Montana Standoff Read online

  “Perhaps that’s what happened, but I don’t think it’s fair that I should take all the blame.”

  “Mistakes are made,” Skelton said with an impatient gesture. “Unfortunately for you, that seems to have been the case, and somehow we must atone for it. Besides, Tom’s leaving the firm. If we tried to implicate him in this matter, it would make you look even worse. We have to appease Ken Manning, and he’s asked for a written letter of apology from you. Brad’s meeting with him for lunch. He said he’d deliver it for you.”

  In the silence that followed, the perfectly modulated and rhythmic cadence of Skelton’s twenty-thousand-dollar custom-made cherry grandfather clock gave a beat to the time it kept. Ticktock, ticktock. Never varying, always the same, the clock gonged on the hour and half hour and the entire office measured their day by the time it kept. Molly listened to the clock as heat climbed into her face and wished that her Irish temper wasn’t so blatantly visible, but she could see no reason why Tom shouldn’t share the blame, even if he was leaving the firm. Or better yet, shoulder all of it, since Molly was sure he’d switched files on her deliberately. But clearly, Skelton had already decided what the course of action should be, and she was in no position, as a lowly intern, to second-guess him.

  “I could deliver the letter myself,” Molly said. “Wouldn’t that be better, Mr. Skelton?”

  “I got the distinct impression from Manning that he’d rather not see you again. I’m sorry, Molly. Brad’s meeting him at two at the club. If you could have the letter ready…?”

  “Of course,” Molly said. “I’ll get right on it.” Her throat squeezed up around her final words and she left Skelton’s office, her eyes stinging with tears. She mustn’t let him see her cry. Crying was for weak, silly women and she was neither weak nor silly, just spitting mad. She retreated to her office and closed the door behind herself, sinking into the chair behind her desk and clasping her trembling hands atop it. For a long while she was unable to do anything but seethe, yet somehow she had to compose a note of apology to that awful Ken Manning, and to do that she had to quell her murderous thoughts about Tom Miller. She drew a shaky breath and brought up the writing program on her computer. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she eyed the blank screen and the blinking cursor as if both were mortal enemies.

  “Dear Mr. Manning,” she began. “Please accept my deepest apologies for…”

  For what?

  “…for allowing myself to be so deliberately and cruelly deceived by my colleague, Tom Miller, whose immature and reprehensible actions caused me to fail you so terribly at the public meeting in Moose Horn Friday evening. Apparently he thought substituting the wrong file for me to study was fair payback for my repeated refusals to date him, which no doubt bruised his glorified male ego.”

  She scrutinized the words and tried to calm her pounding heart. She deleted the entire opening and sat for a few moments more, thinking about her mother and father and how devastated they would be if she was fired from this prestigious law office after bragging about her to all their friends and acquaintances nonstop for the past year.

  “Please accept my deepest apologies for failing to represent you adequately at the public meeting in Moose Horn on Friday evening. I was ill prepared, and can offer no excuses that could possibly forgive such a blatant transgression on my part.

  “Furthermore, I also apologize for being late to the aforementioned meeting and for arriving with the attorney representing the citizens of Moose Horn.

  “In closing, Mr. Manning, I hope you understand that my actions and behavior yesterday evening were no measure of my usual standards, nor did they represent in any way the excellent legal representation consistently provided to both you and your parent company by the law firm of Taintor, Skelton and Goldstein.

  “With utmost respect and deepest apologies…”

  Molly closed her eyes, rotated her shoulders and took a deep, even breath. Steven had said that Ken Manning was involved in the Mountain Militia. She wondered if that organization had a Web site, and if it did, what it would be like. Just the idea of Ken Manning being connected to a militia was a little frightening. Semiautomatic weapons, Steven being threatened. She wondered if Mr. Skelton knew….

