Path To Justice
Chapter Two
Drury leaned against a pine tree next to his camera in the northern Montana woods. After 20 minutes of daydreaming about a semi-hottie, new female clerk at the 7-Eleven in Libby, Drury thought maybe he wasn’t going to get a photo of the elusive black bear and her two cubs. As he started to unscrew his camera from the tripod, he heard what sounded like motorized vehicles approaching from the south on the old logging road. Drury wondered, Who in the hell could that be? It’s dusk, too late for any fishermen or hunters. He decided to stay in his tree blind and check it out.
A minute later, the first of two Polaris Ranger Crew off road vehicles came into view. They looked like golf carts on steroids, with seating for four, and a small, open back for hauling stuff. Depending on the size of the engine, can cost anywhere from $12,500 to $17,000 apiece. They appeared brand new and had camouflage paint jobs. No locals had that kind of money. Looking through his viewfinder, Drury saw that the first vehicle had two persons in the front seat, both Latino looking. He snapped off four quick shots. The back seat and luggage compartment were filled with duffle bags. The second Ranger Crew, traveling about 20 yards behind the first, had a Latino man driving and a Caucasian in the passenger seat. This one also had duffle bags in the back, but not as many. Drury took several photos of the second vehicle before it drove out of range.
Drury’s gut reaction was to pack up his gear and follow the vehicles. On further reflection, he knew not to be a dumb shit. The road dead ends at a barrier at the Canadian border, Drury wasn’t carrying any weapon, and they might be. Who travels down a little used track, three miles from the Canadian border at 7:00 at night in off-road vehicles, loaded with duffle bags? Probably not anybody on a Mormon mission. Drury decided to high-tail it back home, check out the photos on his computer, and call his photography buddy Zack, a retired cop from Bakersfield, in the morning.
Back at the house, Drury liberated a Pabst Blue Ribbon from the fridge and put his camera’s storage chip into the computer to look at his photos of the evening riders. Not bad, he said to himself—one photo of each vehicle picked up the faces of the respective occupants. The two Latino guys in the front vehicle looked buff, in their late 20s, with light beards and longish hair. The Latino guy in the second vehicle appeared to be slender, in his 30s, with manicured hair and a thin mustache. Drury couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he had a scar above his right eyebrow. The white guy, also in his 30s, looked plump, and bookish with his horn-rimmed glasses. Drury went into his photo enhancing software, cropped the picture to focus on the Latino with the possible scar, increased the contrast in the photo, and lightened the shadows. Presto! A thin scar above his right eye was clearly visible.
The next morning, Drury waited until a decent hour, 7:00 a.m., and called Zack, who answered, “Hello, who’s the asshole calling me at this time in the morning?”
“Who do you think, American Clearinghouse to tell you that you won a million dollars?”
“No Drury, it could only be you who is rude enough to call this early. Besides, I thought you were tired of my ass, cramped up in my van for two weeks taking grizzly and wolf pictures in Yellowstone.”
Drury responded, “I am, especially when you farted all night.”
“Don’t blame me Drury. You were the gourmet genius who suggested that we cook beans, hot dogs and Velveeta cheese together over the campfire.”
“What are you complaining about Zack? That concoction slid down your gullet real easy.”
“Yeah, but after that it wasn’t pretty. Enough of the pleasantries Drury, why did you call?”
“Well, retired detective, I ran across something last evening that should get your juices flowing.” Drury told Zack what happened.
“You may be right Drury, they’re probably moving contraband across the border, or paying for some. Is there still a market in the U.S. for Cuban cigars being smuggled from Canada?”
“No Zack, relations are easing between the two countries. Cuban cigars are a lot easier to get. Obama probably even smokes them in the White House. Also, it looked like the contraband was going into Canada, not from it.”
“Okay, so are we talking about ‘run of the mill’ drugs?” asked Zack. “I don’t know how ‘run of the mill’ this is. There were a lot of duffle bags and those off-road vehicles looked brand new.”
