Snow Creek(28)

As we drive, I tell him about Maxine and her cats.

“Seriously? More than a hundred?”

“I didn’t exactly count them, but that’s my guess.”

“Wife and I are more dog people.”

Second-growth firs are a ribbon of green from my passenger window. The view from where I sit as Sheriff drives is stunning. Really. The forest is a massive green wall on either side of the road, every now and then giving way to the shimmering waters of Snow Creek. We had a small creek in Port Orchard. Hayden loved looking for salamanders there.

Sheriff slams on the brakes as a doe jumps into the roadway.

“Jesus! We almost hit her.”

“We didn’t,” I say.

He looks ashen and reaches over. “Are you okay?”

I exhale. “Fine. We’re all fine.”

“I don’t like close calls,” he says.

I know he’s thinking of the car accident that left him with a metal plate riveted to his skull. He jokes about setting off the metal detector at the courthouse. It’s not really funny. He’d veered off the highway and hit the barrier. Hard. A few in the office gossiped that he’d been drinking at the Indian casino and the state patrol covered it up.

It helps having friends in law enforcement.

Drunks, criminals and people looking for a second chance know that.

Like me.

It was Tony Gray who somehow managed to excise details of my life from law enforcement files. I didn’t ask how. I assume someone helped him. He’s not what anyone would call a digital native. He’s what I call, however, the man who gave me a chance to live a life in which I could be the best part of me. He saw it in me, before I really did.

He eases his foot onto the gas pedal, while I look down at the plat map.

“Slow down,” I say as we start moving. “The Anderson property is right here, on the left.”

We proceed up a slight incline. As driveways go around here, this is the nicest one by far. It’s not paved, of course, but its compacted gravel makes for a smoother ride than the rutted-out ingress of his neighbors.

He studies me. “You sure there’s a house up here?”

“Folks out here have a thing for long, winding roads,” I say.

My eyes widen as the house comes into view.

“I didn’t expect that,” I say.

“Impressive,” he says.

What held our attention wasn’t the Anderson house, though it was nice. It was a small two-story, painted white, with black shutters. More Nantucket than, say, backwoods Washington.

The yard was filled with wood carvings done with a chainsaw. There were bears, eagles, totems, and more. Some were painted with bright colors of marine paint. While chainsaw art isn’t my thing, the collection here was carved by a master—if there’s such a thing. A Smee-like character from Peter Pan looked like he could speak. I did a double take at a sea otter because I actually thought it was real.

“Some serious talent here,” Sheriff says.

“No shit,” I say.

Daniel Anderson emerges from the house and walks toward us. He seems normal. No gun. He has a neatly trimmed beard on a square jaw. It looks authentic. Not like the hipsters that flock to Port Townsend on the weekends to pose as lumberjacks or mariners. He’s lean and has close-cropped dark brown hair. He’s wearing Carhartt jeans and a purple University of Washington shirt emblazoned with the university’s mascot: a husky. When he smiles, I notice straight away that he has all his teeth.

“You folks from the fair committee?” he asks as he approaches.

His eyes are blue. The kind of blue that’s not really found in nature. Dark, with violet undertones. I break my gaze and Sheriff speaks up.

“No,” he tells him, holding out his badge. I do the same. “I’m Sheriff Tony Gray and this is Detective Megan Carpenter. Your work’s awesome, really. Daniel Anderson, right?”

“Call me Dan. I have a business license,” he says. “Take me a minute to get it.”

“No,” I tell him as he turns to go inside. “We’re not here about that, Dan.”

He stops and looks at me warily. “Then why are you here?”

We tell him about the Wheatons, though not everything. If he gets the Leader or reads news online, he’ll know about the body found off the logging road. Since we don’t know for sure that it’s Ida, I won’t volunteer anything. Rumors thrive in the dark, unknown places like Snow Creek.

“Did you know them?” I ask, omitting the word “well” because no one seems to know anyone out here other than to wave to now and again.

But Dan does.

“Yeah, Merritt used to come down here. We both dug working with wood. He’s a furniture maker and he’d bring pieces over to me to sell for him. Didn’t like dealing with outsiders. Funny that way. I told him he was a commune leader without a real commune one time. That pissed him off.”

Sheriff interjects. “You were close?”

“No,” Dan says. “I wouldn’t say that. He came down here to unload his tables and stuff. We had a beer a time or two. His favorite was Miller. Tastes like piss to me, but hey, I stocked up some and we shot the breeze.”

“Did you know Ida? The kids?” I ask as he leads us over to a bench carved in the shape of an orca. I run my fingers over the grain of the wood. Smooth as satin.