  JEFFERSON WAS A TWO-HORSE TOWN, and Steven had no trouble finding Maffick’s Salvage, the garage where Sam Blackmore’s ruined station wagon had been hauled. “I’ve done a preliminary autopsy on the wreck,” Maffick said when Steven asked about the station wagon. “The police asked me to give it a once-over, but everything seemed to be in working order.” Maffick wiped his greasy hands on a rag he pulled out of his hip pocket. He was lean and wiry, in his early sixties, with faded blue eyes and three days growth of a beard that was mostly salt with a dash of pepper. “Take a look if you want. A lot of folks’ve already come by. They like to see the blood, I guess. I should charge admission, make some money. It’s out back of the garage. Can’t miss it.”

  The station wagon was a crumpled mess. Windshield missing, roof flattened onto the backrest of the seats, and a lot of blood in the driver’s seat. Steven wasn’t a physician but he did know that dead men didn’t bleed. The crash hadn’t killed Blackmore right away, though it seemed impossible he could have survived it long enough to bleed that much.

  Maffick was working on salvaging the starter out of an old pickup that looked like it couldn’t possibly have anything useful left on it. He shook his head when Steven asked him about finding anything inside of the vehicle. “Nope. The police must’ve took out all his personal belongings before I hauled it here. Nothing left but the blood when I got it.”

  The sheriff’s department that had responded to the crash was twenty miles north of Jefferson, and when Steven knocked on the office door, the sheriff himself opened it, sandwich in one hand, chewing. “Sorry to disturb your lunch,” Steven said as he introduced himself. “I phoned you earlier this morning about Sam Blackmore.”

  “Oh, sure,” the sheriff said around a mouthful, opening the door wide and motioning him in. He extended his hand. “Conrad Walker.” Walker was close to Steven’s age, in his early thirties. Medium height and build wearing a tan uniform, big badge and pistol holstered on his hip.

  “I was wondering what happened to Sam Blackmore’s digital camera, his briefcase, and the water samples that he was carrying.”

  Walker frowned. “What?”

  “Did you search the interior of the vehicle at the crash site?”

  “Of course.” The sheriff stood a little taller, immediately on the defensive. He laid the sandwich atop a wrapper on his desk. “When there’s a death involved, we follow strict procedure. There was no camera, no briefcase.”

  “What about a container filled with vials of water?”

  “No. His wallet was on him, and some loose change in the ashtray. There were a few pieces of junk mail, an empty paper coffee cup, and a sandwich wrapper from Happy’s Hamburger Joint.”

  “Any money in the wallet?”

  “Thirty-six dollars in various denominations and a Susan B. Anthony coin.”

  “Did you examine the vehicle at the crash site?”

  Walker’s flush deepened. “Of course.”

  “Might you have been distracted by having to deal with the body?”

  “Is this some kind of cross-examination?”

  “I spoke to a person who claims that Sam Blackmore had a digital camera, five hundred dollars in cash, and a case of water samples with him in his vehicle on the morning that he crashed.”

  “Maybe he went somewhere before he drove up on the mountain.” The sheriff shrugged. “But I can tell you this. There was nothing in the car with him but what I told you.”

  “What time did you reach the accident site?”

  Walker thought for a few moments. “Just past eleven.”

  “Was the vehicle’s engine still warm?”

  “I…” The sheriff began to look embarrassed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t check. Maybe someone else did….”


  “Who discovered the wreck?”

  “One of the contractors driving a dump truck. It was just lucky he spotted it, the damned thing was way over the embankment, buried in the trees. He called for help on his radio and stayed until we arrived. We closed the road down shortly after that, once all the contractors were off the mountain.”

  “Do you have the dump-truck driver’s name?”

  “Of course, and the written statement he gave if you’d like to read it.”

  “I would. Where was Blackmore’s body taken?”

  “St. Mary’s in Bozeman.”

  Steven nodded. “You saw it, of course.”

  “Yeah.” The sheriff hooked his thumbs in his belt. “You wouldn’t have been able to recognize him, even if he’d been a close friend. Poor bastard.”

  “Do you know if the hospital performed an autopsy on the body?”

  Walker shook his head again. “I don’t know. I mean, as far as we knew, it was just an accident, that’s all.”

  “You think he was killed in the crash?”

