Chapter Nineteen

 

Pigtail glared at me as he left the room and shut the heavy door behind him. Townsend's baby blue silk jacket stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. The top two buttons of his starched white shirt were open and exposed a bush of gray hair on his chest as he grinned at me.

“Welcome to Townsend Mountain, Mr. Logan. You look as if you were expecting someone else.” When he saw me glancing at the wheelchair he smiled and said, “Degenerative muscle disease. Doctors don't know quite what to make of it. Personally, I think I went skinny dipping in the sump pond behind the mill once too often.”

I ignored his cynical comment. “I've seen your picture in magazines but I had no idea.”

“Company publicists keep it a secret. Don't want to lose market shares now do we?”

Despite the house in which he lived and the trappings of wealth all around us Townsend's accent was like a southern sharecropper's. If I had closed my eyes, I could easily have imagined I was talking to Vera's husband back at the diner. There was an underlying tone of cruelty in his raspy baritone voice and I had little doubt he knew all the moves of a Wall Street power broker.

“Now what exactly can I do for you?” Townsend asked spreading his palms and leaning his big head back against them.

“Maybe you should tell me.”

He laughed and it drew into a dry, hacking cough. From a box on his desk, he fumbled for a cigar. After lighting it he expelled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. All this he did before answering my question.

“I'm not responsible for your brother's death,” he finally said.

“Then how do you know he's dead?”

Townsend's piggish eyes narrowed even further and he said, “Seems likely, don't it?”

“You tell me.”

“Your brother's disappearance is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

“And I suppose you're not the least bit happy to see him go?”

“I think you're over estimating your brother's ability to influence someone. Do-gooders have pointed fingers at BST for years, both at my father, my grandfather and me. Nothing came of it then and nothing would have come of your brother's finger pointing. Why?” He didn't wait for me to answer. “Because BST is synonymous with commerce. That means jobs and taxes paid. Maybe even a few kick-backs,” he said with a chuckle.

Ignoring his insinuation, I changed the subject and said, “Maybe your men aren't as secure about that as you are.”

“People around here don't cotton to strangers poking around in their business.”

“I think people around here do what you tell them to do.”

Townsend thumped the cigar into an ash tray. “Your brother was a troublemaker. He broke into our headquarters in Dill City.”

“Look, Townsend,” I said, pointing an accusing finger. “I don't believe that story for a minute. What's the motive?”

“You tell me. Fact is he did. We caught him in the act, on video. Be happy to show you the tape if you'd like.”

“I don't believe you.”

Townsend touched a button on his desk intercom and said, “Breck, bring the tape of that fellow that broke in downtown.”

Pigtail quickly appeared through the door, his scowl intact. After opening a large oak cabinet containing a television and stereo, he placed a cassette in the VCR and switched it on. Within seconds the shadowy picture of a lone man rifling through a desk, appeared on screen. It was Bill without a doubt. For a moment I couldn't speak.

“What did he steal?” I finally asked.

“Nothing. Didn't even mess up the place. Don't matter though. Fact is he was there. Now I think you should just get the hell out of my house and go back where you come from.”

“Not before you explain why your men attacked me up on the mountain.”

Townsend did not deny the attack. Instead, he said, “I told you they just don't like strangers around here.”

“Maybe you don't like strangers.”

Townsend laughed again and puffed the aromatic cigar. “I didn't order them to do what they did. Fact is I didn't even know about it until after the fact. It was Bear's own idea and I guess he got a mite overzealous.”

“Bear?”

Townsend scratched his fleshy nose and said, “My ne’er-do-well first cousin. We both got the same granddaddy but Bear never did a lick of work in his sorry-ass life. Never did anything except ride that funny looking motorcycle of his and terrorize the county.”

“Your story doesn't add up. I think you put him up to it.”

“Maybe he thought you were a threat to his inheritance. It would have taken something special for him to leave Pancho's right in the middle of happy hour.”

I'd seen my share of people that could lie with a straight face, some on both sides of the law. Even a few guilty ones along the way had managed to convince me of their innocence. Despite my suspicions I somehow felt Townsend was telling the truth but I was not about to let him off the proverbial hook.

“You're trying to shift the blame,” I said.

When Townsend grinned this time, I could see no humor in his green eyes. “You're barking up the wrong tree, Logan. I'm a goner and sure as shit I won't be here much longer. Maybe I should put a sign on that pond.”

“You callous son of a bitch. If you don't care about your own health, why don't you consider the safety and well-being of your children and grandchildren?”

“There's screwing and there's reproduction. I did a lot of the former but none of the latter. Know why, Logan?” I shook my head but didn't bother answering. “Because this planet's already a shit hole and there's nothing anyone can do to make it better. The reason is population. It just won't stop growing and all those people need food to eat and a place to live, and all that takes money.”

“But you have the power to make things better. Right here in Dill City, for instance.”

“Make things better,” he said in a mocking tone. “You know who the worst polluter is? You,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “You dumb assholes dump tons of fertilizer and insecticides on your own front lawns. Where do you think it goes? When it rains, it washes off the lawn into the gutter. From there it flows into rivers and streams and goes straight to the ocean. There's nothing I could ever do that could harm your precious ecology more than that.”

Townsend's emotional outburst brought with it another hacking cough. This time it emanated from deep within his phlegm-filled lungs. Red-faced and gasping for breath he reached for a buzzer on the desk. Before I could react, Pigtail burst through the door. He wrapped one arm around Townsend's shoulders and tipped back his head toward the wastebasket. Immediately Townsend vomited foul smelling fluid into the basket.

“Call an ambulance,” Pigtail said. “Can't you see he's dying?”

