Chapter 26 #2
The man who trained me for this job decades ago was a crusty old timer named Bart Sundeen.
We spent two days together before he clocked out for the final time, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I’m sure I was too scared of him to speak, let alone bring him coffee.
He probably drank unfiltered motor oil instead.
“I’m good.” I lift my travel mug from the console. I risk a sip for good measure, but my only reward is a mouthful of lukewarm sludge.
CJ unscrews the cap of his thermos and pours fragrant coffee into the cap.
I ignore his slurping and focus on the drive, passing the turnoff for Gibbs.
I left home before Linnea woke, so I don’t expect to see her car, but passing her empty parking spot gives me mixed feelings.
When she told me about the job offer with IDFW, the relief that she’d be home and safe brought me to tears.
But Sofie’s comment keeps rattling around in my mind.
What if Linnie took this job because she thinks it'll please me?
“Why the empty trailer?” CJ asks, drawing me back to the cab.
“Remember how we got the ID of one of the illegal loggers from Crooked Pine Basin?”
CJ sips his coffee. “Are we gonna write him up?”
“First of all, there’s no ‘we’ in this equation today. I’ll go to the door alone. You will be observing from the truck.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” CJ says with a mischievous twist to his lips.
“Better safe than fun.” I take the exit onto Elk River Road. “The last time I tried to apprehend these two, I got shot at.”
His eyes turn serious. “You sure you don’t need backup?”
I set my cup back in the console “Yes. And secondly, right now I know only that he owns a Polaris that matches the one I saw in the basin that day. It could have been anyone driving it. I can’t issue a citation until I can connect the dots.”
“So today we’re just gonna shake their tree. Got it.”
I give him another cautionary scowl. “Gently. Maybe he’s stupid enough to leave evidence in plain sight.
Maybe he’ll confess.” The real win would be flipping this guy or his buddy into becoming an informant, but that’s tough to do without real leverage—like an arrest—and nearly impossible without partnering with local law enforcement.
CJ pours more coffee into the cap of his thermos, the steam coiling around his face. “What about the sheriff?”
“What about him?”
“Doesn’t he need to be a part of this?”
So the kid learned something about policework from his academy training after all. “It depends. Because I’m not making an arrest, I’m not required to alert him. As a courtesy, I should, but I’m not.”
“He and I crossed paths recently, and…I know the guy.” He sips his coffee while the snowy trees whiz past. “We worked on the same wildland crew.”
Unease prickles the back of my neck. If CJ’s buddies with a corrupt sheriff... “Harlan was a firefighter?”
CJ scoffs. “Heavy equipment operator. But he got kicked off the crew halfway into the season.”
“Why?” I merge onto Elk River Road.
CJ takes another gulp of coffee. “Everyone fibs a little on their timecards. Nothing huge or anything, but overtime pay is the only way to really make any money.” He shoots me an anxious glance.
“But Harlan took it to another level. Heavy Equipment Operators make decent cash, but again, it’s about the overtime.
In two months, he banked almost a hundred grand.
I’ll bet a major chunk of that was from him rigging his timecard.
He was also a dick to the girls on our crew.
Most of them are tough as nails and brushed him off, but a group of us filed a complaint.
It got flagged, and it led to an investigation, but he just sort of disappeared.
I don’t know if he ever faced charges, or if he weaseled out of them somehow, or if he just quit.
We’re also pretty sure he stole from us.
Phones. Cash. Gear. Food. We never had evidence, but after he left, the thieving suddenly stopped. ”
The only surprise here is CJ’s admission of filing a complaint on behalf of his female crew members. Maybe the future isn’t so bleak.
“What happened recently that you two crossed paths?” I ask.
“A request for assistance dispatching an injured animal on South Fork Road.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I handled it.” He shrugs. “And you were in that winter feed meeting.”
I frown at the road ahead. He’s right, but there’s something off about this. Maybe because I’m only just hearing about it now. “You filled out your DOF-16?”
“Yes, sir. Deputy Director Shay gave me the all-clear.”
“Is that the first time you’ve fired your service weapon?”
“In the line of duty, yes.”
I slow as we enter the outskirts of Elk Flats. “You feeling okay about it?”
His eyes flash with humor. “I’m a farm kid, remember? I’m good, sir.”
Sofie must be rubbing off on me. Or I’m starting to care about this kid.
The town of Elk Flats is laid out in the shape of an L, with one blinking stoplight.
The tallest building is City Hall, located on the south end, next to the school and the post office.
On the opposite end is the old lumber mill that’s been shut down for over a decade.
The only real industry left is recreation, mostly hunting and fishing.
Though it’s a gateway to the Bitterroot Wilderness, most hikers and climbers access it from easier waypoints.
