Tamarack River Ghost (7 page)

“Yeah, they’re goats all right,” said the sheriff.

“Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Burman,” Natalie said. “We’re doing a little checking. Heard there had been some deer poaching going on in these parts.”

“Figured that’s what you were lookin’ for. You satisfied now?”

“Thank you, Mr. Burman. You’ve been most cooperative. Good night, now.”

Natalie and the Sheriff climbed back in her pickup, and she drove out the Burman driveway.

“Somebody must have tipped him off,” Natalie said. She pounded her hand on the steering wheel. “Wonder who that could have been? Nobody knew I suspected Burman except maybe that reporter from the
Farm Country News
. He said he’d been out here earlier today and saw Burman cutting up some meat. That reporter, his name was Josh Wittmore, didn’t say anything about seeing a couple of goats hanging.” She pounded her hand on the steering wheel again.

“Damn,” she said.

The sheriff, with the hint of a smile on his face, said nothing.

Oscar Anderson and Fred Russo stood on the banks of Tamarack River at the former Ira Osborne Commemorative Park, now known simply as the Tamarack River Park. It was a warm, sunny October day. The maples were showing off their fall colors, deep reds mixed in with a few yellows. The oaks on the higher ground above the river were just beginning to show their fall colors—browns and quiet reds. The sky was a deep blue with no hint of cloud or haze.

Fall rains had increased the river level a little, but not much.

“Well, whaddya expect we’ll catch today?” asked Oscar as he tossed his jointed fishing lure out into the river and began slowly cranking the handle of his spinning rod.

“What was that you said?” asked Fred.

“Fish, what kinda fish we gonna catch today?”

The river was a bit noisy in front of the park; a rocky rapids stirred up the current.

“Yup, think you’re right about that,” answered Fred.

“Right about what?”

“What you just said.”

“All I said was ‘What kinda fish you think we’re gonna catch?’”

“Hell, I don’t know what kinda fish we’ll catch. We’ll be lucky if we catch anything,” said Fred. He was concentrating on his bobber, which had floated off into a little pool of still water where the river made a turn by the park. Fred liked to fish with worms and a bobber every chance he got. He let his friend fuss with fancy stuff, the bright-colored lures with hooks hanging everywhere, and the fancy Daiwa fishing rod and reel his
kids gave him for Christmas last year. Fred used an old Shakespeare Rod and Johnson reel he bought thirty years ago. He saw no need to replace what he had as long as it worked, and it worked just fine.

As the sun climbed higher, the day warmed and the fall colors became even more intense.

The two old men sat staring into the water, dozing in the warm sun.

“Say Oscar, I’ve been thinking about the old ghost that lives on this river.”

“Why?”

“’Cause that’s what I’m thinking about.”

“I probably know more about that ghost than you do,” said Oscar. Each year Oscar Anderson, at the opening ceremonies for the Tamarack River Winter Festival, recited “An Ode to the Tamarack River Ghost,” a somewhat embellished version of how Mortimer Dunn met his fate.

Fred laughed. “I know that. I suppose now you’ll tell me you’ve seen the ghost and heard the song.”

“I might have,” said Oscar quietly. “I just might have. Happened last spring. It was a still night, right after the ice on the river went out. I was right here in this park, came here to see the ice break up. Something to see, you know. Big chunks of ice spilling over those rapids, smashing into little pieces.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d seen the ghost,” said Fred.

“Well, I don’t tell you ever’thin’.”

“Guess not,” Fred said, a bit miffed at his friend.

“Anyway,” Oscar continued. “I was standing here, thinking about that log drive back in 1900. It was early in the morning, sun hadn’t got up yet. And a bit chilly, too. Couldn’t sleep, so I came down here to watch the river ice go out.”

“So when you can’t sleep, you come down here to the river?”

“Not always, but I did that day. Ice going out is always kind of interesting to see; I like the sound of the river when it’s running full, too. Nice sound.”

