Page 4

FOUR

CASEY

Tuesday

The truck’s engine rumbled and roared as Ranger Casey Lundin kept his foot pressed against the gas pedal and gunned it up the mountainside. The road cut up and through the heavily forested area that started at the highway below and ended near Hurricane Ridge. Of course, thousands of acres of timber also flowed down the west-facing side of the Olympic Range all the way to the Pacific, but where Casey was driving now was generally known as The Valley.

It was a ragged patchwork of private and public lands. Some of the public acreage was state-owned and some was federal, while a great deal of the private lands had been bought up by citizens and companies—which complicated things even more. The two-lane road he was driving on would narrow to a single lane in a few miles and continue up into the high elevations. There the road turned to gravel and dirt, with huge rocks every few feet, and potholes big enough a small child could fall into one and rescuers would have to be called in. But Casey wasn’t headed that far today.

Once a week or so, up until the rain and snow made it impossible to navigate the unpaved section, Casey drove up and back, keeping an eye out for things that didn’t belong. The Department of Natural Resources—his ultimate boss—and the Twana County Sheriff’s Office had a patchwork jurisdiction across the region. Unfortunately, most of the homesteaders in The Valley regarded law enforcement with suspicion no matter who they worked for.

In his experience, the Sheriff’s Office only showed up when a 9-1-1 call was made, which was rare. The folks up The Valley wanted to be left alone and that included by Sheriff Eli Rizzi and his posse of assholes. Casey could relate—humans sucked—but being left to their own devices did not mean encroaching on federal land unless they had a permit or a lease.

He passed an incongruous and large wooden sign on the side of the road exclaiming, Welcome to your future home! Snowcap Estates, lots available, building soon. The notice had been up since last spring, but Casey hadn’t seen anything more than sticks with plastic tape tied to them, indicating a land survey had been ordered.

Every few years an investor-developer-type person got all excited to build up there. But so far, all had fallen through. As well as the environmental hurdles, builders would have to get the county and state to agree to maintain the road and get approval from the current residents, who were not interested in New People moving in. The far side of that acreage had access to Lace Lake, which had great fishing and was generally gorgeous. Overall, it was a prime location, and Casey figured that this time the trees would come down and new fancy houses would eventually go up in their place. Growth was inevitable but he didn’t have to like it .

“Dammit,” Casey muttered. Ahead, a familiar, and offensive, pickup came into view, the “rebel” flags attached to the windows fluttering in the breeze. “I should have known they’d be up here,” Casey told Bowie, his three-year-old cattle dog Labrador mix with heterochromia. Bowie snorted in reply.

Pulling to the side of the road, Casey parked behind the monster truck, noting its owner, Calvin Perkins, had added new bumper stickers since their last run-in. Which, Casey quickly calculated, had been only a few weeks ago.

The newest sticker proclaimed We’re Watching You with the Eye of Providence underneath the words. Creepy, but so were the Perkinses. Lovely to know that some of the most disreputable people in the county had joined the volunteer watch. Then Casey snorted because next to that was Fix the Economy, Legalize Marijuana. The third was Forks Bites, w ith an image of bloody vampire teeth. Calvin probably thought he was telling the world he hated the small town of Forks.

“Idiot.”

The truck’s canopy had been left open, and the bed was packed with white five-gallon buckets stuffed with chanterelles and bulging black plastic garbage bags, likely full of mushrooms too.

“Dammit. Can’t these fuckers find something else to do? Maybe my new campaign slogan for the park should be: Take a day off from exploiting the environment . I’d make a damn bumper sticker for that.”

Bowie barked in agreement.

Casey leaned across the seat and grabbed his service weapon, a SIG Sauer P320, out of the glove box. He knew who was out there and also to never approach them unarmed. He quickly checked that the SIG was loaded before sliding it into his hip holster.

“Is it too much to ask that they harvest the legal amount? Five fucking gallons each. Not rocket science.”

He estimated that the amount of mushrooms already in the back of Calvin’s truck was worth thousands of dollars on the black market. Overharvesting was a real issue, but the Perkins brothers didn’t care. They just wanted the fast cash.

“Probably need new fucking tires for that monstrosity.”

The brothers were a bane on the county—on the entire country, in Casey’s opinion. They’d run wild since they were kids and had somehow made it into their thirties still alive, to the surprise of most, but were now completely ungovernable. Casey had the bad fortune to be the same age as the younger brother, Dwayne, which meant he’d been threatened daily with toilet dunkings or even more clever “smear the queer” shit until Casey’d skipped fourth grade. Casey doubted Dwayne knew what queer was at that time in his life, but it rhymed and was hateful so he’d liked it.

Over the years, the Perkins brothers had learned the hard way to be wary of Casey and, more recently, of Bowie.

“Come on,” said Casey, opening his door.

Bowie woofed and jumped down, his tail sticking straight out. This was going to be better than a boring walk in the woods.

“By me,” Casey commanded, tapping his thigh.

The brothers were tromping around in the underbrush not far from the road, not trying to be silent. They didn’t expect anyone else to be up that way. Casey could hear Calvin talking like always, this time muttering at his brother, and Dwayne’s answers were indistinct murmurs.

Moving quickly and quietly, Casey transferred the Perkinses’ harvest from their truck into the back of his. They weren’t the type to stick around to give him a hand after he dealt with them. The final confiscation count was six buckets and two trash bags, and Casey had a slight sheen of sweat on his face to show for his efforts. It was surprising how heavy a five-gallon bucket of mushrooms was.