I called the County hospital from the phone on Townsend's desk and almost immediately heard distant sirens begin their wail, far down the mountain. I found a washcloth in the bathroom adjoining the office, wet it beneath the faucet and handed it to Pigtail. Ten minutes later the ambulance arrived and two paramedics placed Townsend on a stretcher, administering an IV as they carted him downstairs.

I followed them outside to the circle driveway in the front yard. The day had grown late, the temperature warm. Now, without a seam in sight, turquoise sky melded with mountain greenery poking through it. The girls in the pool were still frolicking noisily, apparently unaware of the crisis inside the house. Unsure of what I had managed to accomplish I followed the ambulance down the hill.

Because of my visit to Townsend's home, I had missed lunch. Now I found I had an overwhelming desire for a giant chocolate milkshake. Finding a Dairy Queen in Dill City I ordered the shake and drank it in the Jeep as I watched local teenagers circulate through the parking lot. I remembered the rite of passage from my own adolescence as I pondered my visit.

When I finished the shake, I drove around town, searching for a grocery store. Not knowing exactly what a vegetarian might like, I chose a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, a box of rice, some pasta, and an apple pie. Still wondering about Townsend's cousin, I returned to the main highway by way of the back road through town. Only five, the parking lot of Pancho's was already crammed with chopped Harleys and beer-drinking, leather-clad bikers. I caught a possible glimpse of Bear's buzz cut as I passed.

Late afternoon shadows had begun covering the highway as I left Dill City and retraced my steps to Turkey Gap. As I neared the campground, my thoughts returned to my conversation with Amber and I wondered if she would be waiting for me when I arrived. I had my answer when I rounded the last curve and saw her at John Stewart's roadside stand. She recognized the Jeep as I turned off the highway and smiled when I pulled beside them.

Following a prolonged hug and kiss I held her at arm's length, contemplating my luck. She wore beige hiking shorts that looked freshly pressed and a Grateful Dead tee shirt. Because of her tiny frame, tan and surfer-blonde hair, she seemed no older than a teenager. I couldn't help feeling she had the sharp mind of a college professor, the stamina of a professional athlete and the resolve of an attacking grizzly bear.

“You made it okay?”

“Fine,” she said, smiling.

I looked around for the red rental car I had left with her, and said, “Where's the car?”

“I turned it in last week. No use wasting money.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“I hitchhiked,” she said.

I laughed, realizing I still knew very little about this beautiful young woman that would lend someone her car then hitchhike to where she needed to go.

“Amber, Amber, Amber,” I said. “I'm glad you made it.”

“I was talking with Mr. Stewart and it seems we have a common interest.”

The old man smiled blithely, his arms folded. “Miss Armstrong collects old bottles. I already sold her one.”

Amber smiled, pointing to a lone bottle on the edge of Stewart’s table. “We've had an interesting discussion.”

“Oh?”

“About bottles,” Amber said with a grin. Looping her arm through Stewart's, she asked, “Is there someplace I can wash off the trail dust?”

Stewart smiled, pointing proudly to the wash house. “Right there, Missy. All the hot and cold you'll need.”

“Thank you Mr. Stewart,” she said, lavishing her arms around his bony old shoulders as if they were old friends.

Stewart's ruddy face blushed bright red and he said, “Don't forget your bottle, Missy.”

He handed her the bottle she had purchased then reached beneath the table and extracted another old bottle. Long exposure to the sun had turned its glass a deep aqua blue.

“Been saving this one for some pretty lady,” he said, grinning broadly, as he handed it to her and pressed it gently into her hands.

“It's beautiful. Thank you so much.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stewart,” I said, leading Amber to the Jeep. “See you later.”

I didn't explain our sleeping arrangements to John Stewart and felt relieved he didn't ask.

“Nice old man,” Amber said as we climbed into the Jeep.

“I believe he likes you too.”

We parked by the tent. Amber's only luggage was her heavy knapsack and I quickly transferred it to the tent.

“I'm glad you came,” I said again. “I need someone with a mind for police procedure.”

“Is that the only reason?”

I had almost forgotten the softness of her shoulders, the gentle curve in the small of her back and the hint of perfume just behind her right earlobe. I remembered with blazing recall when she draped her arms around my neck and drew closer.

“The least of two. The very least,” I said.

With a cautious finger, Amber touched my cheek, slight pressure reminding me of my black eye and busted lip.

“What happened to your face?”

“Met some loggers on the mountain that thought I might be responsible for trying to put them out of work.”

“They did this?”

“Gray Townsend's cousin, actually—prehistoric throwback masquerading as a biker.”

Without commenting, she frowned and glanced up at a squirrel on a branch above us. Leaving the question of my bruised face for another time, she changed the subject. As my thoughts had focused on something other than Big Sky Timber, I was more than happy to oblige.

“I wasn't supposed to get off work until five but nothing much happened at the station today and the Chief pushed me out the door. He said he was tired of seeing me staring at my watch.”

“Remind me to thank him,” I said.

“I'm pooped,” she said. “How well does the shower work?”

“Water's slightly tepid and the pressure isn't great. Other than that, the cracks in the wall don't let in too much cold air.”

“Faint praise,” she said.

Amber pulled away and rummaged through the knapsack on the tent floor until she found a towel and bag of toiletries. She patted my behind, winked, and headed for the little building.

“Looks interesting, Troop,” she said. “But a girl might need a little company.”

I didn't wait for a written invitation. Feeling more than slightly soiled after my visit with Townsend, I grabbed a towel and hurried after her. For the first time in several days, I completely forgot about Brother Bill and his diamond.