Elk Flats has one small medical clinic, a bait and ammo shop, a couple of gas stations, a grocery store, the diner, and two forms of lodging.
One is a series of tiny individual cabins—shacks, really, not that hunters mind—near the tiny airstrip used by a few of the guiding outfitters.
The other is a one-story motor lodge in the center of town, with pink concrete siding and dated decor.
A couple of primitive BLM campgrounds line the Elk River east of town and get some traffic in the summer.
When Sons of Eden first moved in, they tried to occupy them past the fourteen-day limit. That’s when the trouble started.
“Go ahead and call in our location,” I tell CJ. He’s focused on his phone while typing out a message but shoves it back into his pocket and unhooks the radio. I shoot him a scowl. Who would he be texting this early in the morning?
While he volleys with dispatch, I pause at the stop sign then turn south, passing the diner.
No sheriff SUV parked outside. He or his crew might be monitoring our channel, but that’s a risk I’ll have to take.
Not that I’m afraid of him, but I’d rather not engage in a pissing match while on Jerome Wakefield’s doorstep.
CJ finishes up with dispatch and replaces the handset just as I turn down Alder Street and the pavement turns to crushed gravel compacted with snow.
The Wakefields bought an old dairy farm on thirty acres last year.
From the intel we’ve gathered so far, I know they’ve kept the dairy business going and turned the farmhouse into a hub for communal meals, homeschooling, and other group activities.
I half expect there to be a gate and giant walls, but why would they need that when they’ve got the sheriff in their pocket and own half the town?
After passing through a thick band of trees, the road cuts through a snowy, open landscape.
The barn and an attached muddy pasture containing a few dozen cows dominates the southwest quadrant.
On the left are two long, single-story buildings with plywood siding and in place of porches, cinder block steps down to the snow.
Behind them are rows of fruit trees and a fallow garden area surrounded by tall fencing and an ancient motorhome with a bashed-in windshield that I think I remember from when they were squatting on BLM land.
But what stands out even more than the simple buildings and dilapidated barn are the three big homes located on a rise of land behind the farmhouse.
“Whoa,” CJ breathes. “It’s like Old MacDonald and a shady contractor had a baby.”
I take the road that splits between the farmhouse and the barn. Other than the chimney smoke curling into the sky, the farmhouse feels deserted, but a few window coverings flash as we pass, like we’re being watched.
CJ gives the empty compound a slow scan. “Where is everyone?”
“When I booted them out of the BLM campground two summers ago, the women gathered the children and hid.”
He cocks his head in confusion. “Are they scared of us?”
“I think they’re more scared of the men.” I don’t say husbands because it’s a little surreal to think of it like that.
CJ’s gray eyes darken.
Two of the big houses look older but like they’ve been upgraded recently.
Each has a new roof and there’s an extension on the second one.
The biggest house at the highest point of land has handsome wood siding, new windows, a four-car garage, a paved driveway.
This fits with what Luke Ballard shared—the cult’s leaders get the good stuff, while everyone else gets the scraps.
“None of the houses have numbers,” CJ says.
I pull into the first driveway and park, every muscle in my back tensing. “Stay with the truck. The last thing I want is them thinking we’re launching an offensive.”
He gives a frustrated sigh. “Yes, sir.”
I step down, ignoring the stubborn throb from my hip, and pocket my phone.
A cold wind blows at my back, turning the bare skin at my neck to goose flesh.
It adds to the sense of vulnerability that’s been creeping up on me since we arrived.
After a careful 180-degree scan, I collect my citation notebook, check my weapon, and walk up the driveway, my boots crunching on the sanded pavement and ice-crusted slush.
To the left of the garage is a walkway leading to the backyard.
I’m tempted to check it out, but that would be trespassing.
The backyard is mostly snow, but from my vantage point at the corner of the driveway, I can make out a firewood splitting station and a stack of split quarters—most of it lodgepole.
I obviously can’t be sure the wood came from Crooked Pine Basin, but there’s zero chance these guys purchased lodgepole for firewood.
At least not locally. In these parts, their lower range starts at 5,000 feet and there are no timber permits for that elevation in use right now.
The garage has a series of small windows in the roll-up door.
I lean closer and shade my eyes to cut the glare.
It’s too dark inside the garage to give me details, though there’s a black lump that could be a covered sled.
I won’t know if it’s the Polaris until I can get closer, but maybe I’m about to.
A baby starts crying from inside the house. It’s faint, like it’s coming from deep inside. On my way to the front door, I lock eyes with CJ now standing next to the truck, his eyes alert. I warn him with my gaze to stay put, because gooseflesh is walking down my spine.
I continue past the garage and turn up the shoveled walkway leading to the porch.
After a simple knock on the door, I step back, hands at my sides, and manage one measured exhale before the door opens.