Chapter 38
I hopped into my car and headed north toward the National Forest entrance. I pulled into a parking spot in front of the Ranger Station. A mini-bus was parked there also. The letters on the side read Green Valley Retirement Community. Inside the building, a dozen gray-haired geriatrics lumbered through the displays, squinting with great effort and concentration to read the information signs. Field trip day. They created an obstacle course of haphazardly oriented canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. The walkers all had wheels in the front and slit neon-green tennis balls affixed to the bottoms of the legs in the back. I guessed that let them slide more easily over the floor. There seemed to be only one caregiver responsible for the entire group. She had a difficult task, and it seemed she was doing it with great skill. Skilled at herding cats.
Ranger Pine stood behind the counter, ready for the onslaught. But none of the visitors was occupying his time. They were all intent on the displays as the caregiver loudly and slowly gave them a quick summary of each display and patiently repeated it all when one of the old men asked, in a too-loud crackly voice, “What did she say?” Nonetheless, Ranger Pine stood ready to aid them if the need arose.
When he saw me, there was a clear sign of recognition in his gaze. I wouldn’t describe it as a glad-to-see-you’re-back kind of look. It was far more neutral than that.
“Good morning,” I offered.
He simply nodded a greeting in return, then refocused his attention to his crowd of guests, waiting, almost hoping, for them to ask him for help.
“Ranger Pine, can we talk in private?”
“Talk about what?”
“About Spring Valley.”
“I told you before, that area is restricted,” he said sternly.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t been in there,” I reassured him. “But I have been doing some further investigation. And I do know what’s going on in there.”
He flashed me a patronizing grin. “Well, you can believe what you like.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it in private, then maybe we can talk right here,” I suggested.
He was still emotionless. He paused for a moment, and then stated flatly, “I’m kind of busy right now. Perhaps you can come back when I don’t have so many visitors.”
“Well, since I’m here already, let’s talk about Papaver somniferum.” On the counter between us, I placed one of my printed pages from the library. It was a picture of a poppy with its Latin scientific name underneath.
The caregiver for the Green Valley group tour glanced our way. It was unlikely that she would know that Latin name. Maybe she was just curious about our conversation regarding plant species.
Ranger Pine did not respond. He just stood there. His eyes were glassy, like he was searching for a way to quietly get rid of me. But it was clear that he knew what the plant was. Maybe I should have come to him with my bag of plant parts, instead of driving all the way to the university in Missoula.
Since he didn’t reply, I decided to up the ante, speaking quietly.
“Well, maybe you know this plant by its common name: opium poppy.”
In spite of my whispered comment, the caretaker turned her head again in our direction. She probably didn’t hear everything I said, but it was enough to make her a little nervous.
Pine was now standing rigidly and a bit wide eyed, his face turning a shade paler. Then he gave his same old stern advice. “I told you to stay out of that area. The trail is closed, and a lot of the surrounding forest is off limits while healing continues.”
“Well, I don’t listen too well. And I’m tired of whispering. Shall I just let all these folks hear what I came to ask?”
His discomfort was now clearly visible. There was strain in his face and a slight tremor in his hands. He didn’t want to talk to me, but he was also giving in. The growing of opium poppies was the weak link in my scenario. After all, I had little hard evidence to go on. But his reaction confirmed for me that the scenario was correct. Spring Valley was being used to grow them.
“Let’s go in the office,” he whispered. I followed him into a small room. He closed the door behind me. He could still look out into the visitor area through a large pane of glass in the upper half of the door, and he glanced that way often. He shifted his focus from me to his tourist guests every few seconds.
I didn’t wait for any pleasantries. I got right to the point.
“Ranger Pine, as I told you on Tuesday, I’m the one who called 9-1-1 to report finding a body on Monarch Trail. No one wanted to believe me, but screw that. I kept looking for answers. I’ve been back out there and know exactly what happened. I know about the chain-link fence around the Spring Valley, the opium poppy growing, the AWOL soldiers, and the Afghan prisoners.” I paused for effect. “So why are you helping them? For the money?”
Unconvincingly, he responded, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he kept looking past me to his visitors outside the office. He couldn’t look me in the face when he said it. He was lying.
“Look, Pine,” I blurted. Then I continued pressing him, my voice rising in intensity. “There’s no way all that activity can be going on without your involvement. The building of the fence, the shipments of opium out, the late-night deliveries of materials into the forest. How big is that operation in there, anyway?”
He sat stiffly, with perspiration beading on his forehead. I thought he wasn’t going to respond at all, but he finally repeated his previous statement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re such a bad liar, Pine.” Now I was feigning anger. The volume of my words was rising such that the visitors outside the door must be able to hear at least some of it. But I didn’t care. I was looking for answers. Forgotten for me was the fact I didn’t carry a badge. It didn’t matter. I was drilling into him anyway. “Look, I saw your car and saw you open the gate for the military truck on Thursday night. I was there, just yards away from you.” After a few beats, I added, “I’m going to the cops with all this today, so you might as well tell me your side of it before this all buries you. I know a lot of law enforcement people. Maybe, just maybe, I can help you.” My last statements were deceptive, since I didn’t have any kind of network. But I was feeling bulletproof with the progress being made in unraveling the mystery I’d been pursuing for a week.
