Chapter 29

Valerie Boren-Odell, 1990

There were many tricks played here, and in fact all over the Territory, regarding claims.

—George B. Smith, 1937. Indian-Pioneer Papers Collection, interview by W. T. Holland.

"I didn't track down much. Looks like the property was old allotment parcels from when the tribal land was broken up through the Dawes Commission. It's 480 acres total. On the tax rolls it's listed under the name Hazel Rusk, with a post office box up in Jenks." Curtis talks over the window breeze as we wind along Holson Valley, headed toward a utility right-of-way that will take us into the park. From there, we'll hike cross-country to the location where Edwin's horse went down.

The mission involves risks, both personal and professional. If this little foray goes bad, I may still be NPS green and gray on the inside, but I won't be on the outside. On the other hand, if I can prove that Edwin's fall was no accident, both the playing field and the players change. Everyone from the chief ranger, to the superintendent, to the brass and rank-and-file in cooperating branches of law enforcement will want in on whatever comes next. We take it personally when one of our own ends up in the hospital.

"The name on the 480 acres anyone you know?" The sweltering air sweeps my voice out the window as I focus on navigating a curve in the road.

Curtis shakes his head. "The taxes are paid up. That's about all I got before it was time to meet back up with you. Never heard of a Hazel Rusk. Like I said, I thought I knew everyone around here. Maybe today will tell us whether we've got a property holder involved in something shady, or squatters using a piece of land the owner doesn't keep an eye on."

I note that he doesn't add, Maybe today will tell us nothing, but that's the reality. I don't know what's next after that. I promised Curtis I'd let it go if this hike yields no new information, but can I?

"Thanks for coming." I loosen my grip on the steering wheel, tighten it again. "But, listen, Curtis, I understand if you…"

"It was my idea, Val. Coming with you." His sideways look silently admonishes me. "Trust me, right?"

"Yes."

"We're settled then."

"Right. We are." We're not, I know. I'll circle back to this uncertainty again and again. Maybe it will always be this hard. To trust. To let anyone in after losing Joel. The people you're close to aren't guaranteed. They can be gone in an instant.

An uneasy quiet carries us the rest of the distance up a forest road and into the woods, where silence is necessary. From this location, we're a lot closer to the accident site than Roy and Edwin were when they parked the horse trailer.

Curtis takes the lead. He knows these mountains better than I do. I shadow his steps to keep the noise down. My ears strain toward any sounds that don't belong in the mountains. Every bird call, every rustle in the duff pricks my senses. A startled deer snorts as we push our way through a watershed, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Ssshhh,I tell myself, but touch the butt of my handgun. Reassurance.

My nerves settle as the afternoon shadows lengthen. We move up a slope, down a slope, again and another. We've planned this hike to give us time to reach the accident site while we still have plenty of light, but hopefully late enough that if someone is up to no good there, they've already made their rounds for the day. Even criminals like to be home for supper.

Despite the blazing late-afternoon heat, Curtis sets a brisk pace, moving through thickets and across traverses where we plant our feet carefully to keep from sliding. He seldom looks back, silently acknowledging that he's not here to babysit; he knows I am as competent as any partner. The realization circles, then whisks away. I focus on the immediate. Steps, silence, sounds.

The rumble of farm machinery—or maybe construction equipment—echoes from someplace far off as we navigate rock outcroppings at the top of a slope, then go over the crest. Curtis taps an ear, motions toward the noise.

I nod. I hear it, too. But the view affords nothing more than mountains, one folding toward another, the angled sun laying shadows over the valleys. Traveling downward from there, we pass into thick shade and slightly cooler temperatures. Curtis pulls up for a water break, and we sit against a monolith of stone, striking in its naturally formed headlike shape. Around us, the valley offers only birdsong, the swish of breeze through shortleaf pine, the soft flutter of oak and elm.

"You get a bead on that back there?" Curtis whispers near my ear.

"I heard it, but no. Couldn't pin down any source." I grab another drink from my canteen, let my eyelids drift low as water slides down my throat. "Might be a lot farther off than it sounds."

