Estes Park, CO Gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park
See The Stanley Hotel, Lake Estes, Longs Peak, Continental Divide, Trail Ridge Rd, and elk, moose, big horn sheep and bears.
Estes Park, Colorado: Rocky Mtn National Park
"The Breaking of the Pendulum" is a wilderness-thriller set in the far northwest corner of Montana, proven prescient today.
Rocky cliff in the Big Thompson River Canyon
Lilacs in spring, Mount Olympus in the background
East of Estes on the Big Thompson River
Four goslings waddle along with their parents on the Big Thompson River at East of Estes
Downtown Estes Park with the Continental Divide towering above
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America's political mood has been likened to a pendulum, its degree of pitch governed by the gravity of times -- until it breaks.
Not so long ago, when cell phones were not widespread and the Internet had yet to replace newspapers, a senatorial plot to commandeer the nation was uncovered in the mountains of Montana.
Conservative senators conspired against America. To finance their scheme, they had to access secretly discovered gold in a federally-protected wilderness area near the logging town of Libby, Montana. However, environmental committee chairman Senator Harold Schwartz of New York stood in their way and had to be eliminated when he was to host an environmental conference there. Schwartz had sent his Jewish aide ahead to make preparations, but the aide was murdered near the discovery site.
The death inflamed the town and nation, while conspirators exploited it as a distraction. Besieged with tree huggers, loggers, Aryans and skinheads, the economically-depressed community was set to explode as it braced for the upcoming conference, and America watched.
Libby’s young, tenacious Assistant County Attorney Janette Singer and law intern, Navy vet Tom Kineson uncovered the scheme – but then, Tom inexplicably became suspect in the aide’s murder. Not knowing who to trust with what they had discovered, they ran frantically through the surrounding wilderness. Could they stay ahead of the law, the Aryans and the plotters long enough to save the senator and the nation? Or are we currently living under an illusion of democracy?
"The Breaking Of The Pendulum" is a fast-paced, political, wilderness thriller proven prescient for America today.
After reading the book, if you'd care to write a review, please do. Just send your review to info@EastofEstes.com and in the subject line, write "Review". I'll post them all on the East of Estes website for everyone to see. And thank you!
HERE'S THE FIRST 26 PAGES
That's all this website will allow, however, if you go online to the Kindle Bookstore, you'll be able to read into Chapter 3. Just click on the "Read Sample" button on the left side of the Kindle page beneath "The Breaking of the Pendulum" book's cover.
THE BREAKING
OF THE PENDULUM
W. G. Allen
Chapter 1
America’s political mood has been likened to a pendulum, the extent of its pitch governed by the gravity of times – until it breaks.
Not so long ago, when cell phones were not widespread and the Internet had yet to replace newspapers, a senatorial plot to commandeer the nation was uncovered in the mountains of Montana.
- - -
Senator Orlando Helfrich watched with measured satisfaction through an open window, as four U.S. senators left their clandestine meeting in the South Carolina woods and boarded a waiting helicopter. Its engine whined, lifting the silver and blue craft to just above the moss-draped oaks cloaking the secluded hunting lodge. It turned immediately towards Charleston and disappeared into the morning sun, leaving massive tree limbs swirling violently in its wake. The palpable humidity had brought a slight sweat to the Senator’s brow. He dabbed at the tiny beads with a handkerchief then wiped the inside brim of his summer fedora. Watching the oaks recover their stately pose, he contemplated the turbulent future, muttering to himself, "Sure is hot."
"Well, Senator, what do you think? Can we rely on him when the time comes to act?" came a voice from behind.
Still staring out the window, Helfrich replied, "These are ominous times, Bob. It will take real leadership to manage what’s coming. I've known Senator Myers for more than 15 years. He’s a man of his word.” The Senator paused then added, “We can count on his support when needed."
"Good. That makes 13 Senators from the Southeast. As circumstances develop, we'll find the others to be just as cooperative, I'm sure."
"Perhaps," allowed Helfrich.
Bob Jennings, middle-aged businessman of Austrian descent, poured sweetened tea into glasses of ice and garnished each with a sprig of fresh mint. He handed one to the old senator and stood silently for a moment. All was still, except for three armed men dressed in camouflage fatigues moving across the lawn to another chopper. The Senator turned his imposing physique away from the window to face his associate. "And how is it going out west?"
Jennings lifted his chin and drew in a deep breath. "Everything is going along as planned, Senator. We should gain an authorization to mine the Cabinet Mountains by October." He let that sink in then added, "Senator Thatch stands ready and willing at the first opportunity."
"And their support out there?" quizzed the Senator, pushing his handkerchief into his rear pants pocket.
"As expected, it’s primarily from the conservative side of the aisle, unlike down here, where every soul is conservative, regardless of party affiliation. There’ll be enough support, no doubt of that. The meeting with Senators Simmons, Beeker and Wells is on for week after next in Montana." Jennings again sipped on his tea, the ice cubes sliding coldly against his pursed lips.