I didn’t know which part of my statements triggered what happened next. But the strain was really showing on Ranger Pine’s face now. The beaded sweat ran down his temples and dripped off the tip of his nose. He made no attempt to swipe it away. He just sat there, hyperventilating slightly, and slowly crumbling. He was hiding something. And he was also afraid of something.
He started to whimper softly, his shoulders heaving. It was as if emotions had been bottled up inside for a long time, and now the door was open for them to escape. He swiveled in his chair so that I couldn’t see his breakdown. I had not expected this sudden collapse. While my brief encounters with Ranger Pine suggested he was wound a bit too tight, perhaps that was only because he was bottling something up inside. I had not pushed him that hard just now, and I had no authority, except my concocted story about being a private investigator. And unless he was completely out of the Willow Run gossip wire, then he knew that was a charade. Yet even these gentle prods were clearly enough to tip him over the edge of whatever cliff he had been balanced on.
Now I had to deal with the consequence of my pushing. I was never good at offering support during moments of grief, but I did my best to sound sympathetic. I spoke quietly. “Ranger Pine, tell me what’s going on and maybe I can help. I really was a cop. I have contacts. I can make things happen.” I was grossly overstating my influence and connections. But he wouldn’t know that. I just hoped it would lead him to open up.
He wiped the tears from his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then wiped his hands dry on his trousers.
He took several deep breaths to compose himself. Then he swiveled his chair around to again face me squarely.
“Sorry about that,” he croaked, his face red and tears still clinging to the lower lids of his eyes.
“It’s OK.” I waited a few beats before urging him on. “Tell me.”
He took another deep breath, and then started in. “They just showed up. They seemed to know about the valley and knew the terrain. They knew that it would be perfect for their operation. At first they just threatened my wife and me. There were so many of them that I was afraid for our lives. So I helped them. Then they thought I was going to tell someone, so they kidnapped my wife to make sure I cooperated.” He paused since he was choking up again. After several long moments, he was able to continue. “They told me she would be fine, as long as I did what I was told. So I’ve done whatever they asked. I keep the tourists and the other rangers away from this part of the park. I work seven days a week just to guard this entrance for them.” He stopped again to wipe his eyes. “I’m so worried about my wife.”
“Do they let you talk to her?”
“Not very often and only for a minute on the phone. But at least I know she’s OK.”
I sensed that he wanted to talk more about his wife, but there wasn’t time for that. I needed to press on.
“Who else is helping them?”
“I don’t know. I just do what they tell me,” he responded helplessly.
“What about the 9-1-1 call? I called from National Forest property. Why did you transfer jurisdiction to Willow Run?”
“They said one of their prisoners had escaped, and I should be on the lookout for him. When the 9-1-1 call came in, I called them. They told me to transfer the call. I don’t know why.”
I knew why. The 9-1-1 Operator must have given Pine the location of the body. Pine’s call to the guys in the valley informed them where to look for their runaway, which they were probably glad to hear was a body. Dead men tell no tales. They retrieved it. Transferring the call to Willow Run was a way to get the responsibility off the National Forest. If there was any follow up to the 9-1-1 call by anyone, the responsibility would be on Willow Run to deal with it. Get the problem off your plate and onto someone else’s. That is how so many people deal with problems. Pass them along so the spotlight is off you.
But they also had Deputy Powell on their payroll. So the call went to Willow Run. The Sheriff wasn’t a concern. It was Sunday, the Sheriff’s day off. That’s what he said. So Enid took the call and removed me from the scene. Then the whole thing was ignored by the Willow Run police. It never happened. Except I kept digging.
“I’ve been afraid to tell anyone,” Pine added. “But now I guess there’s no choice.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “There is no choice. I have to report all of this.”
His expression sagged in acceptance. “I knew this would happen, sooner or later. The police have to realize my wife is being held prisoner. Please help me get her back.”
“Yes, I know. Do you know if she’s being held in the valley?”
“I don’t know,” he moaned. His response was filled with so much pain and agony and panic and concern. All of it showed in his face, too. He was on the verge of breaking down again. But he gathered himself to ask, “Who are you going to tell? I don’t want a bunch of cowboy cops going in there and getting my wife killed.”
I didn’t want to reveal my suspicions about the Willow Run police department, and thus why I wasn’t telling the Sheriff. So I said, “I think to handle a situation of this size, I have to go at least to the county level. I’m going to talk with Jeff Wells right after I leave here.”
“You know Jeff Wells?” he said with a note of surprise.
I thought, he really is not tapped into the gossip grapevine. I answered, “Yes, I know Jeff.”
He seemed nervous, but appeased by my choice. “Jeff’s a good man, a good cop.” He paused a few beats, and then pleaded for guidance. “So what should I do now?”
“Just continue as usual, only for a couple more hours. The county police will be in contact with you later today.”
“Well, they have to be careful. Those guys in there are watching me. And they still have my wife.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll call you right after I talk to Jeff. OK?”
“OK,” he managed to croak out. With a shaking hand, he wrote down his cell phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to me, saying he preferred to get the call that way rather than through the National Forest line. That line might be answered by another ranger. I wrote down my number for him.
A face then appeared in the glass window of the door. It was one of the old men holding up some postcards, tapping continuously on the glass with his cane. He said in a gravelly voice, “Isn’t anybody going to ring me up?”
I nodded reassuringly to Ranger Pine, got up, and left the office. As I walked away I heard him reply shakily, “I’ll be right with you, Sir.” He was continuing as usual, at least for now. I hoped he could hold it together for just a little while longer.