"Or closer. Your people doing any work around here? Roads and trails? Contractors? Anything like that?"

"We're shut down in this section since the rockfall event." I push off the ground, cap my canteen, make ready to go again. "If somebody's running equipment…or a generator back here, it's an unauthorized activity."

"My favorite kind." He tugs his ball cap over the bristle of dark hair, outstretches a hand, waiting for an assist in getting to his feet.

Shaking my head at him, I oblige, and we're off again.

By the time the creek below Edwin's accident site comes into view, I've decided we imagined the machinery sounds. Either that, or we've timed it right and hit the area at the end of a clandestine workday.

Before climbing the slope to investigate, we walk the creek bed and the trail Edwin and Roy rode in on, checking for signs of recent activity—ATV tracks, footprints, trash, drug paraphernalia, cigarette butts, food wrappers, anything left behind by humans passing through. I catch a slight whiff of something chemical…maybe? As quickly as it's there, it's gone. I decide it must be coming off my clothes or gear. Bug spray on hot, sweat-soaked fabric.

The valley yields no evidence, and so we move upward, trying to keep to cover, but there isn't much. The nearby mountainsides are thick with mature pines and hardwoods, but this particular slope succumbed to fire ten, maybe fifteen, years ago. The trees are sparse and scrawny due to soil erosion and wind. The old growth that would have protected them lies rotting on the ground.

Curtis motions to let me know he'll look farther up while I check the accident site. I take note of his location, then go to work. No rain has fallen since the accident, so the details are painfully clear—where the horse scrambled at the trail's edge, where one hoof lost purchase, started a tumble downslope, end over end, man and animal, an ugly, uncontrolled descent. A trail of blood, hair, split leather, and torn cloth reveals the trajectory. Looking at it is like watching the accident in painful detail.

What I can't see is evidence of the cause—fragments from a bullet bust-up, a ricochet mark on the rocks, the minicrater of an embed in gravel or dirt. Slipping latex gloves from my pocket, I sweep carefully through dead leaves, pine straw, pebbles, twigs. It's a needle in a haystack. If Roy heard a ricochet, the bullet could be nearby or hundreds of yards away, but I continue until it's clear there's nothing to find.

Adjusting my camera for the odd afternoon light, I snap a few photos, but doubt I'll see anything new when they're developed. The trail is completely undisturbed. Pristine.

Pristine? That's virtually impossible.The realization solidifies with the quick, definitive click of the shutter opening and closing. A thousand-pound horse wearing cleated iron shoes must have scrambled desperately in this spot, trying to regain footing, to avoid a fall. The surfaces on the trail would have been disturbed, the ground churned up here, not just downslope.

It's been swept clean.

Someone made sure no evidence would be found. The only person who'd do that would be the one who caused the accident in the first place—or an accomplice.

I glance toward Curtis to motion him closer for a look, but he's gone.

Where is he?

A hawk takes to the air, shatters the silence with a deafening complaint. Its movement guides me to the scantest disturbance in a thicket of scrub and vines. Curtis emerges, then pauses at the edge of a bare upthrust of rock. If he continues, he'll be exposed. With a glance my way, he raises a fist, then opens his hand and lowers it flat, signaling me to stay put, stay low. A quick motion toward the ridgeline, and his fingertips touch his ear. He's heard something up there.

I squat down, thumb the strap loose on my handgun, watch him climb higher.

The minutes pass in slow motion. I scan the territory above and below him for anything out of the ordinary—a hint of color, a flash of metal on a belt buckle, backpack…weapon.

The forest gives up nothing. Whatever Curtis is chasing, I can neither hear it nor see it from here.

A measure of relief hits me when he's into minimal cover again, but then he vanishes over the ridgeline, and only the sound of blood rushing in my ears remains.

I check my watch, monitor the time elapsed. One minute. Two. Three.

Five.

Seven.

At ten, I'm going after him whether he wants me to or not.