  Walker stared for a moment and then barked out a laugh. “What kind of a question is that? Of course he was killed in the crash.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “Why, you think there was foul play involved?”

  “Blackmore had a briefcase, a digital camera and some important water samples. Where are they now? He was carrying a five-hundred-dollar cash retainer that he’d just received from the citizens of Moose Horn. What happened to that? There are some questions that need answering, that’s all.”

  “Well, I can’t say what happened to his stuff, but it was clear enough to me that he was driving too fast down that access road. Some people don’t realize that loose gravel acts just like ice under a vehicle’s tires. He came to that sharp corner and skidded right off the edge of the world. Murder?” Walker shook his head. “Excessive speed is what killed him.”

  AT THE HOSPITAL IN BOZEMAN, Steven learned that Blackmore’s body had been released that same day to the funeral home and that a cause of death had been established. “Massive head trauma,” the pathologist told him. “I estimated the time of death at somewhere between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m., but that’s just an estimate. The postmortem was routine and uninvolved. I wasn’t looking for anything suspicious, just blood-alcohol levels, other drugs, routine stuff we check for in all car-accident victims.”

  Steven mulled over the evidence on his way to the office and sat for a long while at his desk, jotting down what he’d learned and then studying his notes. He glanced at the phone several times and then finally threw down his pen and called information. “Butte,” he said to the operator. “Sam Blackmore, Esquire.”

  Moments later a woman answered. He asked to speak to Mrs. Blackmore.

  “This is she,” the woman replied quietly.

  Steven drew a steadying breath. “Mrs. Blackmore, this is Steven Young Bear. I’m an attorney and I knew your husband. I was very sorry to learn about his death.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mrs. Blackmore…” he began, rubbing his forehead as he fumbled for the right words. “Mrs. Blackmore, according to a witness who saw Sam before he drove up to Madison Mountain, he was carrying his digital camera, some water samples taken from the Madison Mountain watershed, five hundred dollars in cash, and his briefcase. The police found none of these things in his vehicle after the accident. Did he, by any chance, stop at home or the office and leave any of it behind?”

  There was a long pause. “No, no, I don’t think so. None of it’s here, at home. I haven’t checked his office yet, this has all been such a shock, but I will, Mr. Young Bear.”

  “I’m sorry,” Steven said. “I know this is a terrible time to be discussing these things—”

  “It’s all right,” Mrs. Blackmore interrupted in a voice that trembled with emotion. “I understand what you’re saying, and I won’t lie to you. Sometimes I’ve imagined just this sort of awful thing happening to my husband. He fights for unpopular causes, just like you. My husband spoke of you often, Mr. Young Bear. He admired you greatly, and shared your passion in protecting the environment.”

  “Did he say anything to you about why he was going up on Madison Mountain? Was he meeting someone there?”

  “No. That is, I don’t know. Sam would never deliberately withhold things from me, but we were both so busy that sometimes…” Her voice halted around a surge of grief. “I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper.

  “Mrs. Blackmore, if you should find any of the missing items at his office, or see a five-hundred-dollar deposit on a bank statement, or remember something he said that might be pertinent, or if you need anything, any legal advice, anything at all, ever, please call me. Day or night. I’m in the phone book.”

  “Yes. I will,” she choked out. “And thank you, Mr. Young Bear. Thank you for caring. His memorial service is being held this Wednesday.”

  “Yes. I saw the notice in the newspaper. I’ll be there.” Steven hung up the phone and dropped his head into his hands with a heavy sigh. Talking with Sam’s wife, and her gentle, grief-filled voice, had left him feeling worse than ever about Blackmore’s untimely death. Maybe the sheriff was right. Maybe Sam had just been driving too fast. But the murder of Mary Pretty Shield had made a cynic out of him…and Ken Manning was a dark and powerful common denominator.