The elderly Senator thought a moment then said, "Simmons and Beeker will go along with it on principle alone. They're good men, true conservative Americans, but that Wells is a crook. He's out only for himself, a real sleazeball." Helfrich gritted his teeth, shaking his head slightly in disgust.
"The money will swing him, Senator," responded Jennings assuredly.
Helfrich agreed with a nod then cautioned, "In his case, you're probably right. Just be prepared for him to ask for more."
The smooth rising shrill of another copter engine interrupted their exchange. The Senator turned again to see a large man dressed in military camouflage step quickly onto the veranda. With assault rifle in hand and automatic pistol strapped to his side, the soldier pulled the screen door open and barked, "Senator, your chopper is ready."
The venerable senior Senator from South Carolina was a tall man with flowing white hair and full white mustache. His powder blue eyes and good ol’ boy demeanor had beguiled his constituents into re-electing him for the past 35 years. He stood for what most South Carolinians believed America, post-Civil War, should be.
Besides the pork a senator of his stature could secure for the folks back home, he had fought valiantly, if futilely, to retain prayer in schools, to ban the forced bussing of school children and to keep the Confederate battle flag flying over the State Capitol. He'd repeatedly won the hearts of voters and the more important silent battle of prolonging the good ol' boy system of government. To the powerful elite, he was a pillar of the status quo; to the average Joe, he was the unparalleled defender of state's rights.
Though not popular with everyone, his mainstream conservative posturing and orations, both eloquent and sagacious, earned him the respect of even the most liberal of opponents. A consummate politician in the old style of the South, Senator Orlando Helfrich was a man not to be taken lightly. His word carried years of wisdom and the weight of finality. To some, he cast as great a shadow as Lee, Davis, and Jackson in their time.
Even so, he knew he was running out of time to restore in America the values he so dearly loved. No question, he'd die for his country if necessary, having already fought in one of its wars, but something fundamental had changed the America of his youth, and now something had to be done about it at any cost – before he was too old to fight any longer.
He finished the last of his tea and handed the glass to Jennings. Picking up his white sports coat, Helfrich walked onto the sagging wooden porch accompanied by his security shadow. Bob Jennings followed, the screen door slamming behind him just as he called out, "Don't worry, Senator. Things are coming along just fine."
The Senator turned and donned his fedora, saying bluntly, "I don't worry, Bob, that's why we hired you. Until next time." With that, he took his briefcase from Jennings and stepped off the porch, going directly to the waiting copter.
Jennings watched as Helfrich scurried out onto the lawn bent over at the waist, holding his hat tightly against his head. Once onboard, a security member waved an 'okay' to the pilot. The craft rose with little effort, it too swirling the massive oaks violently – much like the times to come, thought the old Senator.
- - -
The fisherman stumbled, but managed to keep his balance in the swirling pristine water of the Bull River. For Tom Kineson, fly fishing in Montana's far northwest corner was like being born again, only this time in heaven itself.
Tom had been raised in Mississippi, where the water looks like creamed coffee and the fishing is done either from overpowered bass boats or snake-infested shorelines. He had lost most of his accent, or so he thought, having left the South several years before, but he retained his Southern charm. At 29, he was living a childhood dream in the wilds of Montana, a world away from the genteel, segregated culture of his upbringing. To him nothing short of sex could possibly match a splendid Montana morning like this. The lofty peaks of the Cabinet Mountains were shedding their early morning shroud, where blazes of sunshine glistened off many glaciers and waterfalls.
The jagged, reddish-gray towers gave way to lush alpine forests below, forests of cedar, birch and ponderosa pine. It was home to mule deer, mountain lion, bighorn sheep, moose, elk, and bear. Tom had been warned grizzlies live in the Cabinets and were often spotted along the river. He'd seen their massive prints in the mud, revealing claws extending five inches in front of the paw, visual testament to their ponderous proportions. Yet they were ponderous only in bulk, for they were faster than a horse or a dog in a short distance and could outlast an occasional elk in a long run. They were monsters in size and fury, if provoked.
The tip of Tom's rod dipped suddenly, as a large Bull Trout broke the slippery surface of the fast-water river, splashing loudly a few yards downstream. Tom grinned wildly, tossing long brown hair from his eyes and yanking the rod up to sink the fly's hook. Maintaining the slightest amount of drag, he allowed the fish to run at will, hoping to tire it and not break his line.
Oh, the thrill of it! He'd been looking forward to this summer all winter long. Braced against the current, sheer exhilaration consumed him. It was then he felt something bump into the side of his upstream leg. At first, he ignored it, hoping whatever it was would just float on by. He turned partially, expecting in disgust to have been bumped by a floating snag, only a minor nuisance, he hoped. Never letting his eyes off the line, he held the rod up high and with his left hand reached around to push the log away, but to his surprise, he felt something soft and waxy. He turned his head around for only an instant, then looked back at the line. Without another ripple of water passing, he turned again in fright and sat down in the Bull River, staring at the lifeless body drifting toward his face.
