Not Dead Enough

  Not Dead Enough

  A Cal Claxton Oregon Mystery

  Warren C. Easley

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Warren C. Easley

  First E-book Edition 2016

  ISBN: 9781464206160 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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  Contents

  Not Dead Enough

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Author’s Note

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  For Dick and Bettie

  Acknowledgments

  Marge Easley and Kate Easley, my first line of defense, kept me on track during this project in more ways than I can count. My editor, Barbara Peters, worked her usual magic, which resulted in a stronger, better focused manuscript, and the crew at Poisoned Pen Press followed through with their usual cheerful competence. I’m lucky to be part of a highly talented and perceptive critique group. Thanks once again to Lisa Alber, Kate Scott, LeeAnn McLennan, Janice Maxson, Debby Dodds, and Alison Jaekel. You guys rock!

  Finally, to people everywhere who are fighting for clean water, free-flowing rivers, and fish-friendly habitat, I say, keep up the good fight!

  Prologue

  Celilo Falls

  Columbia River Gorge

  March 10, 1957

  Nelson Queah told himself he would not watch, but there he stood, his eyes drawn to the rising river like some fool gawking at a car wreck. He watched, transfixed, as the water rose, taking the small, rocky islands first, then the south bank of the river where his village had stood, and finally the falls. He would never again stand in the spray and deafening roar of the falls, waiting to take the next salmon like his father and his grandfather and his people stretching back to the beginning of their collective memory.

  He glanced at his watch when it was over. Four hours had elapsed. Less than the blink of an eye for a river that had flowed unfettered since the Ice Age torrents, yet gradual—like watching a loved one die a slow death. But it was more than that. Snuffed like a candle in the east winds of the Gorge, the light burning in Nelson Queah’s heart went out that day, and he could feel his soul begin to wither around the edges.

  The silence. The awful silence.

  Had Nelson been in the bowels of The Dalles Dam that morning, he would have heard the “gates down” command. He would have seen twenty-two white men—each selected for the honor by the Army Corps of Engineers—press the buttons that simultaneously closed twenty-two massive steel and concrete floodgates. He would have experienced the exact moment when millions of gallons of water roiled in mad confusion before reversing course and surging upriver through the Long Narrows to the mighty falls at Celilo, sacred fishing grounds of his people for ten thousand years.

  Nearly all the villagers, some thirty families, along with members of other tribes who had fishing rights at the site, stood on the river bank with Nelson. Some wept openly and others sang funeral dirges in the Sahaptin and Kiksht languages to the rhythmic thrum of rawhide drums. Behind them and across the Columbia River on the Washington side, thousands of curious onlookers lined the highways. A new lake—named Celilo for the falls it buried—had formed behind the dam. The name is another insult, Nelson told himself. It would be a constant reminder of what his people, the Wasco, and all the tribes who fished the falls, had lost.

  When the river was nothing but a flat expanse of slack, rain-pocked water, Nelson turned to leave. He vowed that he would never allow himself to look at a photograph of what had been. Instead, he willed an image of the place into his mind— weathered basalt cliffs on the horizon, the placid sweep of water before the violent funneling down, which sent the entire volume of the river hurtling over a narrow lip of jagged rocks. Below the falls, wooden scaffolds jutted precariously above the rapids amidst a web of cables that carried fishermen across in hand-pulled chairs. He pictured his family’s scaffold. There was his father, straining at the long-handled net dipped deep in the boil. At his feet, Nelson saw himself as a young boy, spreading sand to reduce the slickness under his father’s feet.

  This is what he would remember.

  Nelson made his way slowly toward the village, which had been unceremoniously relocated by the Corps of Engineers across the railroad tracks and the highway to a piece of rocky, uneven ground with no power, water, or sewage services. Only a handful of families had chosen to remain there. The rest were scattered around the area, most going eighty miles south to the Warm Springs Reservation.

  When he reached the highway, a voice called to him, “Hey, Queah, what happened to your waterfall? I don’t see it.”

  Nelson spun around to face two men leaning on the side of a black Cadillac gaudy with chrome. The speaker was Cecil Ferguson. He stood on the left, a large, well-muscled man with a scarred and pitted face, flaming red hair and light blue, al
most colorless eyes. The other man was a big Yakama Indian named Sherman Watlamet. He laughed like the gutless ass-kisser Nelson knew he was.

  “Go to hell, Ferguson,” he spat back at them, not bothering to even acknowledge Watlamet’s presence.