After a moment’s pause, Zack asked, “So what do you want to do?” “I thought we could look into this, and if there is anything, we can report it to your former brethren.”
“I gave up that shit a long time ago. That’s why I got as far away from Bakersfield PD as possible and retired to this insulated enclave,
where the deer outnumber the people, ten to one.”
“Come on Zack you know you miss it. It would be fun to do some investigative work.”
“Yeah, I miss it like my ex-wife, who soaked me for everything I had. She even took half my pension.”
“What are you bitchin about Zack, you retired from the force at 50, after 30 years in, at 90% of your salary. No wonder California is going broke.”
“I deserved every penny you asshole. I was the one who arrested zonked out dudes high on PCP—all those supermen who could take on three or four cops. My back has never been the same since it took five of us to tackle and restrain that 6 foot, 6 inch, boxer from the Bake, who used to be ranked in the top ten in the heavyweight division. He loved his horse tranquilizer—PCP made him feel immortal.”
“Look Zack, you don’t have to worry about any PCP, it’s no longer the drug of choice for anybody. Why don’t we give that real estate lady, Biker Sue, a call. She always has her nose in everyone’s business. She must miss people, being a transplant from Southern California.
She’ll let us know if there have been any strangers poking around.” Zack relented, “Okay Drury, you give her a call. She has the hots for you, the heroic wildfire fighter.”
“Alright, I’ll exude some manly charm and offer to buy her lunch at her choice of Yaak’s fine eating establishments, Yaak River Tavern, or my personal favorite, Dirty Shame Saloon. I love the sign on Dirty Shame’s door, Check your guns at the Bar. I always wanted to be packin’, just so I would have a gun to check.”
“Okay cowboy, just call her and let me know.”
Yaak has about 200 all season residents and is in the middle of nowhere, 20 miles from both the Canadian border and Montana’s western border with Idaho. It is on the Yaak River, at the junction of two country roads, State Highways 92 and 508. Yaak is no teeming metropolis—it has a gas station, two restaurant-bars, a volunteer fire department and a one room schoolhouse for grades one through eight, with a total enrollment of 20 kids in a good year. High schoolers travel 35 miles to the nearest real town, Libby. October is pretty quiet. The summer tourists no longer wander through and the seasonal Yaak residents have already packed it in for the winter.
Towards 1:00 p.m., Drury and Zack were outside the Yaak River Tavern, waiting to hear the angry rumble of Sue’s Harley. They had already secured drafts from the barkeep and were just biding their time when rolling thunder vibrated their eardrums. Zack yelled over to Drury, two feet away, “God, I wish she would get a proper muffler for that bike.”
Drury responded, “Doesn’t fit her image of a badd ass biker chick from L.A.”
Zack retorted, “She is close to 60. It’s time for her to tone it down.”
Biker Sue came into view, her long wavy gray hair flowing in the wind, no helmet, jeans, black leather jacket, and her standard shade goggles and blue bandana.
“I wonder if she ever washes that bandana?” asked Zack.
Drury strode over to greet her, “Thanks for coming Sue. You and your bike are looking good.”
“You got that right Dru. You always were the charmer, unlike your buddy, grumpy old Zack.”
“Lighten up Sue, we’re paying for lunch,” said Zack.
They were sitting out back on the deck, overlooking the Yaak River. On either side of the river were large splashes of green grass, closely cropped, like goats had been let loose. On the far right side, past the grass, was a forest of pine trees. The river was extremely peaceful, no current detectable. Charlene brought them their second round of a Missoula brewed pale ale, Bottomfish. The drafts were served in 16 ounce glass jars with the name of the brewery on it. Zack mused, “We’re getting more and more like California, may be time to move.” As they devoured their burgers and homemade fries, Drury asked Sue, “Has any stranger stood out, possibly asking about properties?”
“Now that you mention it, I did have a couple of guys come into my office a month or so ago, who didn’t seem to fit. They asked about any large rental properties being available for a corporate retreat in the Yaak area. Who ever heard of corporate execs coming to Yaak?” “What did they look like?” asked Zack.