“What about the ghost? You gonna tell me about the ghost?”

“Well, hold your horses, I’m gettin’ to it.”

“About time.”

“I was just standing and taking it all in—the coming of spring, the old river runnin’ wild, the smell of the season’s first new growth—when I heard it. Had to listen real careful, ’cause the sound was kind of dim, kind of dim it was.”

“That’s because your hearin’ ain’t so good anymore,” said Fred.

“Speak for yourself, but I could hear it. Could hear the sound pretty good. It was the sound of a little bell, the kind of bell that hung from the collar of the ghost’s dog. It was that kind of sound, clear as could be, after I focused in on it.”

“Probably ice melting and chunks running over the rocks—sometimes that sounds like a little bell ringing.”

“Ah, but there was more. Wasn’t just the bell ringing. I could smell it.”

“Smell what?”

“Tobacco smoke. Pipe tobacco smoke. And I remembered Mortimer Dunn smoked a pipe.”

“Musta been somebody else in the park, smokin’ a pipe that morning.”

“Fred, there was nobody else here, I was all alone. And I know what I heard and what I smelled.”

“That it? That’s all to the story. You heard a bell ringing, and then you smelled tobacco smoke.”

“There’s more.”

Oscar reeled in his line and tossed it out again.

“Well, you gonna tell me the rest?” asked Fred.

“You wanna hear it?”

“Well, sure. You don’t tell a damn story and then stop in the middle of it without tellin’ how it ended. What kind of story is that?”

“Thought maybe you wanted to go back to payin’ attention to your fishing.”

“I am payin’ attention to my fishing. You gonna finish the story or not?”

“Ain’t much more to it,” said Oscar. He cleared his throat and continued. “And this part’s a little more sketchy.”

“Well?” said Fred.

“I felt like another person was standin’ right next to me. I couldn’t see nobody, but it sure felt like somebody was standin’ there. And the weirdest part, when I sensed the other person nearby, the smell of pipe tobacco smoke was strongest.”

“Couldn’t see nobody else, huh?”

“That’s what I said, but sometimes you can’t see a ghost. The more I thought about it, the more sure I became that the Tamarack River Ghost was watching the river with me that morning. That old ghost is out there lookin’ for his resting place, and when he ain’t doin’ that, he’s takin’ care of this valley. You bet he is.”

“Gives me the shudders just to think about it,” said Fred. “You oughta add what you just told me to the tale you tell at the festival. Put a little scare in the folks.”

“I might just do that. Might do that.” Oscar reeled in his fish line. “Damn fish ain’t bitin’. Think I’m going home and have a beer. You wanna beer, Fred?”

Josh flipped on his computer and waited for it to boot up. He looked out his office window and thought about the conversation he’d had with his boss. He knew about the demise of several major newspapers around the country, but somehow he never believed it would happen to
Farm Country News
. He thought that the paper’s niche audience, people interested in farming and agriculture, would continue subscribing and advertising. He was obviously wrong about that.

Before the conversation with Bert, he hadn’t thought much about his future as a journalist. He’d been far too busy researching and writing stories—like the series that he’d just done on the Lazy Z feedlot operation in Missouri—stories that he hoped made a difference for the future of farming and agriculture in general. Now he began to wonder if he even had a future in journalism.

The computer screen glowed, and Josh clicked on his e-mail program. Since he’d been working undercover at the Lazy Z, he’d not kept up; now he stared at a list of 150 messages waiting to be opened, most of them junk—online shoe stores, sporting goods specials, deals from three different computer companies. He worked down the list, starting with the oldest and moving to the most recent, systematically deleting the junk and sifting through it for anything that might be important. He double-clicked on a message with the subject line “Nathan West Industries Expanding Operations.” The body of the message was a press release:

Josh hit the print button and a couple of minutes later was back in his boss’s office. He dropped the e-mail on Bert’s desk.