The coldness of the water made Tom realize he had just done the worst thing any fisherman can: allow his waders to fill with water. His were not the new neoprene waders clinging tightly to the body, but rather the old basic rubber kind he had picked up at a garage sale in Missoula. They were always cold, but now they were freezing. If he didn't act quickly, he would numb up and accompany this unfortunate passerby down the Bull and into the Clark Fork River, where both their bodies would eventually ruin someone else's day out on the Cabinet Gorge Reservoir.
At this point, the Bull River drops dramatically from the high alpine floor. Though not very deep, rapids are common and in places quite dangerous, especially when wearing an extra hundred pounds of waterlogged waders. Tom pushed away from the body, an unintended reflex, for this sent him into the fastest current. Like it or not, he was going places. He bumped hard into then over a submerged boulder. His left knee stung ferociously, leaving him with only one leg kicking against the current. He went under a couple of times as the icy water swept him faster and faster toward a small fall. Over he went, arms cradling his head, expecting to be thrashed hard on the rocks below. Instead, a deeper pool lay beneath the falls, where Tom sank quickly to its sandy bottom.
Things were happening fast, but in this relative calm, seven feet below the surface, he thought of his wife, Diane. They had only been married three years, and she'd worked long hours to help put her husband through law school. Now, with two of those demanding years behind him and a chance to intern for the summer with the Lincoln County Attorney, here he sat at the bottom of the Bull River. What luck, he thought – what damnable, rotten luck!
He looked up through the effervescent turquoise at the falls churning the water above. It was like being in a huge aquarium where natural sunlight shown through to the bottom, casting rippled shadows across the backs of sleek, silvery trout. Theirs was a beautiful world, indeed, thought Tom. Was this a prelude to drowning, to losing touch with the seriousness of the situation, to relax and not fight the inevitable, like wanting to go to sleep when the body nears freezing? At ease with his calamity, Tom looked around, as if breathing was no longer needed to sustain him. It was then he observed his fly rod still in hand. That unlikely realization snapped him into conscious action. He instantly reasoned the largest trout he’d ever hooked might not get away after all on a drowning technicality. He immediately began kicking with his good leg, pushing the water with his bruised arm. Moving slowly toward shore, he crossed the rippled sandy bottom to a sharp incline behind a large protective boulder and began climbing the bank.
Several trout hovered round about him, seemingly curious as to how a large awkward creature could move through the current. He suddenly reached the surface, his head bursting from the water, lungs aching as he sucked hard for precious oxygen. Choking, Tom blew water from his nose. He was still alive and might survive the ordeal, if he could just drag himself to safety. He felt like he weighed a ton, grabbing desperately at slippery grasses along the bank. He barely managed to grasp a cedar root with one hand, then with the other, it still gripping the fly rod. But the force of the current hauled him under again, the root thrashing back and forth, as if trying to shake him loose.
Nearly exhausted, Tom began to lose his grip. Bone-cold fear suddenly rushed through his veins like the incessant current pulling him under and away. Losing the battle to keep his head above the surface, he ceased the effort and rolled onto his back. This lessened the current pushing against his body. Heartened, he began pulling on the root with all the strength he had left.
Steadily placing one hand over the other, he dragged his cumbersome and grossly overweight bulk up onto dry land. Limp, lying on his back, Tom looked up through deep green cedar branches at the clear blue Montana sky. He let out a deep sigh, his senses beginning to register again. He was wet and cold inside the waders, his knee hurt and his muscles tingled as his blood pressure began to subside. He lay there for a while, closed his eyes with arms stretched out, soaking in as much solar warmth as possible.
The air was redolent of early summer forest decay, momentarily transcending Tom’s thoughts to his childhood. He remembered how he and his friends would spend lazy summer afternoons swimming at the Scout Pond, as much to cool off as to have fun. Their rite of passage was to run barefoot through the grassier end of the pond, where cottonmouth moccasins as big around as his arm slithered about, but mostly, they'd try to outdo one another, swinging from vines and making like cannonballs.
Suddenly Tom jerked himself up into a sitting position, standing not being an option in the waterlogged waders. Though expecting the certainty of slack from the other end, he began reeling in the line with a sliver of hope. To his amazement, the rod's tip dipped sharply again as he felt the big one’s pull once more.
Somewhere between delirium and near-death, Tom let out a yell, "Hot damn! I can't believe it. I almost drowned, but now I've gotcha!" He eased the tension on the line again, as the fish resumed its fight. It was a big one alright. Tom was most pleased with himself. For the most part of five minutes, he worked the fish back and forth from his sitting position, until it finally tired and moved closer to shore. Sure, he had just seen a body floating in the river, and he would duly report it. It was most certainly dead, so no immediate action was necessary, other than landing the biggest fish he'd ever had the good fortune of sharing the same line with.
But the body, face up, eased by in the slower current near the opposite shore. It was a Caucasian male of about 30 years of age dressed in Eddie Bauer-looking wilderness gear, plaid shirt and tan vest. Perhaps he was a fisherman, a novice maybe, thought Tom. The body slowly swirled around in an eddy exposing its crushed skull. Tom grimaced at the ghastly site, the eyes fixed, staring lifelessly from one world into another. He shuddered to think of what had happened to the hapless soul and how close a similar fate had befallen him. At that moment, the fish gave its last and shook the fly from its mouth. The line went slack, but Tom didn't notice. Not caring, not even thinking about the big one that had gotten away, he just sat there in the grass, his bulbous legs dangling in the water, and watched the lifeless body slowly drift by.