“In their 30s. The white guy looked like a typical suit and talked like one. He was pudgy with glasses. The Mexican was slick and seemed to be the decision maker. They wanted to know all about the area around Yaak, what the corporate employees could do for team bonding, crap like that,” said Sue. “They asked about off-roading, what sort of vehicles were available and how far away the Canadian border was. I remember my smart ass response, ‘Why, do you want to defect? Obama too much for you?’ The white guy responded, ‘No, no, just want to fix my position.’ ‘Fix your position? Are you some sort of engineer?’ I asked. ‘Close enough, an accountant.’” Drury glanced over at Zack and gave him a look like this is getting interesting.
Zack asked, “Did they tell you their names or leave any cards?” “Don’t remember their names, they didn’t leave cards, but the accountant type talked about being from San Diego. They were driving a fancy “gangsta” car, a black Escalade with tinted windows and ‘look at me’ rims.”
Drury commented out loud, “This is coming together.”
Sue demanded, “What’s coming together? Why the interest in an accountant and a slick Mexican?”
Zack replied, “We’re just looking into something. If anything develops we’ll let you know.”
“Hey, Mr. CIA man, I want to know now.”
“Sorry Sue, we don’t divulge our confidences that easily,” said Zack.
Drury said, “It’s better you don’t know just yet. We’ll fill you in when we can, over dinner. Our treat.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Dru, do you need a lift anywhere?”
“Thanks Sue, but I have my truck.”
As she zoomed off, Zack said, “I told you she has the hots for you. The classy dames are attracted to you like coyotes to road kill.”
No femme fatale had been able to tie Drury down yet. He had a close call some fifteen years back. He had lived with a mountain girl for a couple of years in the Mission Mountains, outside of Saint Ignatius. Their nearest neighbors were grizzly bears. The isolation and bears finally got to Drury’s woman, and she ran off.
Path To Justice
Chapter Two
Drury leaned against a pine tree next to his camera in the northern Montana woods. After 20 minutes of daydreaming about a semi-hottie, new female clerk at the 7-Eleven in Libby, Drury thought maybe he wasn’t going to get a photo of the elusive black bear and her two cubs. As he started to unscrew his camera from the tripod, he heard what sounded like motorized vehicles approaching from the south on the old logging road. Drury wondered, Who in the hell could that be? It’s dusk, too late for any fishermen or hunters. He decided to stay in his tree blind and check it out.
A minute later, the first of two Polaris Ranger Crew off road vehicles came into view. They looked like golf carts on steroids, with seating for four, and a small, open back for hauling stuff. Depending on the size of the engine, can cost anywhere from $12,500 to $17,000 apiece. They appeared brand new and had camouflage paint jobs. No locals had that kind of money. Looking through his viewfinder, Drury saw that the first vehicle had two persons in the front seat, both Latino looking. He snapped off four quick shots. The back seat and luggage compartment were filled with duffle bags. The second Ranger Crew, traveling about 20 yards behind the first, had a Latino man driving and a Caucasian in the passenger seat. This one also had duffle bags in the back, but not as many. Drury took several photos of the second vehicle before it drove out of range.
Drury’s gut reaction was to pack up his gear and follow the vehicles. On further reflection, he knew not to be a dumb shit. The road dead ends at a barrier at the Canadian border, Drury wasn’t carrying any weapon, and they might be. Who travels down a little used track, three miles from the Canadian border at 7:00 at night in off-road vehicles, loaded with duffle bags? Probably not anybody on a Mormon mission. Drury decided to high-tail it back home, check out the photos on his computer, and call his photography buddy Zack, a retired cop from Bakersfield, in the morning.