Before I can make the call, he reappears and motions for me to follow him up, but stay low and quiet. I duplicate his climb, making no noise. At the crest, we move along the backbone of the mountain, traversing an upward grade of exposed boulders and fire-kill timber. It's slow going, and every turn is blind.

Something crinkles under my boot, the sound muffled but easily recognizable. An empty can lies half-buried in the duff. Its former owner sat here long enough to finish a beer, then clumsily attempted to conceal the evidence. A gap in the rocks offers a clear view of the accident site. Was this the shooter's hole?

"Pssst." I catch Curtis's attention, then point. Giving the beer can little more than a glance, he indicates that what lies ahead is more important, and we're losing the light. We move on, progressing more quickly as the terrain eases. Finally, it's evident that we're on a path, a throughway cleared with a machete or an axe, the vines and detritus pushed aside to facilitate travel along this ridge.

Someone knows this ground much better than we do—someone who might go to deadly lengths to prevent intrusion. We're making more noise than we should, but at every gap in the rocks, I see the light dimming in the valleys, the ridges melting together. Whatever Curtis saw from the overlook ahead might be hidden soon.

As we draw near the edge, he lowers his profile, creeps behind a rock outcropping, then slides over to allow space for me. When I fold in, press my back against the stone, he whispers, "Hear that?"

With the noise of our own movement gone, I pick up the rumble of machinery and the hiss of hydraulics. Though a distance away, it travels on the wind. Another sound revs above it, then disappears, then rises again, also unmistakable. "They're cutting trees." The reality hits like a gut punch. I'm sickened, then furious. Suddenly everything makes sense, even the slight chemical smell I picked up at the creek. Commercial logging operations use herbicides by the tankful. "They're poaching timber."

"Get ready." Curtis hands me his field glasses. His grim expression blackens the dread in my stomach. "It's not a pretty sight."

In the fading amber light, with the sky afire in silver-lined clouds and the Winding Stair bathed in velvet hues of violet, indigo, sea green, I peer through the glasses. I take in all that is not serene—all that is sharp, and scarred, and wrong. Beginning near the border of the park and stretching across the inheld parcel, hundreds of acres lie in ruin, the soil bare. Slash piles of saplings, cut branches, dirt, and rotting leaves dot the hillsides, piled two stories high, heaped wherever was convenient. Dozer tracks wander everywhere, roads cut haphazardly to facilitate the loading and passage of log-hauling trucks. A waterway through the property runs brown with silt.

Around the edges of the scar, hiding the devastated interior from view, stands a ring of tall timber, pristine and undisturbed, a buffer to conceal the operation. Other than from the ridges in this area of the park, no one would ever catch sight of it. Working late in the day and at night, they likely wouldn't be heard, either. If people did catch the sound, they'd be hesitant to try tracking it down in the dark. No wonder these guys wanted to keep interlopers away. They've taken a fortune in timber, without having to follow any restrictions on cleaning up the land or preserving the watersheds, and undoubtedly without paying the property owner one thin dime.

They've decimated everything.

"They've…" I change the trajectory of the field glasses, adjusting the focus.

"They've cut roads into the park, too." Curtis finishes the sentence before I can.

The brazenness of it should be shocking, but it's not. Sketchy logging outfits cross property lines all the time, make excuses about bad maps, claim that they didn't know. Usually they get away with it. The landowners are either too poor to hire lawyers or too scared of the loggers to report the crime. The shifty underbelly of the timber industry hires some dangerous people, but it takes an especially brazen thief to move onto government property. If caught, they're facing federal charges. I've been on resource and timber theft cases before, but these guys are running a particularly sophisticated—and profitable—operation. They're determined to protect it.

That makes them especially dangerous.

"I should've thought of…"

A branch snaps behind us. Curtis wheels around first, aims, identifies himself. I do the same, just in time to see a tall, thin figure in head-to-toe camo freeze in place.

"Hurry. We've gotta go." The hushed voice is female, and whoever she is, she's young, nervous. Behind the face mask, brown eyes dart left, then right, scanning the maze of rock and debris. "They know you're here. Don't get on the radio. They listen."