- - -
It took over an hour for Tom to remove the waders and limp his way back up to Highway 56, the two-lane road running north and south for 35 miles through the center of the wild and scenic Bull River Valley. The underbrush was thick, the climb relatively steep, and he had fallen a couple of times, scraping an elbow in the process. He sat on a log by the road to catch his breath and take the weight off his leg. It wasn’t broken, he was pretty sure, but it was swollen and sore as hell. After a few minutes of pitying himself, he threw the waders over his shoulder, picked up his fly rod and hobbled as best he could north along the road. Now in the sun, he began to dry out, though his jeans still clung to his legs.
The distant rumble of a vehicle soon resonated from behind Tom. Before long, an old green pickup rounded the bend in the road. As it neared, Tom waved with both arms. The brakes on the old Ford soon squealed loudly and the motor backfired like a Winchester. Tom backed off the pavement, allowing room for the truck to pull over and skid to a dusty stop. He waved the dust from in front of his face and leaned against the truck’s door to relieve the pressure on his knee.
"Thanks for stopping,”he said to the two occupants. “Would y'all mind givin' me a ride back up the road a bit to my rig? I slipped in the river and rode it down to here." He looked down at his leg and added with a forced smile, "I busted my knee on a rock. Kinda hurts. I reckon my truck's only a mile from here, if that."
The rugged-looking driver, dressed in a dull white T-shirt and faded jeans, wore black heavy-rimmed glasses and a red baseball cap turned backwards. Tom guessed him to be 35 or so. The guy jerked his head around to spit a wad of tobacco out the driver’s window then wiped the drool from his chin with a hairy, tattooed forearm. In a deep guttural voice, reminding Tom of the raspy sounding kid in the 'Little Rascals,' the burly fellow replied kindly, "Sure, we can give you a ride. Looks like the fish got the better of you, huh? I'm Terry Blalock and this here's my son, Johnny Ray. Open the door, Johnny Ray, let the man in."
"Thanks," said Tom. He placed his flyrod and waders behind the cab and started to open the door, but the truck suddenly rolled backwards a foot then stopped.
"Whoa, Nellie," Blalock shouted. "Damn brakes! Probably the master cylinder. I'll have to take a look at ‘em when we get home." Scratching the side of his head, he thought for a moment then lightly backhanded his son's shoulder. "You remind me, Johnnie Ray. Now let him in.”
“C'mon, gimp! Get in!" he added to Tom.
The short chubby teenager lifted his Seattle Seahawks cap and pushed back stiff black hair with a pudgy hand. Obligingly, the boy opened the door and scooted over beside his dad. The boy's sad eyes suddenly widened and sparkled. "Did you catch any?" Johnny Ray asked with a very noticeable lisp and large smile. His swollen tongue protruded from an under bite, an indication to Tom of likely Down's syndrome. This time, Tom jumped quickly into the truck with his good leg and slammed the door before the brakes could slip again. "Well, did ya?" the grinning boy quizzed impatiently.
Blalock slammed the tranny into first gear, sounding to Tom like the guy had ground off what was left. The motor revved as Blalock eased up on the clutch. The old truck rolled slightly backwards before lunging forward, spilling a trail of blue smoke and white dust.
"Well, I had one, a really big one, but it got away," Tom responded, his voice trailing off. He looked out his window, thinking of the floating body, but said nothing about it. What could he say? It was so bizarre! Besides, he didn’t want to freak the boy out, but the weight of the experience was definitely bearing down on Tom.
Terry Blalock laughed out loud. "I suppose it was so big it pulled you in. Yeah, I hear stories like that around here all the time. You obviously aren't from these parts. Just up for the fishing, are you?" The truck backfired again, as Blalock double-clutched to get it into the next gear.
"Uh, no," Tom replied, still thinking of the body, as he rubbed his knee. "I'm in law school at the U in Missoula, doing a summer internship with Lincoln County Attorney Don Rucker. I start Monday."
"Well, if you’re workin’ for the county attorney, you've got quite a summer ahead of you, fella! People ‘round here work hard and they play hard. Lincoln County’s bigger than most states back east, but we only have about 20,000 people in the whole county. Still, we have 11 bars in the four-square blocks of downtown Libby alone, then there's the towns of Troy and Eureka with their own waterin’ holes, not to mention those in between. Yes sir,” he reiterated with a sly grin, “you've got quite a busy summer ahead of you." Shoving the shifter into third gear, the faded green bomb left another puff of blue smoke but didn’t backfire this time.
"What do you do, Terry?" Tom aimed for the sake of conversation. Johnny Ray stared at Tom. Evidently, seeing a stranger was an unusual experience for the boy.
