I left the library and went two doors down the street to the newspaper office. It was locked. As Allison said, he might be out digging for news. I removed one of his business cards from my pocket and scribbled a response on the back. It was simple: CALL ME. I included my cell phone number and stuck the card between the door and its frame.
As I turned around, there stood Enid, eyeing me from across the street. I wondered how long he’d been watching me this time. I started to cross the street to where my car was parked. Mid-street, I sharply changed course and walked toward Deputy Powell. I hadn’t planned to do this, but him staring at me prompted the move. He peered my way with a slight look of surprise, but held my gaze as I neared.
“Deputy Powell, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah? What?” he spat.
“How are your bounty hunter pals doing today?” I had actually intended to be more subtle about asking him that, but the more direct approach just came spilling out. Yet it had an effect far better than anticipated. His face showed an expression of surprise and shock, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or in his case specifically a city official caught with his fingers accepting a payoff.
He was speechless for a couple of seconds before finally blurting out, “How did you know….?” He stopped himself and clamped his mouth shut. He turned red, though it was probably not with anger. More likely it was from embarrassment at being found out.
A tingle of excitement coursed through me. I had struck a nerve with him. Yet I became concerned that my approach might have been too blunt. It might arouse this angry giant. In spite of that concern, I considered how to use his embarrassment to my advantage, hoping to drill down to get the name of the dead Hispanic. But before I could say anything, he turned, stormed off, hopped into his patrol vehicle, and sped away, spraying up a cloud of dust and pebbles from the gravel parking lot.
Now I had no doubt that there was something solid in this bounty hunter angle. I was naturally eager to hear back from Ed on what he could dig up. But since there was nothing more I could do until I heard back from him or talked with Joseph Custer or could get back on the Internet at the library, I felt restless. I was juiced up with no way right now to focus it on my investigation. It was still too early to wait at the National Forest entrance for the tree-planting crew to come out for the night. Needing to burn off some energy, I drove west out of town into the forest to hike Boulder Creek Trail.
Boulder Creek was a short trail, with an easy walk through the forest to the creek. The path paralleled the water for several hundred yards, and then crossed it to go up into the hills for a panoramic view from an overlook high above. I forded the creek, hopping from rock to rock to avoid soaking my boots, then climbed up the steep grade. Many of the footholds on the way were exposed tree roots that created an irregular but easily navigable set of stairs. At the overlook, I was rewarded with a spectacular view of the creek, the rising slopes of evergreens upstream, and the rolling hills downstream. This is what attracted me so to hiking, getting to the end and seeing what relatively few others have. Many people hike the easy parts of the trail, and then give up when the going gets tough. Yet on most trails, the reward is at the end. I guess it’s the same with an investigation. The reward is at the end, solving the riddle. I lingered for a long time at the end of this trail, taking in the scenery. But knowing that darkness comes early to the mountains, I reluctantly reversed course.
On the way out, litter from previous hikers caught my eye, and I stuffed it in my backpack to dispose of later. I often found myself doing this, packing out what others carried in. I always felt a responsibility to nature to leave as small a trace as possible, a payment for the use of the land. The reward is an unspoiled view on the next visit. I reflected on that. Since I was social litter, I hoped that someone would pick me up along the way.
I had longed for Jennifer Lambert to pick me up. We met after I was on the police force back in Cincinnati. We were engaged. When I was dumped as a cop, she did pick me up, for a while. We continued as a couple, still making plans for the future. But as my unemployment lingered, dragging into months, she grew tired of postponing the plans for a life together. While she had a job and could have supported us both until I found employment, she wanted more than an unemployed husband. She wanted more than I could give. So we drifted apart. And I drifted west.
And my mind had drifted too. Usually hiking was therapeutic for me, bringing mental focus, clearing my head of clutter. But sometimes it led my mind to wander to memories, the good and the bad, the pleasant and the painful, the beautiful and the ugly. I had to forget about Jennifer. That chapter of my life was over. It was history. I needed to focus on here and now.
By the time I got back to my car, the sun was slowly vanishing, already casting long shadows. I had not eaten since the donuts and juice early this morning, so my energy level was fading. I munched on a granola bar as I drove toward the main entrance to the National Forest. It was a little after 4 PM when I arrived, which seemed like a sufficiently early time to begin my watch for the tree-planting crew to emerge and head home for the day. My brief scan of the maps in the ranger station suggested this was the road that vehicles would take in and out of Spring Valley. So this was the place to watch.
I found a wooded spot across the highway from the entrance. It provided an unobstructed view down the gravel entry road. In the distance I could see the front of the ranger station and even the beginning of the Official Use Only road leading into the forest. I opened my window to let in the outside air, tilted the seat back a couple notches, and got comfortable.
I sat and waited. I waited a long time. Cars, trucks, and buses occasionally zoomed north and south along the highway. No vehicles exited through the gate. No vehicles entered. I expected at least some traffic in and out, even though it was in the middle of the week. But there was nothing. I suppose that’s a consequence of the recession. Tourism is down, people just aren’t traveling, even to affordable National Forests. Ranger Pine’s station was indeed a lonely post. No wonder he was so talkative, at least until I started making him uncomfortable with my probing questions about a dead body on the trail.
The clock on my cell phone silently showed the time as I sat and waited. 5 PM. I waited and checked the time again and again. It crept along.
Finally my clock indicated it was 6 PM. No traffic in, no traffic out. The shadows of the trees got longer as the sun drifted behind the hills. The light was fading. 7 PM. These guys work very long hours. Perhaps they stay until there is absolutely no daylight left at all before calling it quits for the day. A very demanding regimen. 8 PM. It was dark.
I could see the lights of a vehicle heading toward me. At last. But these were too low to the ground and too narrowly spaced to be a truck or even a van. A truck or a van is what I had expected to see transporting a sizeable number of workers from a tree-planting crew.
What emerged through the gate was a sedan with a driver and three passengers. There were no markings on the door panel to suggest it was associated with a contract business. Just a car, tourists presumably, heading home after a day in the National Forest. The car went north.
Shortly after that, another car approached. It stopped just outside the entrance gate. A figure emerged, swung the gate closed, locked it, and returned to the car. It then turned onto the highway and sped south. I did catch a glimpse of a National Forest emblem on the driver side door panel. Ranger Pine heading home for the night after a very long workday. After his departure, all was quiet again.
It seemed unlikely that a tree-planting crew would have quit work for the day before I arrived at 4 PM. But then maybe they had. I cursed myself for indulging in the hike on Boulder Creek Trail. I should have come directly from town to here and waited, even if it would have been for most of the afternoon. Then I would not have missed them exiting.
It also seemed unlikely that the crew would stil
l be in there after dark, especially since now the gate was locked. But then again, perhaps they had their own gate key. So I waited for another half hour. Still no one emerged. It was long past any quitting time I could imagine for outdoor labor. They could not have continued planting trees in the dark. They wouldn’t be able to see what they were doing. I suppose they could be using a generator to power spot lights. I looked in the direction of Spring Valley. Even though it was a long way into the forest, I should have seen a glow of spotlights shimmering over the top of the trees. There was nothing. Finally, at 9 PM, I gave up.
I had bungled the investigation. I was fumbling along here, alone, almost no resources, no experience as a detective.
Yet I knew there was no stopping for me. I was not a quitter. I would just try again.