She turns, hands raised, then moves out slowly. Curtis and I stand in a moment of indecision before choosing to follow. Ahead of us, the stranger keeps to one side of the path, staying on the stone, where she leaves no tracks. She's clearly familiar with the area, but she passes through like a soldier on alert.

Or an operative on a mission.Is she baiting us into a trap?

Curtis's posture says he's thinking the same thing. How far do we go before forcing her to tell us who she is, why she's here, and why she wants us off that ridge?

A quarter mile into the thick timber on the opposite side of the mountain, another camo-clad, face-masked figure melts from the shadows. My hand twitches toward my service weapon, but the incomer makes no threatening movements. By appearances, he's unarmed.

"What're you doing?" He sounds as young as the girl does. "That's not the plan."

"They walked across a trip wire," she snaps. "What'd you want me to do? Leave them up there?"

I'm struck by the idea that we've stumbled onto a couple of teenagers using the park for…what…some kind of war games?

Are there more of them? Because this would be a bad location for high…school…kids…

My mind screeches to a halt. "Braden Lacey?" The red hair protruding from his face mask ties all the clues together. "Rachel?" After searching for these two so long, it feels surreal, almost impossible.

"Take off the masks," Curtis orders.

They do as they're told, and even in the dim light, both Braden and the elusive girlfriend are easy to ID.

"We've been looking for you two for weeks." I'm somewhere between overjoyed and incensed. I can't count the man-hours these kids have cost, not to mention professional credibility, and potentially my career. "I've got a lot of questions, and the answers better be good."

"Not here." The tremor in Braden's voice hints that he might be about to make a run for it. "I promise we'll tell you everything, but we can't stay here."

"You hit their trip wire. They'll be coming." Rachel's fear rings genuine. Somewhere in the distance, an ATV engine rumbles. A dog barks. "We've gotta go. Now."

Neither Curtis nor I argue. If I have to put my trust in someone, I'd rather not bet on whoever's guarding the timber operation next door.

We double-time it down the rest of the slope, sliding in peat, gravel, and pine straw, grabbing tree trunks and branches for support as we put distance between us and the timber camp. From there, Braden and Rachel lead us along an intricate network of unmarked switchback trails, watersheds, and dry washes.

Dusk has thickened to darkness by the time we lose the sound of motors and dogs. Braden and Rachel slow the pace, each of us gulping air as Curtis and I pull flashlights off our belts and the kids retrieve headlamps from their gear bags.

"This is far enough." Curtis aims a beam at Braden. "What the heck are you two doing out here?"

"It's just a little longer to our camp, okay?" Braden motions deeper into the woods.

He sounds so young, so desperately earnest. My first instinct is to excuse everything. My second instinct is to slap handcuffs on him and Rachel both. "I think righthere is good." The more I dwell on it, the madder I get. "You know how much trouble you've caused? Your sister ran away trying to find you. You triggered a missing person's search, and…" Spotlighting him, I unpack the whole thing, then finish with "So if you've got some good explanation, spill it. Because I'm about to cuff both of you and march you out of here."

"We'll show you all of it, I promise. At our camp."

"All of what?"

"Look," Rachel pleads, shrugging off her gear bag and grabbing the zipper. I touch my pistol, and she stops. "It's just pictures, all right?" Carefully she fishes out a half dozen photos bound by a rubber band. "We had to get proof on them. That's what we've been doing."

I snatch the pictures, wedge my flashlight under my chin.

Curtis leans close, mutters, "You've been…running surveillance on that timber operation?"

"You two took these?" I'm equally stunned. The photos are good. They're proof of a lot. Judging by the progression of the timber cuts and the multiplying slash piles, Braden and Rachel have been at this for a while.

"Why didn't you report it?" Curtis sounds as disgusted as I feel. "This could've been stopped before they clear-cut the place."

"We had to figure it all out," Braden asserts. "That was the reason I went to work for Parker to begin with. I wasn't really there for a job. I had to find out what they did with her."