"Oh, anything I can. I sell a few wood stoves and deliver propane around the county. Times are tough around here these days. With the forests almost completely shut down, people don't have a whole lot of money to spend. It's pretty tough, all right, but we manage. Sometimes, I’ll even help out down at the sheltered workshop, where Johnny Ray works." Blalock pulled a crinkled, red and white foil pouch of Beechnut Chewing Tobacco from the back of his sun visor and offered it to Tom.
"No thanks," Tom said, shaking his head. He pointed through the cracked windshield. "My rig's just around the next bend. I surely appreciate the ride."
"Terry's chewing tobacco tastes pretty good," whispered Johnny Ray to Tom.
"I heard that Johnny Ray,” exclaimed Blalock around the fresh wad he was placing in his mouth. “You better not be gettin' into my 'baccy, you hear me boy?"
Johnny Ray grinned and laughed, his adopted dad playfully pinching his knee. "Stop dat, Terry! Stop dat!" the boy pleaded gleefully.
"Right there," Tom said, pointing ahead to a break in the roadside trees.
Terry downshifted then pushed hard on the brakes, locking the wheels. The old Ford skidded up behind a faded green Dodge, another old Forest Service rig. Tom eased out, favoring his bad knee and slammed the door behind him. The boy scooted over and leaned out the window and said, "Nice to meet cha, Tom. See you later." He stuck out his hand and added hopefully, "Maybe we can go fishin' sometime."
Tom took the boy's pudgy hand and shook it hard, as if making a pack. “Nice to meet you, too, Johnny Ray. Sounds like a deal. I'll see ya around." Johnny Ray grinned and cheerfully rubbed his hands together – his day had been made.
"Thanks again, Terry," Tom hollered over the revving of the engine. He grabbed his waders and rod from the rear of the pickup just as Blalock nodded and the truck lunged forward. Johnny Ray waved a 'so long.' Tom responded, lifting the fly rod above his head. Interesting characters, he thought, turning carefully toward his truck.
Tom’s truck was parked in the shade of a ponderosa pine with a rock strategically placed under the front wheel, in case she slipped out of gear. The emergency brake hadn't worked since he’d bought the thing. Tom hobbled around to the truck’s rear-end, feeling for his keys. He opened the door of the small camper then sat down on the tailgate to think what to do next. First things first, he'd go straight to the sheriff's office when he got back to Libby then he'd see about his knee.
Pete, his old Bluetick Coonhound, slowly lifted his sorrowful head off the bed and re-crossed his front legs, left to right. The dog’s eyes were bloodshot, drooping with age, and his large floppy ears hung low with decorum, evoking canine wisdom like an English magistrate's wig. He yawned, stretching his heavily wrinkled face, enough skin for two dogs on most other breeds. "Hey, Pete. I'm thrilled to see you, too, ol’ buddy." The old dog slid down to nuzzle his master then lumbered off the rearend of the truck and lifted his leg over a rear tire. "That ain't a bad idea, boy."
Tom stood up but almost fell over as the pain returned to his bum leg. He took a deep breath. "Damn," he said defiantly, hopping around the edge of the truck to take a whiz out of sight of the road. That's when he noticed a man across the river. Pete hadn't seen the guy yet, as the hound was busy sniffing the ground around the truck. Tom stood silently leaning against the camper, watching the guy scan the river and search the banks. He wasn’t carrying any fishing gear as far as Tom could tell. Just as the man was about to disappear downriver into the brush, Tom yelled out and waved. “Hey! Hey, mister!” Maybe, just maybe, he thought, the guy was looking for his unfortunate companion or at least had seen the body.
The stranger jerked his head up looking straight at Tom, obviously reacting to his call, but immediately turned and hurried into the brush away from the river.
- - -
Tom took his time driving back to town, alert for any game crossing the road. He drove north past Bull Lake to the junction where Montana State Highway 56 ends at U.S. Highway 2. He turned east to go around the north end of the Cabinet Mountains Range, following upstream the glittering flow of the mighty Kootenai River in the distance below. Libby was only 15 miles from there, past the swinging bridge at Kootenai Falls and Chinaman's Rapids. Over the eons, the Kootenai had cut a deep gorge through the rugged cedar wilderness. This is where Bighorn sheep nimbly traverse precipitous canyon walls above, and bald eagles snatch plump trout from deep dark pools mirroring the surrounding splendor.
Tom concluded there’d be no way to explain such grandeur to the folks back in Mississippi. It was simply beyond words, and beyond their realm of comprehension for that matter. Sure, the South is beautiful in its own way, but this, this is truly God's country, he thought. Pete slept through it all, of course, his head resting contentedly on Tom’s thigh.
As they passed the turn to Kootenai Falls, Tom noticed several vehicles, including two sheriff's patrol cars and a GMC Suburban marked "Rescue" parked off to the left in the woods. He drove on aways to where he could see in both directions before painfully clutching and shifting down to turn the brutish old truck around. He parked along the highway near the other vehicles. Pete showed no sign of life when Tom got out, so he hobbled alone along the short, tree-canopied dirt road to the overlook of the falls. The sweet smell of decaying cedar was heavy in the cool moist air as the roar of the falls grew louder. The trees parted at the edge of the small parking area where the ground fell precipitously, affording Tom a spectacular first-view of Kootenai Falls far below. He gasped in wonderment, "Mercy sakes!"
