The early morning light was sparkling off the frost coating the Suiattle River valley when the Renshaws gathered around the entrance to the property to see Troy and his family off. Warner and Sylvia planned to stay behind to work on the cabin while they waited for Kendra’s arrival New Year’s Day.
Lowering the chain attached to the bent gateposts, Warner watched Troy drive his rental car through and stop.
“Wish you could have stayed longer,” Sylvia said, stepping up to the side of the car.
“Us too,” Troy said, sounding torn as everyone began sharing goodbyes. Leaning out the driver’s window to give his mother one last hug, he suddenly pointed to the opposite side of the road. “What’s that, over in the bushes?”
Crossing the road, Warner shoved aside the leafless winter brush to see a dark bundle on the ground. Twigs cracked and snapped as he bent down to pick up a black and gray bag.
“What is it?” Troy called, unfastening his seatbelt and stepping out of the car.
“Don’t know,” Warner replied. “Looks like a travel bag. It’s pretty heavy.” He slowly walked back to the car and set the bag on the hood with a clank from within. His brother walked around to stand beside him as Warner folded back the twin plastic handles. Opening the full-length zipper, Warner peered inside.
“You’re kidding me,” Warner exclaimed, reaching in and retrieving a small crow bar. Inside were also a rusty hammer, worn bolt cutters, and a pair of black cotton gloves. Disgusted, he tossed the crowbar back into the bag.
“Not real smart are they?” Troy asked, lifting an airline baggage tag that wrapped one of the handles:
C. COUSINS, SEATTLE TO BOISE, AUG 12
“Must be what Kolt was hiding against his chest last week,” Warner said. Then he noticed a small address label partially obscured by the baggage tag. “Look at this.”
Cecil Cousins
19756 Upland Road
Darrington, WA
“The boy’s clearly from the shallow end of the gene pool.” Troy chuckled.
“Yeah, this should make Kendra happy.” Warner said excitedly. “We finally have solid evidence for the deputy. Maybe he’ll do something now.”
“Don’t worry too much about Kendra,” Troy said with a sympathetic tone. “Just give her time. It’s part of the package when you get married. Mary and I go through our own rough spots every now and again, and we’ve been together for ten years. Besides….” Troy slapped Warner on the back. “Now you know where the dumb-ass lives.”
-- : --
Two hours after Troy and his family departed, Warner and his mother drove down the dirt surface of Upland Road. He slowed the truck to thirty miles an hour—five miles under the speed limit. Any slower and he feared they would bring unwanted attention. We’re just out for a ‘Sunday’ drive.
A quarter of a mile farther, the first house they came to had the county-required narrow rectangular house number sign with reflective white letters on a blue background. The sign read ‘19756’ and clung by rusting nails to the top rail of a sagging split-log fence. Looks like that fence could come down any minute. Weeds choked the rotting posts and filled the un-mowed lawn. Beyond, in the middle of the wild yard, sat a small dingy white house shaded by an aging big-leaf maple.
So this is where the Cousins live.
Warner recognized the burgundy Ford Taurus parked fifteen feet from an uncovered front landing with a peeling door and exposed bulb jutting out from the side of the house.
“Pretty sad,” Sylvia said.
Continuing forward at a leisurely pace, they pulled even with the neglected house and saw movement near the large maple tree at the rear corner of the lot.
“That’s the kid—Kolt,” Warner said, turning his face away. “Don’t be obvious, but tell me what you see. He doesn’t know what you look like. Hopefully he doesn’t recognize my truck.”
“How would he? He’s only seen it in the middle of the night.”
“So what’s he doing?” he asked.
“He’s quite the horse. You sure he’s a teenager? Looks like he’s digging a hole to bury a trash pile,” She snorted in disapproval. “Haven’t they got any pride? Why don’t they take it to the dump like normal people?”
“Maybe they can’t afford it.” An uneasy feeling crept over Warner as they continued driving past. What’s it like being that poor? Is the interior warm and inviting with clean, well-kept surfaces to display the family pictures and a few small treasures? Do they appreciate it more for the little they own? Or is the inside cold and bleak, full of hoarded discards, promotional plastic cups, and layers of newspaper covering a filthy floor in an attempt to deny their poverty?
Warner remembered when his kitchen had been ransacked. Do they even have enough to eat? His earlier anger at the continued harassment and break-ins softened into something approaching sympathy—but fell short of forgiveness. Can a family like this truly get a second chance? Can we?
-- : --
Forty minutes later, sitting in the cab of the Toyota truck in the parking lot of the Sauk River Trading Post in Darrington, Warner and Sylvia watched an afternoon ‘traffic jam’—two mud-splattered 4x4 trucks following a semi-truck loaded with logs for the Hampton Lumber Mill.
Behind them, business at the struggling trading post was slow. Huge logs carved into a variety of shapes, from mushrooms to the mythical Sasquatch, stood in front of the store. Inside, the towering log-styled building stocked everything for the outdoorsman, including hunting licenses, fishing tackle and bait, guns and ammunition, and even a limited line of rugged clothing.
Reading from the torn halves of the deputy’s business card lying on the center console, Warner punched in the number on his cell phone.
“Skagit County Sheriff’s department, is this an emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“No, it’s regarding a previous incident,” he said in a formal tone.
“Do you have an incident number?”
Warner provided it and shifted in his seat to glance at the black-and-gray bag in the back. “I’d like to speak to the sheriff.” Kendra was right… what have I done so far? Well, I’m not wasting my time with the deputy. I can’t make it any easier for the law to arrest these thieves, short of bringing the guys in myself.
“Just a minute, please,” the dispatcher replied. “Let me see if he’s available.”
Shortly, a male voice came on the line.
“Deputy Braun here.” He sounded impatient.
“Hi… umm, this is Warner Renshaw. I was actually calling for the sheriff.”
“It’s better you talk to me. He’s busy and so am I.”
“Uh, we spoke last week when you came to my cabin on the Suiattle. It was in response to a burglary.”
“You mean them trespassers on Wa-Wilkin Road.”
“Well, sure. I found a bag they dropped. There’s a name on it. I think it belongs to one of the guys I encountered that night.” There was no response from the line. “Deputy?”
“What name?”
“Cecil Cousins. It’s got an address—”
“I know the family.”
“Great. I have the bag with me. I can bring it—”
“Won’t be necessary.” The deputy sighed. “Hold it and I’ll talk with Cecil.”
Warner frowned. Why doesn’t he want the bag? Shouldn’t he at least look at it? “I thought with evidence you could bring them in or something.”
“You seen Kolt drop it?”
“No—why do you think it was Kolt?” Of course… the deputy knows the family—he knows everyone.
“Look, Mr. Renshaw, let me be blunt. What you got’s circumstantial and we still just talking trespass. I got a shooting up on Sauk Mountain, two drug busts over near Clear Creek, and an armed robbery in Sedro Woolley. Like I say, best I can do for you is chat with Cecil when I get a spare second.”
“Okay… I’ll keep the bag in my truck ‘til I hear from you.”
“You do that. Thanks for the call, Mr. Renshaw,” the deputy said. The line went dead.
“What will it take before the deputy decides to help us?” Warner looked at his mother.
“Obviously, something worse.”
“That’s a nice thought,” Warner said sarcastically. “I’m going to call Kendra again. Hopefully she’ll pick up this time.”