  MOLLY WAS SITTING at her desk, miles in arrears of researching upcoming litigation for fellow attorneys lucky enough to actively practice law, and at the moment, not really caring. Her eyes were riveted on the computer screen and her finger was on the mouse, scrolling down and down, reading about the Mountain Militia that Steven Young Bear had told her about. She was learning all about a group of people who took themselves way too seriously, and took the constitutional right to keep and bear arms to a whole new level that was radical to the extreme. When her phone rang, she was relieved to tear her eyes away from an entity she wished she’d never discovered.

  She reached to pick it up. “Ferguson.”

  “Ms. Ferguson, this is Ken Manning. I was hoping I’d catch you in your office.”

  Molly’s heart skipped several major beats. There was no way he could possibly know what she’d been doing. She cleared her throat and closed the computer screen, as if he might somehow catch a glimpse of it through the phone line.

  “Hello, Mr. Manning. What can I do for you?”

  “Brad gave me your note when we met at the club this afternoon,” he said in a smooth, professional voice. “He’s asked me to consider allowing him to keep you as his assistant in researching and presenting New Millennium Mining’s proposal to the people of Moose Horn. He feels it’s an important process for you to learn.”

  Molly could think of nothing remotely intelligent to say in response, and after a brief pause Manning continued.

  “I agreed, on the condition that you act as his assistant and nothing more. In any public forum or interview with the press, he would be the one to speak on behalf of New Millennium. Are you following me?”

  “I understand, Mr. Manning,” Molly said, feeling that passionate Irish heat sweep up into her face.

  “You should know that I only agreed because Brad insisted you’re the best intern he’s ever had.”

  “That’s kind of him to say so,” Molly replied, glad that Manning couldn’t see her expression.

  “Brad doesn’t feel there’ll be any problems with the permitting, in spite of the opposition from the townspeople.”

  “I’m sure he’s right. Twenty-seven people can’t possibly stop an eight-hundred-million-dollar project.”

  “No, but with the proper guidance they could slow things down considerably and cost us a lot of money. Steven Young Bear is a formidable opponent, and he’s caused a lot of trouble for us over the years. Which brings up a certain contingency,” Manning continued in that smooth, polished voice. “I would expect you to avoid any personal contact with him until this permitting process is wrapped up.”

  Molly’s hand tighte
ned on the receiver. “Mr. Manning, I can assure you that my professionalism is beyond reproach and I would never discuss New Millennium’s business outside of this office.”

  “I’m not questioning your professionalism, I’m laying down the ground rules. Young Bear is connected with the radical environmentalist movement in these parts. They’re an anti-industrial, pro-environment group who believe that God is nature and nature cannot be defiled at any cost. These people would halt progress and sacrifice civilization to protect a tree. They choose land over people, mountains over people, and wildlife over people. I prefer that any attorney representing my interests not conduct personal relationships with radicals like that. I’m sure you can understand where I’m coming from. Just being seen with him in public would paint you with the same brush.”

  Molly recalled Steven’s comments about starving the grandchildren to feed the children, about fighting a proposal to build logging roads into a designated wilderness area, about voluntarily handcuffing himself to a redwood tree to keep it from being cut. He was definitely pro-environment, but she would hardly consider him a dangerous radical. “If you consider Young Bear to be a serious threat, then these radicals, as you refer to them, must make sense to someone.”

  “Both the Environmental Protection Agency and Bureau of Land Management used to be staffed by spineless puppets, and Young Bear knew how to pull all their strings. He’d use any legislation he could to throw up roadblocks.

  “Fortunately, the current administration’s holding strong against that kind of environmental arm twisting, but make no mistake, Young Bear’s the most dangerous adversary we have. If he had to choose between saving an ancient redwood tree or saving your life, he’d choose the tree because to him that tree represents God, whereas you?” Manning’s voice roughened with emotion as he concluded, “You’re just a goddamned human.”

  THAT EVENING Molly lay on her living-room sofa, portable phone pressed to her ear. “I don’t know what to do, Dani,” she said. “A part of me wants to call Ken Manning back and tell him he and his New Millennium mine can go to hell, but assisting Brad with the permitting process is the most important project I could be involved with right now, and it’s the only way for me to save face after that disastrous Moose Horn town meeting.”