Here the turquoise Kootenai River cascades over a series of canyon-wide rocky steps, churning monstrous eddies and blowing mist a hundred feet into the air. Resembling ancient castle ruins, these massive rock striations, cut sharply over the eons, run diagonally across the width of the great river. To Tom, it seemed every time he turned around, he was presented yet another dramatic spectacle of nature. “Will wonders ever cease in this country?” he whispered aloud.
Tom noticed two men in yellow jackets on this side of the falls in the distance below, packing up rescue gear. God almighty, no one could survive going over those falls, he thought. Even if one could survive the falls, it was obvious the current beyond was violently turbulent, as the river gushed through the canyon’s narrow choke point. Not to mention the freezing cold of the water, certainly as cold as the water that had filled his waders earlier. A chill ran down Tom’s spine as the cadaverous face drifted by just beneath the surface of his memory.
Tom could see a line of five men making their way up the steep trail not far below. A tan-uniformed officer led the way. When the group crested the top, they stopped next to Tom to catch a breather for a moment. "I hope no one was injured," Tom offered.
The blonde-haired deputy wiped the sweat off his brow and said, "No, no one was injured. It was just a fisherman getting stranded out there on the rocks; bad timing that’s all.” He caught his breath and added, “Libby Dam fluctuates the river’s flow periodically, catching out-of-town fisherman off guard. Happens every summer at least four or five times. As usual, the guy thought he’d found heaven on earth and forgot the water around him is subject to dramatic fluctuations from the dam 17 miles upstream above Libby. They don't ever forget, though. That is, if we're able to pluck them off the rocks safely."
Tom watched the lucky fisherman walk by, thanking everyone profusely in a distinctly Northeastern accent, offering to buy drinks for all that evening in Libby. A couple of the rescuers said they’d take him up on the offer. The deputy was checking out Tom's appearance when he said, "You look like you went over the falls yourself. Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, Deputy," Tom replied, looking down at his damp clothes and swollen knee sticking through the hole in his jeans. "I actually did go over some falls, but not these, thank God. I was fishing over on the lower Bull River, uh, south of the East Fork. Well . . .” He paused then said, “Can we step over here for a moment? I have something to report, officially." The deputy obliged, and they moved away from the others.
"Alright, Misterrr?"
"Kineson, Tom Kineson, I'm here for the summer to do an internship with the county attorney, Don Rucker. I start Monday."
The deputy pulled out a notepad from his pocket and said, "Mr. Kineson, I'm Chief Deputy Sam Rucker, now what is it you want to report?"
"Well, like I was saying, I was fishing on the lower Bull River, where it begins to drop, when I hooked into a really big one. I was wearing waders at the time, so I was out in about two feet of fast-moving water. That's when I saw it, or more accurately, that's when it bumped into me." Tom paused, staring vacuously beyond the deputy.
"Saw what, Mr. Kineson?" coaxed the officer.
"A body, the body of a male Caucasian, face up in the river. It bumped into me, so I reached down to push away what I expected to be a log or something, only to be shocked so badly I fell in. My waders filled with water, and I was swept over a falls. Bumped my knee pretty hard and almost drowned. I'm lucky to be alive, I guess."
"Was he dead?"
"Oh yeah, he was dead all right."
"How do you know?"
"His skull was bashed in and his eyes seemed glassy." Tom lifted his hand over his right temple to give reference.
"What time was that?"
"About 8:30, I'd say."
"Did anyone else see the body?" asked the deputy as he scratched a note.
"Well, I'm not sure.”
The deputy looked up suspiciously.
“What I mean is I was fishing alone, but when I got back to my truck, I noticed a man on the opposite side of the river, near where I saw the body, who obviously wasn't fishing. He wasn’t carrying any gear. He seemed instead to be looking for something along the bank. I hollered at him, but he just took off in a hurry. I had banged my knee pretty badly, so I didn’t make any effort to follow him. Besides, he was on the opposite bank, a little difficult for me to give chase. So, I started back to town to report the sighting. That's when I saw your patrol cars parked here, and I stopped."
"Mr. Kineson, if you’re not in great pain, I'd like for you to ride back over there to show me exactly where this happened."
"Well as long as I don't have to walk down to the river again today, I don't mind," he replied readily, rubbing his knee.
"Good, I'll have a paramedic take a look at your knee before we go." The deputy turned and said, "Yo, Benny, come check out this gentleman's leg for me, would you?"
The paramedic gave Tom's knee a brief exam through the tear in the jeans, gingerly feeling for anything of concern. He rose and said, “It’ll be stiff and probably sore for a few days, but it doesn’t appear to be seriously injured. You’re lucky.”
“Thanks,” Tom replied.
Rucker explained to the medic, “Benny, we’re going to head down the Bull River to check out a possible drowning.”
He pointed to Tom and continued, “Mr. Kineson, you can leave your truck here and ride with me. Benny, the rest of your crew can head in, but you come with us."
Benny immediately relayed the deputy's instructions to the others then said, "Okay, let's go."