Back at the house, Drury liberated a Pabst Blue Ribbon from the fridge and put his camera’s storage chip into the computer to look at his photos of the evening riders. Not bad, he said to himself—one photo of each vehicle picked up the faces of the respective occupants. The two Latino guys in the front vehicle looked buff, in their late 20s, with light beards and longish hair. The Latino guy in the second vehicle appeared to be slender, in his 30s, with manicured hair and a thin mustache. Drury couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he had a scar above his right eyebrow. The white guy, also in his 30s, looked plump, and bookish with his horn-rimmed glasses. Drury went into his photo enhancing software, cropped the picture to focus on the Latino with the possible scar, increased the contrast in the photo, and lightened the shadows. Presto! A thin scar above his right eye was clearly visible.
The next morning, Drury waited until a decent hour, 7:00 a.m., and called Zack, who answered, “Hello, who’s the asshole calling me at this time in the morning?”
“Who do you think, American Clearinghouse to tell you that you won a million dollars?”
“No Drury, it could only be you who is rude enough to call this early. Besides, I thought you were tired of my ass, cramped up in my van for two weeks taking grizzly and wolf pictures in Yellowstone.”
Drury responded, “I am, especially when you farted all night.”
“Don’t blame me Drury. You were the gourmet genius who suggested that we cook beans, hot dogs and Velveeta cheese together over the campfire.”
“What are you complaining about Zack? That concoction slid down your gullet real easy.”
“Yeah, but after that it wasn’t pretty. Enough of the pleasantries Drury, why did you call?”
“Well, retired detective, I ran across something last evening that should get your juices flowing.” Drury told Zack what happened.
“You may be right Drury, they’re probably moving contraband across the border, or paying for some. Is there still a market in the U.S. for Cuban cigars being smuggled from Canada?”
“No Zack, relations are easing between the two countries. Cuban cigars are a lot easier to get. Obama probably even smokes them in the White House. Also, it looked like the contraband was going into Canada, not from it.”
“Okay, so are we talking about ‘run of the mill’ drugs?” asked Zack. “I don’t know how ‘run of the mill’ this is. There were a lot of duffle bags and those off-road vehicles looked brand new.”
After a moment’s pause, Zack asked, “So what do you want to do?” “I thought we could look into this, and if there is anything, we can report it to your former brethren.”
“I gave up that shit a long time ago. That’s why I got as far away from Bakersfield PD as possible and retired to this insulated enclave,
where the deer outnumber the people, ten to one.”
“Come on Zack you know you miss it. It would be fun to do some investigative work.”
“Yeah, I miss it like my ex-wife, who soaked me for everything I had. She even took half my pension.”
“What are you bitchin about Zack, you retired from the force at 50, after 30 years in, at 90% of your salary. No wonder California is going broke.”
“I deserved every penny you asshole. I was the one who arrested zonked out dudes high on PCP—all those supermen who could take on three or four cops. My back has never been the same since it took five of us to tackle and restrain that 6 foot, 6 inch, boxer from the Bake, who used to be ranked in the top ten in the heavyweight division. He loved his horse tranquilizer—PCP made him feel immortal.”
“Look Zack, you don’t have to worry about any PCP, it’s no longer the drug of choice for anybody. Why don’t we give that real estate lady, Biker Sue, a call. She always has her nose in everyone’s business. She must miss people, being a transplant from Southern California.
She’ll let us know if there have been any strangers poking around.” Zack relented, “Okay Drury, you give her a call. She has the hots for you, the heroic wildfire fighter.”
“Alright, I’ll exude some manly charm and offer to buy her lunch at her choice of Yaak’s fine eating establishments, Yaak River Tavern, or my personal favorite, Dirty Shame Saloon. I love the sign on Dirty Shame’s door, Check your guns at the Bar. I always wanted to be packin’, just so I would have a gun to check.”
“Okay cowboy, just call her and let me know.”
