‘You’re the man with the tip.’
They started upriver, Kinsell monitoring her GPS and pushing for more information on why the tip call came to him. He told her about Rider’s animal trafficking and the investigation a year and a half ago that led to a failed Special Operations bust and how when the SOU pulled back he took over the open file.
‘How big is this smuggling operation?’
‘Big. Rider runs the Wal-Mart of wildlife trafficking. You can get just about anything.’
On her Garmin she had the river and the dam and when they reached the point where they were exactly three quarters of a mile from the dam she called it out.
‘We’re where your tipster said the rocks are, so what do you want to do?’
There was no bend, no rocks jutting, and it was cold. Her cheeks had two red spots. He checked his phone and saw they had burned an hour and twenty minutes of the four hours they were allowed.
‘Let’s keep going toward the dam.’
‘So we’re going to forget about the three quarters of a mile your tipster told you?’
‘Maybe they were a little off.’
‘Or maybe your anonymous caller made it all up so this Rider could talk to you.’
‘Maybe, but we’re not going to leave yet.’
As they got inside of a third of a mile from the dam, Kinsell was ready to call it off and climb the bank to the road.
‘The directions you got don’t match up with anything here. We’re wasting our time and we’ve only got another half-hour anyway. We need ten minutes just to climb out of here.’
The radio call came not long after. He watched Kinsell pull the radio from her belt.
‘Roger that, we’re pulling out now.’
She hooked the radio back on and her voice took on more authority.
‘We’re done. It’s time to back away from the river. Follow me.’
Marquez pointed upriver to the next bend where a bench of gray rock leaned into the current.
‘I’m going to check that spot up there first. Those rocks look like what she described and I think we’ve got a safe fifteen minutes. That call to pull out was early.’
‘Don’t even go there.’
She squared off and faced him, her body language like something she would use making an arrest. A bright blonde ponytail fell between her shoulder blades and Marquez saw the confrontation coming, but he was still going to check out the rocks ahead.
‘We gave our word, and that might not matter to you because you’ll fly home, but this is where I live and work, so we leave together. If you screw with what we agreed to, you’re messing with me and you don’t want to do that.’
Marquez waited to see if there was more and then let her know he was going to the next bend. He tightened the pack straps. He looked at her face flushed from clambering over rocks and wading through brush looking for something that probably wasn’t here and listened as her voice became loud and firm.
‘Let’s go, Lieutenant. You don’t make the calls here and the way I hear it you’re not running the undercover team in California anymore either. We leave now.’
Marquez turned from her. The comment bothered him and he didn’t want her to read that on his face. It also would not take long to sweep the small sandbar ahead with the metal detector.
‘You’re out of state here, Lieutenant. You’re not pulling my reputation down with yours.’
‘Then take your reputation with you up to your truck and radio and tell them I wouldn’t leave. I’ll be up on the road before noon. You don’t need to wait for me. I’ll walk back to the dam.’
‘I’m ordering you.’
‘I hear you and I’m still going to check one last spot.’
She threw the radio to him with an underhand motion then turned away with a look of disgust, her face scarlet with anger. Marquez picked up the radio and moved upriver. At the next bend a muddy sandbar lay behind gray rocks leaning into the river. He switched on the metal detector and swept the sandbar but there was no ping and he stepped back and thought about where he would dig if it were him. He looked at the dam up ahead, gray-white in sunlight, 125 feet tall, and then looked again at the boil of water behind the gray rocks and stepped back onto the soft sandy mud.
He sank a few inches with each step and this time worked his way up closer to the bank so the arc of the metal detector swung up over the rocky soil of the riverbank. He got a ping just as the radio came again, static, and then, ‘Are you both clear of the area?’
‘This is Marquez and I’m still on the river. Warden Kinsell should be almost to the road. I’m on one last spot and then I’m out.’
‘You’re still on the river?’
‘Yes.’
A different voice came over the radio, somebody higher up, a supervisor, he guessed.
‘Are you trying to stop this from happening, Lieutenant? Get your ass out of there.’