The three walked towards the deputy's chocolate-brown patrol car, all shiny as a showroom model, except for the road dust collected around the wheel wells. A 12-gauge shotgun stood at the ready in the center position of the dashboard, its barrel shortened for easier access and wider spreading of its lethal buckshot at close range.
"Oh yeah,” Tom blurted turning toward his old Dodge, “Would you mind, Deputy Rucker, if Pete rides along with us?"
The deputy stopped in his tracks and glared at Tom with a wrinkled brow, clearly expressing his lack of appreciation for surprises. "Pete, who's Pete?” he said directly, “I thought you said you were alone."
Tom swung open the passenger side door of the faded pickup. "Pete's my old coonhound. He doesn't do much but sleep, so he won't get in the way. I just hate to leave him here alone."
The deputy relaxed and said, "Sure, he can come along. He'll probably be more of a conversationalist than ol' Benny, here."
"Hey, Sam, watch it,” objected the plump paramedic. “I still owe you one for downright embarrassing me in front of the board of supervisors the other night."
"Okay, okay. You've got your revenge coming, but it'll have to be at another time. Seems Mr. Kineson here . . .”
The deputy turned to Tom and said, “You mind if I call you, Tom, seeing as how we're going to be working for the same fella? You can call me, “Sam.” Benny here is known to some as ‘Big Ben’.” The deputy grinned at Benny, who only sneered in return. Rucker continued, "Seems Tom saw a dead body floating in the lower Bull this morning. Let's go check it out. You, too, Pete." They loaded in the patrol car and let the dust fly with lights and siren blaring, the deputy racing along, as if they might get there in time to save the dead man from drowning.
- - -
Heading south on Highway 56, the road curved for a mile or so to the east, where Tom could see the north end of the Cabinet Range. William Grambauer Mountain towered majestically above the intersection of the Kootenai and Bull River valleys, yet their waters never converge, as the Bull heads south away from the Kootenai. Next to Grumbauer stood rugged Taylor Peak. The alpine floor pitched sharply skyward beyond Savage Lake to where the two mountains parted at Falls Creek, another higher valley, another world away. The loftier peaks of the Cabinets ran for 35 miles in a south southeasterly direction to the Clark Fork River. Tom was mesmerized by the surrounding beauty, but the deputy and paramedic seemed indifferent, if not immune. Familiarity breeds a lack of appreciation, he reasoned. No wonder outsiders are the ones who fight to save what's left of country like this.
"So, you're going to be interning in the county attorney's office this summer. Well, you'll be busy, I can promise you that," said the chief deputy. He pushed the pedal to the floor once past the small village of Savage Lake. "You don't look like the typical student we get up here from Missoula. How old are you anyway?"
"I'm 29. I spent four years in the Navy as a hospital corpsman. I just got a late start on law school, that's all."
"Why'd you pick Lincoln County for your internship?"
"Well, I did my undergrad work at U of M in Missoula with a guy from Kalispell. We camped a couple of times in the Flathead Valley. Actually, Kalispell was my first choice, being as it’s so close to Glacier Park and all, but Libby was the nearest town with an opening, so I applied." Tom paused a second then said, "Say, Sam, your name being Rucker, would you be related to Don Rucker?"
"Yeah, he's my uncle on my father's side. You met him yet?" the deputy responded, raising an eyebrow.
"No, not yet. Matter-of-fact, I've only spoken with his assistant over the phone, and that was very brief. Brusque was more like it," he added under his breath.
"You've got a real experience coming, that’s for certain. Don’s a character and a half! Red-haired, hot-tempered, wild-eyed, cocky, smart as a whip, a heavy drinker, and former Bull of the Woods Champ – not your typical county attorney.” Rucker looked over his shoulder to the backseat. “Anything I miss about Don, Benny?"
Benny grunted and smirked, "A real asshole when he wants to be, which is usually when he's in the presence of other human beings."
Rucker laughed, slowing the patrol car while passing the summer cottages strung along Bull Lake. Picking up the radio mike, he barked, "Unit 2 to base."
"Base here, Sam. What's up? Over," came a female voice from the speaker.
"Molly, Benny and I are heading down to just beyond the East Fork of the Bull to investigate a possible drowning. I have an eyewitness with me. Could you notify the Sanders County Sheriff's Department and request they have someone meet us over there? Over."
"Roger, I'll notify. Oh, and tell Benny we've conducted a survey around the office here, and we feel he could cross the swinging bridge, that is, if he's blindfolded, heh, heh. Over-n-out."
Benny pounded the back of the front seat and said loudly, "Sam, I ought to kill you right here and now, whilst I have a witness to tell the world I got you back, damn it!"
Rucker laughed again and said in Tom's direction, "Now, Benny, we aren't making a very good impression on our new colleague here. Let's just let it go for now." He paused long enough to swing the cruiser around a slow-moving RV then said to Tom, "Where did you say you were fishing? We must be getting pretty close by now."
"Just another half mile, I guess. There's a turnout on the left side of the road. There it is up ahead."