  The two men pushed themselves away from the Cadillac in unison. Ferguson said, “Well, maybe now their women won’t smell of fish all the time.” Ferguson erupted in laughter at his comment. Watlamet smiled uncertainly, and then when Ferguson poked him in the ribs with his elbow, joined in.

  The sight of Sherman Watlamet laughing with the white man sickened Nelson, and blood rose in his neck. He closed half the ground between them and stopped, expecting them to do the same. But to his surprise, Ferguson nodded in the direction of the Cadillac, and they both turned on their heels. Apparently this would be settled another day.

  But Nelson couldn’t resist a parting shot. “You shame your own people, Sherman. You’re lower than a goat’s tit.” Then he turned and crossed the highway without looking back.

  He entered the Army surplus house he’d been given. It reminded him of the barracks at Quantico, where he had done his basic training during the war. He let the dog out, took a can of beer from the icebox and sat down. He was still seething with anger. Deep down he was disappointed Ferguson hadn’t followed him across the highway, although he knew that if that had happened, one of them would probably be dead now.

  Nelson dropped in a chair, held the cold beer can against his cheek and let out a long breath. Thoughts of war came to him. Despite the trail of broken treaties, the racial slights, the failed BIA policies, he joined up and hit the beaches of Sicily with the 5th Marine Division. But Sicily was a walk in the park compared to Anzio. He could still feel the grenade fragment in his leg when the weather turned, and flashbacks of the slaughter of his reconnaissance troop were never far behind. He had taken out a machine gun nest single-handedly that day, and for that his commanders gave him a Silver Star.

  But fighting to stop the dam was not like fighting the Germans. It was no fight for a warrior. Nothing but endless hearings and testimony, lies and deceit. Treaty talk. All of it. His people knew about treaty talk. He had stood shoulder to shoulder with his brothers and even some white fishermen who understood what the dam would do to the migrating salmon populations. But the Corps of Engineers and the white politicians were clever. They fought with numbers and words and promises. The dam would bring cheap power and prosperity to the cities along the Columbia, the salmon would be protected, and the tribes would be fairly compensated. How could he make his people understand what was being taken? No. This had been no fight for a warrior.

  He sipped at his beer but didn’t begin to relax until he thought of his girls. His ten-year-old daughter, Rebecca, was visiting her cousins at Warm Springs, where his beloved wife, Tilda, was recuperating in the TB ward of the hospital. He missed them both, especially at this moment, although he was thankful they had missed the flooding of the falls and the ugliness afterward.

  Because of Tilda’s quarantine, he’d resolved to write her at least once a week, and it was Sunday, the day he had set aside for the task. What would he say to her, today of all days? How could he hide the deadness he felt in his heart, the humiliation?

  Nelson drained his beer, sighed deeply, and got up to fetch pen and paper. Tilda must not hear your sorrow. Lie if you have to, he told himself.

  March 10, 1957

  Dearest Tilda,

  I hope you are feeling much better, my dear. You have been in my thoughts constantly. I am driving down to Warm Springs tomorrow to pick up Rebecca. I am sure she is having fun with her cousins. She will probably not want to come home with me. I will drop this note at the hospital. Perhaps they’ll allow a brief visit tomorrow. I long to see your face!

  We had a feast in the longhouse last night in honor of the falls. Everyone was there except Chief Thompson, who is still ill. Many people asked about you. Oliver Tam told us all the story of how the salmon were first released in the river to be shared by all people. Do you remember the story? Two old women were hoarding them behind an earthen dam. Coyote disguised himself as an infant and tricked them into going to pick huckleberries for him. While they were busy, Coyote destroyed the dam and released the salmon. We all howled and screamed at this!

  There is a silence in the village now, Tilda, but there is no cause for despair. The salmon will find new ways to their spawning grounds. Our people will still fish, and perhaps Coyote still has a few tricks up his sleeve.

  Your loving husband,

  Nelson.

  Nelson started to set the letter aside then below his signature he added—

  P.S. I am waiting for the young man I told you about last week, Timothy Wiiks. He has promised to bring the evidence he found about money being stolen at the dam. I saw the man he is accusing today on the river, but there was no trouble. I told the newspaperman about the stealing. He is anxious to meet with Timothy and me tomorrow. I think this is the right thing to do.

  Nelson awoke in the chair later that night, the finished letter resting in his lap. He tore it from the pad and laid it on the kitchen table. He had let the dog back in, and it was now standing at the door growling. He looked at his watch. It was nine-twenty. Hoping it was the young man, Timothy, he went to the door and nudged the dog away with his knee. If it was a deer instead, he didn’t want the dog off chasing it at this hour.

