Winthrop reappeared, shaking his head again.

"Good thing you're a detective."

"Why's that?'

" ‘Cause you got a mystery here, Mr. Waterman."

"The cleanup?" I ventured.

"No shit."

"So you guys aren't cleaning up the sites."

"Cleaning up?" he laughed. "We aren't even burning the slash.
We're just cutting, bucking, and yarding them out. It's like I said, the only
reason we took the job was because we didn't have to clean ‘em up. Got it in
writing. Couldn't even do it except it's on the reservation. The tribe don't
have to live by all the fucking government regulations. Stratton at Greenside
says the sites are stumped and graded when he gets there. No burn piles. Says
they look like football fields."

"A third contractor?" I suggested.

"No fuckin' way. Wouldn't begin to pay for the gas. No way."

I spread the maps out again, covering the entire counter.

"Could you check these against your records?" I asked.

Winnie wasn't computerized. He pulled an enormous ledger book out from under
the counter and spent the next five minutes cross-checking with the maps. The
door tinkled. Daniel had either gotten tired of waiting or was concerned for my
safety. Winnie looked up briefly and went back to his checking. "That's
all of them," he announced, shutting the book with a bang.

"No extras?" Daniel asked from behind me.

"Nope."

Daniel stepped forward, pushed the maps around until he found the right one
and pointed to the spot. "What about this one?"

Winnie leaned over. Confused, he turned the map around to face him, reopened
the book, and checked again.

"That's the new one. Finished it last Friday."

Daniel and I exchanged glances.

"How come greenside doesn't know about this site?" I asked.

"No reason for them to know until we settle up with the tribe."

"How long does that take?"

"Terms are net thirty."

"Who pays who?" I asked.

"We pay the tribe. We scale the logs, figure board feet, the tribe
sends somebody down to check, and after we agree on a figure, we pay the tribe.

"Who exactly do you pay?" asked Daniel, close and interested now.

"Tribal Resources. Guy named Short." Daniel looked grim.

Winthrop slammed the book shut again. Daniel retrieved the maps.

"Thanks, Mr. Winthrop," I said without offering my hand up for
slaughter.

"Get ‘em," he said. "Sixty-six. Who in hell would - ? Get
‘em."

The big flatbed burst out of the trees into the roadway. Startled, I stood
on the brakes. The pickup skidded to a halt. Everything to loose in the camper
slid to the front.

The truck driver punched the air horn angrily as he roared by, headed back
the way we'd come. The truck was empty. The only cargo was a green tarp, neatly
folded and tied down on the bed, close up to the red cab.

Dust hung suspended in the air. Daniel checked the map.

"That's the one," he announced.

The thick red dust settled on the windshield. I turned on the wipers. The
washer was empty. The dry wipers dragged and scraped the dust, clearing two
fans of visibility. I eased the truck forward.

Sixty yards up the road, I spotted what appeared to be a small turnout on
the opposite side of the road and rolled the truck in.

The overgrown gravel road had once been a driveway. The carcass of a
moss-covered cabin sagged and leaned forlornly in a ragged clearing, the broken
ends of its collapsed roof pointing skyward like bleaching ribs. The doors and
windows turned to dust, the brown unpainted siding buckled under the strain of
a wicked lean to the right.

I U-turned the truck in the front yard and got out. Daniel followed me
around to the back of the truck as I unlocked the camper.

Leaning in, I pulled the seat cushion fro the dinette seat, reached way down
into the wheel well, and fished out Bobby Warren's bag. I dug out the
nine-millimeter and turned to hand it to Daniel. No Daniel.

He stood just inside the front door of the cabin, kicking around in the
rubble with the toe of one boot. He squatted and peered up under a lean-to-like
area formed where a section of roof clung tenaciously to the wall, defying
gravity.

Using the makeshift roof for support, he leaned down, reached in, and came
out with a half-full two-liter bottle of Coke. He swiveled his head, caught my
eyes, and said, "Classic Coke." As usual, I was lost.

"If you're thirsty," I started.

"Nobody's lived here for fifty years," he interrupted.

"So?"

"Bottle's brand-new." He agitated the liquid. "Still got the
fizz."

"Bums - campers - who knows."

He grunted in return, carefully replacing the bottle where he'd found it. He
ambled over. I held out the nine-millimeter. Without a word, he took it, noiselessly
working the slide, checking the load. "Nice piece," he said quietly
and tried to hand it back.

"Keep it. You might need it," I said, pulling the rolled-up
blanket from the bag. Daniel peered over my shoulder as I unrolled the blanket
and exposed the wicked little automatic and the four banana clips.

"Looks like a toy," he commented.

I pulled the wire shoulder brace along the top of the gun and snapped it
into place, transforming the pistol into a rifle.

"The Indians are outgunned again," Daniel said, as I held the
weapon up to my shoulder and checked the feel.

"You can have this one if you want," I said, offering the gun.

"No thanks." He bounced the nine-millimeter in his palm.
"This little baby will do me just fine. I do appreciate a man who comes loaded
for bear though," he added with a wink.

I unclipped the shoulder strap from both ends of Bobby's bag and fed it
through the automatic's handle, clipping the ends together to form a loop. I
took off my jacket and slipped the loop over my shoulder. The gun hung down to
my belt. After tearing out the right-hand pocket, I put the jacket back on. The
elastic at the bottom of the jacket held the gun firmly in place. My right hand
had easy access to the trigger guard. I filled the left-hand pocket with the three
remaining clips. Floyd would have been proud of me.

"Ready?" I asked Daniel.

"Ready," he said. "You expecting trouble?"

"this stuff," I said, patting the gun through my coat, "is
purely for defensive purposes. Just to make sure we get out of here." He
nodded.

We started up the road. When we reached the bottom of the logging road, I
instinctively started toward the low side. Daniel stopped me with a hand on the
shoulder.

"Let's stay high," he said. "It'll be easier going. They push
all the road debris downhill."

I took his word for it and followed him up the little bank to our left. For
the first five hundred yards the going was slow as we traversed a series of
brush-filled gullies. The road builders had used up the whole ridgeline,
leaving us with only a tangled roller coaster of loose sidehill to walk on. For
another quarter mile we trudged on, Daniel in the lead.

The loose dirt was taking a toll on my legs. My calves were in knots. Daniel
seemed unaffected. I tugged at the back of Daniel's jacket. "Maybe you
should stop for a minute," I wheezed. He grinned.

"I'm fine," he said, the grin getting bigger.

"Well, I'm not."

"You gotta get in shape, Leo."

"I thought I was."

"It's that city life." I couldn't disagree.

We sat together on a downed pine. I started to speak. Daniel held a finger
to his lips. "Listen. You hear it?" he whispered.

I listened. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my temples. I shook
my head. "Listen. You hear it?" he whispered.

I listened. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my temples. I shook
my head. "Listen," he repeated.

I listened. Slowly, as the sound of my own body quieted, I became aware of
the faint sound of machinery in the distance. More than one machine. Idling,
then laboring, then the whoop, whoop of backing up.

"Not far," he said quietly. Without another word, he rose from the
log and started up hill. I followed, using both hands to grab the pine saplings
and pull myself up the slope. Without my hands to hold it in place, the
automatic banged incessantly against my right hipbone, rubbing it raw. I
ignored it. Compared to the cramping in my calves, the chafing of the gun was
barely noticeable.

    The machinery was louder now. Neither the
scraping of my feet  nor the sound of my labored breathing could drown it
out. Daniel was ten yards in front of me, off to the left, moving easily
through the tangled underbrush.