The deputy slowed as they approached the spot where Tom had parked earlier that morning. Pete, yawning drowsily, stretched out on his side and pushed against the chief deputy's leg, prompting Rucker to comment, "Makes himself right at home, doesn't he?"
Tom patted Pete's side and remarked frankly, "Home is where his head lies, Sam."
Rucker smiled, but Tom looked away, the image of the victim's head swirling around him once more.
Chapter 2
From the upper floors of the Sandpoint Resort Hotel, one can see Washington, Montana, and even into the rugged wilds of Canada. Situated on Lake Pend Oreille in Idaho's northern panhandle, it’s touted in the travel industry as the destination between Minneapolis and Seattle. Known for world-class landlocked salmon fishing, the 30-mile long 1,200 feet deep lake is also the site of the U.S. Navy's acoustics testing laboratory, speculated to be the nation's center for top-secret underwater technology research.
Robert K. "Bob" Jennings looked out across the inland empire from his private suite on the top floor of his resort. Below were the privileged from around the world come to marvel at what he had carved from the northwest wilderness and to catch a glimpse of golfing’s elite on the world's number one-rated course. The resort was conspicuously opulent, garish and out of place, standing defiantly as a symbol of true decadence in an otherwise economically depressed area.
Betting on changing attitudes and his own growing political clout, Jennings had designed his palace in the style of Las Vegas gambling casinos, confident of northern Idaho eventually being allowed to offer gambling, in spite of the religious right in the southern half of the state. He would have to make certain concessions, of course, but none would prevent him from attaining his goal. A man of means, he had not had a bad hunch in over 25 years of various worldwide business enterprises.
Yet Jennings knew to expect a glitch here and there, as the grandiose plans for a new republic unfolded, but nothing ever worked out perfectly, not in business nor in the business of politics. Even so, he could not have anticipated what his security chief was about to tell him.
The silver elevator doors slid open to Jennings' office. Off stepped a heavyset, 50-ish balding man in tourist's clothing, looking as if he'd just played a round of golf. He stood motionless for a moment then aimed his hulk to the center of the room adorned with numerous large exotic plants, a virtual jungle overlooking the lake and its vacationing flotilla. Before he had taken two steps, a large black and tan Doberman Pinscher growled a warning from behind a fern, freezing the man in his tracks. Jennings’ stern voice came from behind a bank of palms on the side of the room overlooking the marina. "What’s happened, Zeek?"
Zeek Mankovich turned cautiously in the direction of the voice, aware the dog was watching his every move. Mankovich was head of the resort’s security, but when in the office of Bob Jennings, that damned dog outranked him. Zeek had made the mistake of ignoring the vicious beast on one occasion and had 13 stitches to show for it on his left forearm. Looking through bottle-thick bifocals, he caught only pieces of yellow coloring beyond a cluster of Birds of Paradise, arranged to look like a flock of herons. "Mr. Jennings, a fellow by the name of Gould was snooping around close to our operation. We don't know how he found it, sir, but we speculate he . . . "
"Spare me the details, damn it!” Jennings interrupted. “Was he able to get any information out?"
"No sir, he met one of our engineers onsite and asked a few questions. But he never made it out," the security chief replied, warily watching the canine from the corner of his eye.
"What else?" Jennings prodded impatiently, knowing there was more.
"Gould was Senator Schwartz's personal aide. So, we expect the Senator's security will be increased when he comes out for the environmental conference."
"And what about Mr. Gould?" Jennings asked, as if the man were still breathing.
Zeek had hoped to somehow avoid telling his boss the rest of what had happened, what obviously had made matters much worse. He tried his best to ease the impact by speaking as if the resolution to the problem was a foregone conclusion, its result a mere inconvenience of time, that's all. "Sir, his body fell into a river and our people were unable to retrieve it. We're still searching. When we find it, we'll dispose of it properly."
"You better," Jennings said laconically, then added, “And it best not interfere with the plan for the Senator."
"Oh no, sir. We have the situation well under control. No one knows about Mr. Gould, yet." This was a half-truth in that Zeek’s people had reported seeing sheriff's deputies searching along the banks of the Bull River, as well. He just had no way of knowing what the deputies were searching for, so he figured, better not burden his boss for now. "We'll find the body, dispose of it, and continue as planned for the Senator's visit." The security chief endured a long moment of silence, the Doberman's eyes fixed on him like a wolf patiently waiting for its prey to show any sign of weakness.
Finally, Jennings said, "That will be all, Zeek."
Without saying another word, Mankovich turned slowly for the elevator, as did the remote-controlled cameras and the Doberman's head, all in unison, seemingly choreographed. Mindful of the procedure, he stepped cautiously into the elevator, careful not to make any sudden, unexpected movement or deviation from the routine. Slowly he turned around, lifted his right arm and lightly pressed the button to return him to the sanctity of his own office nine floors below. Rigid as stone, Mankovich waited for the elevator doors to close, all the while watching the Doberman with absolute contempt. Someday, he imagined placing a slug between the bastard’s devilish eyes.
As the elevator closed, Jennings stepped from behind the plants and aligned his next putt.
- - -
Experience Estes Park's Local Cuisine
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