Some of the underbrush had been broken off or crushed underfoot. The raw pith indicated that a vehicle might have been driven across it recently. In the meantime, the buzzards kept a close eye on me. One of them, with a great flapping of wings, managed to become airborne and two others followed suit. What worried me was the occasional whiff of dead dog. This might have been a deer carcass, but I didn’t think so. The odor wasn’t directional. I turned this way and that but I couldn’t pinpoint the source. This was now Thursday and Fritz had been missing since the previous Friday. I peered down the steep hillside. Maybe twenty-five yards down the slope, I saw a crumpled form. It looked like someone had fallen down the hill and now lay in a clumsy tangle, dead to the world.
Gingerly I sidestepped my way down, trying to keep my balance as the loose dirt slipped out from underfoot and traveled in a mini-avalanche in advance of my approach. When I reached the form, I realized it was a discarded sleeping bag, empty to all appearances. I peered closely at the opening where the zipper was caught in a fold of fabric. No bullet holes or dried blood. I left it where it was. Impossible to tell how long it had been there. I made the return climb, sending a shower of additional dirt down the hill.
When I reached the top, I stood in the clearing and did a complete 360 turn. I could have been smelling sewer gas, but it occurred to me that a campground like this, in the midst of a wilderness, couldn’t be connected to the city sewer system because the logistics would have been impossible. Which suggested a septic tank. Septic systems are meant to be as inconspicuous as possible. Once they’re installed, the grass grows back, time passes, and few visual cues remain. I crossed to the ruins of one of the cabins, circled the foundation until I located a four-inch pipe at the point where it surfaced outside. I figured the septic tank would have to be ten to twelve feet from the nearest structure, so I paced off twenty-five giant steps and began to walk. Seven minutes later, I located a rectangle of concrete, easily five feet by eight. Here, the smell was strong enough to activate my gag reflex. I used the hem of my T-shirt to cover my mouth and nose. This filtered the odor to some extent. There was a single 4-by-4-foot concrete lid in the center of the rectangle that bore an enormous iron ring. One try and I knew the cap was too heavy and awkward to manage on my own.
One of the vultures sailed down within range and landed on the concrete with a series of hops. He tilted his head, peering at the source of the smell, and then fixed me with a black and beady eye. His head was small in proportion to his body, red in color, his long neck bald. I’ve been told the paucity of feathers works to the bird’s advantage when so much of his time is spent with his head in the bellies of dead animals. He made an aggressive feint in my direction and I backed away step by step.
I returned to the highway on the old gravel road, carefully making my way down the hill. I returned to my car and drove as far as the nearest scenic turnout, where I’d seen a call box. I punched in 9-1-1 and talked to a dispatcher, detailing where I was, what I knew, and what I suspected. Then I waited for the first patrol car to arrive. Though I wouldn’t have confirmation for another few hours, Fritz McCabe wasn’t far away.
33
THE DRAWING OF STRAWS
June 1979
Bayard stood at the sink with a dish towel tucked in the waistband of his jeans. It was close to nine and the party was winding down. The kitchen window had been closed, but he could still smell the light perfume of chlorine from the pool. Darkness would soon settle over the patio, erasing the day. Austin had flapped open an oversize plastic garbage bag, into which he shoved used paper plates, plastic ware, soft drink cans, crumpled napkins, and leftover food. Most of the time Austin played King of the Hill, happy to be regarded as the man of the hour. School was out and he told everyone his parents had offered him the cabin for the party. Bayard had his doubts. More likely it was Austin’s idea and he’d failed to tell his good old mom and dad that he was entertaining. Now he was busy covering his tracks, erasing every vestige of the gathering. Austin, for all of his braggadocio, was a chickenshit at heart.
Bayard was nicely drunk, his inebriation buffered by the dope he’d smoked, each balancing the other in terms of their effect. The alcohol made him loose. The cannabis made him mellow. Bayard never got falling-down drunk and he was never out of control. This bunch of high school yahoos drank and smoked to excess and they were all over the place, passing out, puking, laughing like hyenas, munching down everything in sight. Or in the case of Patti Gibson and Stringer, getting it on in one of the guest rooms. Bayard’s thoughts flitted to his dad’s diagnosis and the most recent test results. Things were not looking good. They’d done a CAT scan with contrast and Maisie said his dad’s insides lit up like a Christmas tree. Bayard shut the door on that idea. Certain subjects he didn’t like to visit even in the privacy of his own head. Especially matters related to his father’s death.
He’d learned to toss painful issues into little boxes with the lids nailed shut; this when he was five years old and his parents got divorced. Even at that age, he recognized the jeopardy he was in. He was the focus of the hostilities—not his person, but the fact that he was Tigg and Joan Montgomery’s only begotten son. They quarreled, through their attorneys, over legal custody, physical custody, visitation, child support, schooling, and every other decision that was made from the moment they separated. He was pulled this way and that, loyal to one parent at the expense of the other, which generated its own anguish. Into the box with that one, he thought. Sometimes he knew how good it would be when one or the other of his parents died, which would, at least, cut the agony by half. In his father’s case, it looked like his wish was coming true. Recent revelations had threatened his financial expectations and he still hadn’t decided what options he had, if any. For now, he’d medicated his rage to a manageable level.
Stringer came into the kitchen, in the process of rounding everyone up for the drive back to town. “Where’s Iris?”
“On the couch last I saw,” Bayard said. He turned and verified her presence in the living room. “How you doing?” he called though the open door.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.
Stringer said, “Well, do it somewhere else. I’m outta here and I don’t want you barfing in my van. You with me, Michelle?”
“Sure.”
Austin said, “What the fuck, Michelle. You’re taking off? This place is a mess. You can’t just walk out and leave me with this.”
“I told you I had a curfew. I don’t go with him, how’m I going to get home in time?”
“What a load of crap! It’s still light outside. What time’s your curfew, nine o’clock? Hold your horses and I’ll take you. I told you I would.”
“Sure. When and if you ever get around to it.”
Stringer stuck his head in the front door. “Hey, Michelle. You coming or not?”
“Hang on just a second, okay?”
Stringer disappeared.
Michelle said, “Austin, I really have to get home. Bayard’s doing dishes and the trash has been dumped so what more do you want?”
“I want this place cleaned up. Bring in stuff from the patio and gather up all the soggy towels so I can start a load. Ten minutes more is all I ask.”