‘You got it.’
Marquez figured he needed five minutes, maybe less, to climb up from here to the road. He swung the detector again, got the ping, and then narrowed down where to dig. He marked the spot, turned off the metal detector and pulled the folding shovel out of the pack, tightened it, and started digging.
The riverbank was wet and the sandy mud heavy but easy to get through. He widened the hole and knew it could be anything down here, a piece of rusted iron, anything. The hole was two feet wide and a foot and a half deep when his cell rang. It was Kinsell.
‘Are you on your way up?’
‘I got a hit on the metal detector. I’m digging and then I’m on my way up and out.’
‘I don’t want to drive away until you’re out.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Didn’t they call you?’
He broke the connection and the shovel scraped on what felt and sounded like metal. He cleaned off the top and found the lid of a metal box with a handle and tape sealing it shut. He dug around it and then lifted the handle and pulled hard. Now he was looking at an aluminum tackle box of a style he hadn’t seen in years. Sturdy and more a box you would leave in garage with the ties and lures you weren’t taking to the river that day. The kind of box a fisherman could hand down to a son or daughter.
He packed up the folding shovel and picked up the tackle box and metal detector and started out. All of the seams and the hinges on the backside were taped with what looked like waterproof tape. There was some weight in there, not a lot but enough, and something slid around as he climbed. He gripped the metal detector in his left hand, along with the tackle box, and with his right he used tree branches again, this time to help pull himself up the steep slope. As he reached the asphalt he called Kinsell.
‘I’m out.’
‘Stay where you are.’
He heard the word ‘asshole’ before she broke the connection and then caught his breath looking back down at the gorge of the White Salmon. It wouldn’t be long now. He looked down at the river at the quiet water and tried to picture the change coming.
Kinsell came in close alongside him, her passenger-side mirror not more than six inches away from him and a steady stream of cars going around her and on toward the dam. He laid the metal detector in the pickup bed and put his pack alongside it in a way that would keep the detector from sliding around, then unzipped a pocket on the pack and felt around for a knife. The tackle box would ride with them and he wanted to cut the tape free and get a look at what was inside.
Marquez put the tackle box on the floor of the passenger foot well and got in. ‘Thanks for waiting.’
‘I was never going to leave you here.’ She stared down at the tackle box. ‘That probably belongs to some fisherman.’
‘Do you know a lot of fishermen who bury their tackle boxes along the river?’
Instead of answering, she radioed that she had him and they were on their way. She made it sound as if she was bringing a suspect in. He unfolded the knife, leaned over the tackle box, and cut and peeled back the waterproof tape. He tried the lid now and it was free. Kinsell looked down as he lifted the lid. She saw the trout flies and line and crimpers and floats and said, ‘There you go. You just stole some guy’s fishing box, or maybe the guy who called you buried it there for you to find. Today would have been my day off. I had plans my husband and I made two months ago. If my captain wasn’t such a jerk he would have sent somebody else. He says you’ve known each other a long time.’
‘We have. Look, I’m sorry you missed whatever you had planned.’
‘You’re really good at apologizing.’
Marquez studied the upper tray of the tackle box before using the knife blade to test lifting it out. He listened to the radio chatter. The Secretary of Interior was inbound with a police escort and was late but didn’t need to worry. No one was holding their breath for his speech. The headliner was the dam. He lifted the tray now and found himself looking at a box of ammunition; with the knife blade he opened the box and confirmed they were nine-millimeter bullets. Using the knife he peeled back white cotton cloth wrapped around the object alongside the ammo and stared at the grip of a hand gun.
Kinsell was probably expecting more fishing line or weights and was ready to comment. Seeing the gun changed everything for her. Marquez put the tray back in and shut the box and as they reached the dam and parked a klaxon horn sounded. Seven hundred pounds of dynamite were packed yesterday. Guards were stationed last night. As a second warning horn started, Marquez moved the tackle box to the trunk of his rental car and then like everyone else he focused on the base of Condit Dam.