“Do you know about this, Bert?” Josh said.

His boss skimmed the piece of paper, then rubbed his hands through his shock of unruly gray hair.

“When’d you get this?”

“Just now.”

Bert took his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“This is a big story,” he said. “Could be as big as the Lazy Z feedlot series.”

“Nathan West hasn’t been accused of any wrongdoing, has it?” Josh asked.

“Nope, not that I know of. But the company keeps a lid on everything it does. It’s privately owned; nobody knows how big it really is or how much money it makes. I do know that it’s one of the biggest integrated meat-producing outfits in the country.”

“I can see where this conversation is going,” Josh said.

“Yup, get out there and find out as much as you can about them. Folks here in Wisconsin need to know before they give the final OK for NWI to build.”

“There’s one thing I’m not going to do,” Josh said.

“What would that be?” Bert asked, smiling.

“I don’t think I’ll apply for a job there. I don’t need another brick missing my head by a few inches.”

Bert sat back in his chair and laughed his characteristic deep belly laugh. Josh had to laugh too, even though his experience working undercover at the Lazy Z feedlot was still a bit fresh.

“I’d suggest you start at the university in Madison. Talk to Bill Evans in the agribusiness studies department. Saw some research findings from that department about these big hog production operations.”

“I took a course from him when I was in college,” Josh said. “Wonder if he’ll remember me. I sure remember him. Could hardly stay awake during his lectures.”

“Try to stay awake this time, Josh.” Bert laughed again.

Josh returned to his office and began searching the Internet for everything he could find about Nathan West Industries before traveling to Madison and meeting with Evans. His phone rang, breaking his concentration.

“This is Josh Wittmore,” he said.

“Mr. Wittmore, this is Natalie Karlsen; we met in Ben Wesley’s office.”

“You’re the conservation warden.”

“Yes, I am. I was wondering if we could meet for coffee,” she said. “Ben suggested it; he said we might be able to help each other.”

“Sure,” Josh answered. He remembered that underneath the gun belt and badge he’d seen quite an attractive young woman. Besides that, she might be a contact to have and the source for some news stories. “Where and when?”

“How about tomorrow at ten, the Lone Pine Restaurant. You know where that is?”

“I grew up in this county; I know the Lone Pine. See you there.”

Five minutes before ten, Josh pulled open the door of the Lone Pine Restaurant. He had not been inside the place since he’d returned to Willow River; it hadn’t changed. A mounted deer head with glass eyes stared down on all who entered the place. A stuffed northern pike hung next to the deer head, and shotguns and deer rifles of various sizes and calibers graced another wall of the restaurant as they had when Josh last visited the place. An old-timers’ table at one end of the big noisy room had its usual half-dozen to sometimes ten retired farmers and merchants from the area, discussing everything from who was sleeping with somebody else’s wife to why the president of the United States wasn’t paying more attention to farmers. For Josh, it was like the place hadn’t changed at all since he left ten years ago. Mazy, Lone Pine waitress, greeted him as soon as he stepped inside.

“You look familiar,” Mazy said.

“Josh Wittmore.”

“Of course. You’ve grown up.”

“Haven’t been in here in a while. Quite a while.” Mazy had put on a few pounds and her hair had streaks of gray, but otherwise, like the rest of the place, she hadn’t changed.

“You back in town?”

“I am. Working for the
Farm Country News
.”

“You don’t say. That’s a good paper.”

“I’m having coffee with Natalie Karlsen,” Josh said.

“The game warden?” Mazy lifted an eyebrow.

“One and the same.”

“Find yourself a booth or a table, your choice. I’ll point her in your direction when she comes in.”

Promptly at ten, Natalie came through the door. Josh watched as Mazy motioned toward where he was sitting. Eyes turned when the warden walked across the crowded restaurant floor, as they did whenever a law enforcement officer entered the place. Some of the old timers couldn’t get used to the idea that the county’s conservation warden was a woman.