Yaak has about 200 all season residents and is in the middle of nowhere, 20 miles from both the Canadian border and Montana’s western border with Idaho. It is on the Yaak River, at the junction of two country roads, State Highways 92 and 508. Yaak is no teeming metropolis—it has a gas station, two restaurant-bars, a volunteer fire department and a one room schoolhouse for grades one through eight, with a total enrollment of 20 kids in a good year. High schoolers travel 35 miles to the nearest real town, Libby. October is pretty quiet. The summer tourists no longer wander through and the seasonal Yaak residents have already packed it in for the winter.
Towards 1:00 p.m., Drury and Zack were outside the Yaak River Tavern, waiting to hear the angry rumble of Sue’s Harley. They had already secured drafts from the barkeep and were just biding their time when rolling thunder vibrated their eardrums. Zack yelled over to Drury, two feet away, “God, I wish she would get a proper muffler for that bike.”
Drury responded, “Doesn’t fit her image of a badd ass biker chick from L.A.”
Zack retorted, “She is close to 60. It’s time for her to tone it down.”
Biker Sue came into view, her long wavy gray hair flowing in the wind, no helmet, jeans, black leather jacket, and her standard shade goggles and blue bandana.
“I wonder if she ever washes that bandana?” asked Zack.
Drury strode over to greet her, “Thanks for coming Sue. You and your bike are looking good.”
“You got that right Dru. You always were the charmer, unlike your buddy, grumpy old Zack.”
“Lighten up Sue, we’re paying for lunch,” said Zack.
They were sitting out back on the deck, overlooking the Yaak River. On either side of the river were large splashes of green grass, closely cropped, like goats had been let loose. On the far right side, past the grass, was a forest of pine trees. The river was extremely peaceful, no current detectable. Charlene brought them their second round of a Missoula brewed pale ale, Bottomfish. The drafts were served in 16 ounce glass jars with the name of the brewery on it. Zack mused, “We’re getting more and more like California, may be time to move.” As they devoured their burgers and homemade fries, Drury asked Sue, “Has any stranger stood out, possibly asking about properties?”
“Now that you mention it, I did have a couple of guys come into my office a month or so ago, who didn’t seem to fit. They asked about any large rental properties being available for a corporate retreat in the Yaak area. Who ever heard of corporate execs coming to Yaak?” “What did they look like?” asked Zack.
“In their 30s. The white guy looked like a typical suit and talked like one. He was pudgy with glasses. The Mexican was slick and seemed to be the decision maker. They wanted to know all about the area around Yaak, what the corporate employees could do for team bonding, crap like that,” said Sue. “They asked about off-roading, what sort of vehicles were available and how far away the Canadian border was. I remember my smart ass response, ‘Why, do you want to defect? Obama too much for you?’ The white guy responded, ‘No, no, just want to fix my position.’ ‘Fix your position? Are you some sort of engineer?’ I asked. ‘Close enough, an accountant.’” Drury glanced over at Zack and gave him a look like this is getting interesting.
Zack asked, “Did they tell you their names or leave any cards?” “Don’t remember their names, they didn’t leave cards, but the accountant type talked about being from San Diego. They were driving a fancy “gangsta” car, a black Escalade with tinted windows and ‘look at me’ rims.”
Drury commented out loud, “This is coming together.”
Sue demanded, “What’s coming together? Why the interest in an accountant and a slick Mexican?”
Zack replied, “We’re just looking into something. If anything develops we’ll let you know.”
“Hey, Mr. CIA man, I want to know now.”
“Sorry Sue, we don’t divulge our confidences that easily,” said Zack.
Drury said, “It’s better you don’t know just yet. We’ll fill you in when we can, over dinner. Our treat.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Dru, do you need a lift anywhere?”
“Thanks Sue, but I have my truck.”
As she zoomed off, Zack said, “I told you she has the hots for you. The classy dames are attracted to you like coyotes to road kill.”
No femme fatale had been able to tie Drury down yet. He had a close call some fifteen years back. He had lived with a mountain girl for a couple of years in the Mission Mountains, outside of Saint Ignatius. Their nearest neighbors were grizzly bears. The isolation and bears finally got to Drury’s woman, and she ran off.