When the blast came the sound enveloped them. At the base of the dam dirt and sediment and concrete blew out and upward in a boil of dark black smoke. Chunks of concrete rained down and with a roar water surged from under the dam. People nearby cried out as the flow became a churning torrent, rolling and boiling downstream.
Marquez kept an eye on his car but stood transfixed along with everyone else. Then near him, an older guy who looked like an engineer, possibly an employee of PacifiCorp, owner of the dam, lowered his cell phone with tears streaking his face. He looked at Marquez and said, ‘Twelve thirty-five.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s when the first wave reached the Columbia River. I just got the call.’
He touched his phone as if confirming it again with his fingertips and Marquez nodded that he understood. For the first time since 1913 the White Salmon River was running free. He moved away as his phone screen lit with Rich Voight’s name, but with the roar he couldn’t hear Voight so he got in his car to take the call.
‘Where was the gun?’
‘Buried near the two rocks the caller described.’
‘I’ve asked a detective from Portland to come get it from you.’
‘I’m leaving here inside an hour. I can drop it off with the Portland Police.’
‘He’s already on his way.’
Marquez thought about that a moment before asking, ‘Did you get any of my messages yesterday afternoon?’
‘I got all of them, but I was tied up with a new homicide.’
‘Why didn’t you call me back last night?’
‘I just didn’t get to it. If the gun checks out we’ll talk about everything. Thanks for searching for it.’
The Siskiyou County Sheriff was in an ongoing war with the Department of Fish and Game – and indeed all government except his own branch, Siskiyou County Sheriff’s Office. He viewed himself as essential to Siskiyou County and his attitude rippled through the department.
When Voight started in on why an anonymous call to Fish and Game didn’t make his list yesterday, Marquez cut him off.
‘Tell the Portland detective I’ve got a white Toyota Camry.’
He killed the call and dropped the phone in his pocket. Then he walked down to get a better view of the river.
T
he estimated time to drain the reservoir was five hours and Marquez watched more of it than he expected to. When the Portland detective finally arrived it was with a Washington State Patrol car leading him, its light bar flashing. The detective was genial and after looking at the water surging into the gorge revealed that he was a fisherman, though with mixed feelings about dam removal.
‘This dam has been here a long time. I hope they know what they’re doing.’
‘Why would they start now?’
That got a smile and then they were onto the tip and tackle box and why Marquez, after getting a call yesterday afternoon, made the decision to fly to Portland then drive here and search for the gun.
‘There’s a tie to a Fish and Game investigation I’ve been working for a year. Didn’t Voight tell you that?’
‘I’m not sure he did.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
The detective didn’t react to that. Instead, as Marquez pulled the tackle box out of the trunk, he said, ‘Rich Voight told me you were there when the girls’ bodies were found.’
‘I was in the area on an undercover operation and when Siskiyou County put out a BOLO on a vehicle the next day I went to where they were killed to see if I could help.’
‘You were that close by?’
‘I was.’
The detective nodded then stared down at the white water boiling from under the dam and asked, ‘What are we going to do for electricity if we knock down all the dams? We’ll be back in the Stone Age. Isn’t there a group in California trying to tear down the Hetch Hetchy dam? What the hell is that about? What would San Francisco do for water and how many billions beyond the initial estimate would it cost to do it? Some of the ideas that come out of your state I can’t get my head around.’
‘Can you get your head around me leaving four or five messages for your friend Voight yesterday that I got a tip call saying the murder weapon was buried here and then not hearing back from him?’
‘It sounds as if you two haven’t always gotten along, and Rich can be difficult.’
‘Maybe I’m just tired but it gets under my skin that he’s got time to call you and ask you to probe for whatever you can find out as you take the tackle box from me. Why did I go by the murder scene and offer to help? I went because my daughter knew Terry Ellis and Sarah Steiner and I had just met them the day before. They struck me as two well-meaning young women who cared enough to try to help solve a big problem. Voight asked the same questions that day. We sat in his car and talked.’