  He opened the door and stepped outside. It had stopped raining, there was no moon, and it was deathly quiet. He had only gotten a few steps down the path when he heard a boot scuff behind him. The blow that followed was decisive, buckling his knees and driving a shard of bone deep into his brain.

  Chapter One

  Fifty Years Later

  “Come on, give the steelheads a break. I’ve got hot coffee.”

  It was my friend, Philip Lone Deer. He’d come up behind me on the riverbank. We were on the Deschutes River, just south of the Warm Springs Reservation boundary, on the Indian side. It was mid-morning and brutally cold, but the sun sparkled and danced off the river. I was standing hip-deep in fast-moving water. “Wait a sec. I’m feeling it here.”

  I was a novice fly-fisherman, so my comment made him laugh. Fly fishing for steelhead is the big leagues. “In your dreams, Claxton.” Then with sudden urgency, he added, “Whoa, you’re right. There’s a fish out there. I can see him from up here. Cast out about forty feet and swing your fly to the bank. He’s at three o’clock. A big one.”

  I flicked the lure—a big fly called a fire butt skunk—off the surface and back behind me and then cranked it forward, hoping for a decent cast. The fly hit downriver at about the right distance. I lowered the rod tip and began working the lure toward the bank. Sure enough, at three o’clock a big steelhead crunched the lure on a violent upward pass. The surface erupted, and the fish came out of the water like a chrome-plated missile.

  “All right!” Philip cried. A Paiute who lives off reservation, Philip was a professional fishing guide, one of the best in the Northwest. I’d hired him to teach me to fly-fish after I arrived in Oregon, making good on a promise to my daughter that I would find a hobby. Our friendship had grown from there, and now we fished together as friends when our schedules permitted it.

  With my heart rapping against my ribs, I set the hook at the top of the leap. The fish re-entered the water and wrenched the tip of my rod downward as it ran for the center of the river. It took me a good five minutes to bring it alongside. I slipped out the barbless hook and gently supported the fish from underneath with my hand until its crimson gills pumped hard. It rolled on its side, and its iridescent scales flashed in the sunlight. My heart swelled at the sight of such a beautiful creature, my first steelhead. I said, “Thanks, big boy,” then watched it vanish with a flick of its powerful tail.

  Afterwards, up on the bank as we huddled in the sun sipping coffee, Philip said, “Next Saturday
there’s going to be a commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of the flooding of Celilo Falls. If you’re free, why don’t you come over to the Gorge and join me.”

  “Won’t it be more of a wake than a commemoration?” I knew the story of how the construction of The Dalles Dam on the Columbia River had led to the flooding of the great Native American fishing grounds and village, and what that had meant to the tribes in the region.

  “Nah, not really. We Indians know how to put things behind us. A matter of necessity. It’ll be some speeches, some dances, a lot of good food. But don’t come for all that. I want you to come and feel lots of guilt for what the white man did to us, man.”

  “But what about all those casinos we’ve given you?”

  “Seriously, I want you to come, Cal. You can check out the work on the new village and the longhouse. The Corps finally admitted they’d screwed up the original relocation and coughed up millions of bucks to rebuild everything.”

  I whistled. “I don’t feel so guilty anymore.”

  “Besides, you’ve got to see my father. He’s going to wear his full headdress.”

  I told my friend I would go but intended to avoid the speeches if I could. I didn’t see how anything good could be made out of what had happened and didn’t want to hear any of the great white fathers from Oregon and Washington, D.C., try to spin it that way. To me, the flooding of the falls was just another gut shot to the Indians, and it was the dams that spelled the slow but steady decline of the migrating salmon populations, the lifeblood of the Columbia River tribes for millennia.

  ***

  I headed out for the commemoration that following Saturday from my place in the hills above Dundee, a small town perched some twenty-five miles south of Portland at the epicenter of Oregon’s wine country. I’d moved to an old farmhouse there six months earlier after taking an early retirement from the city of Los Angeles. Celilo Village was better than a hundred miles to the northeast, but it was a good day for a drive. The air had been scrubbed to a sparkle by a hard shower the night before, and the sky had that color, that achingly pure blue that seemed peculiar to the Northwest and always lifted my spirits. Of course, there’s more rain than sun up here in Oregon, but I was beginning to realize that one day like this one was worth at least thirty days of rain.