That taken care of, Casey and Bowie followed the trail the brothers had created tramping back and forth with their bags and buckets. They weren’t far, less than an eighth of a mile from the road, and they’d discovered a bonanza of what to Casey looked like goldens. Unnoticed, Casey stood to the side for a minute, watching and using his cell phone to record their activity. Never hurt to have proof.

After a minute or so, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

“Calvin, Dwayne, I’m going to need to see your state permit.” His voice sounded loud in the hush of the woods.

The brothers straightened, their heads jerking and twisting toward him like some child’s toy bobbing on a spring. Maybe that possessed doll, Chuckie?

“Shit.” Calvin swiped a hand across his face, leaving a black streak of dirt in its wake. He was the talker. A bit bigger, a bit uglier. Less hair, but more tattoos than his brother. But they both wore Realtree camo hunting fatigues. Casey was certain they were armed but he didn’t see any weapons.

Dwayne had always been eerily quiet, usually content to let his brother do the talking—except when he’d bullied Casey. Like Calvin, he had grown into a big man who enjoyed intimidating others. He glared at Casey, making his opinion clear. The man didn’t need to speak.

Not wanting to be ignored, Bowie released one short, sharp bark that drew the brothers’ attention to him.

“Keep your fucking dog off us,” Calvin snarled. He backed up a few steps, into a dip in the soft earth, and had to windmill his arms to keep from falling.

“I’m confiscating the mushrooms,” Casey informed them. “Five gallons each is the limit unless you have a permit.” It wasn’t as if the two of them didn’t already know that. “Do you have a permit you’d like to show me?”

“Fuck that,” Calvin spat. “There’s plenty for everyone.”

Casey did not take his eyes off Calvin or Dwayne. Mushroom hunting was both skill and luck. From the sheer volume of what they’d had in their truck, Casey thought they’d found more than one spot in the forest to harvest from.

“There won’t be for long,” Casey told them and not for the first time. “I’ll allow you to keep a bucket each, but I’m confiscating the rest.”

Calvin groaned, a guttural, disturbing sound. Bowie growled again and took a step forward.

“Hold,” Casey commanded.

Bowie shot Casey a disappointed side-eye, like his owner had somehow failed to pass a test. Part herding dog, Bowie was more of a nipper than a biter, but Calvin and Dwayne didn’t know that. And at eighty pounds, he was big. No one wanted an eighty-pound dog rushing them at crotch level.

“Come on, Lundin,” Calvin said, his tone now wheedling, “give us a break.”

“This is what? The third or fourth time I’ve busted you?” Casey asked. “The answer is no, I will not give you a break.”

The chanterelles wouldn’t be destroyed because they were a “valuable food product.” When he got back to headquarters with the haul, Casey would reach out to his approved contact in Westfort. She would buy them and then turn around and sell them to wholesalers for a tidy profit. The revenue generated from the sale of the mushrooms would cover enforcement costs. Eventually, his office might see some of the proceeds. “Might” being the operative word.

“I’m issuing you each a citation. Maybe you can sell your part of the harvest to cover the fine.” That last bit was petty, but Casey couldn’t help himself.

Calvin spoke, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re going to be sorry for this, Lundin.”

“Is that a threat? Because I can cite you for that too.”

“But it’s not a threat, it’s a fucking promise.”

Casey wanted to roll his eyes, but it would’ve ruined the moment.

Another low growl from Bowie had Casey glancing Dwayne’s direction. The younger brother had stepped closer, one arm half-raised. At Bowie’s warning snarl, he lowered it and stepped backward.

“Not gonna happen.” Casey set his hands on his hips, pushing his jacket off his holster so they would see his weapon. “Pick up what you have here and get out to your vehicle.”

Calvin scowled and shot a wad of spit toward Casey. The mass landed a few feet short.

“Fuck you, Lundin.”

“Not in your wildest dreams. I’m picky about my bed partners. You’d have to bathe several times, and even then, it would still be a big fat no. And there’s the problem of your personality.”

Calvin growled and clenched his hands into meaty fists, but Dwayne broke the standoff. He huffed, dropped his bucket to the mossy ground, and headed to the road. Calvin shot Casey another baleful glance and followed his brother. Keeping their distance, Casey and Bowie jogged after them; Casey wouldn’t have put it past them to knife his tires and strand him up here.

Their truck doors slammed shut—no way did they take the time for seat belts—and the engine roared, disturbing the peace of The Valley. Calvin navigated a three-point turn and then they were headed back down the road toward the highway.

“I’d say good riddance, but we know they’ll be back.”

Bowie didn’t bother to dignify that observation with an answer.

Casey returned to the mushroom glade and retrieved the buckets that had been left behind. Then he and Bowie, who was ready for a car ride again, headed the same direction as the Perkinses. Casey drove carefully, though, half expecting an ambush.

He’d be watching his back for a few weeks until Calvin and Dwayne put the incident behind them. They wouldn’t be happy about missing out on the cash expected from the sale of the mushrooms and weren’t ones to let laws stand in the way of evening up the imaginary score between them and Casey.

He had almost reached the paved section of road again when the thump-wump of a helicopter overhead reached his ears. He leaned forward and glanced up at the sky.

Aside from gourmet mushrooms, the big harvest this time of year was brush. Salal was collected year-round and shipped all over the world for floral arrangements, but boughs from the high-elevation noble firs were harvested only in the fall. The aromatic dark green foliage was destined for holiday wreaths across the US and Europe.

There was serious money in the brush economy if a person had the right connections. In the forest and in general, actually. So. Much. Money. And it was Casey’s job to protect those resources. Leaning out the window of his truck, Casey waved up at the copter. He thought the pilot responded with a dip of the blades, but it could have been the wind.

“It’s always about money,” he said to Bowie. “Remember that.”