Chapter 19 #3
“He is one of those who keeps to himself. A loner old man.” A Gaelic shrug punctuated Etienne’s words.
Paul was nodding. “He’s gruff and often rude. A true misanthrope. Etienne and I joke that his retirement account must be stored under the floorboards.” Paul frowned. “But folks here are private. Etienne and I moved here to escape the rat race. I’ve always thought he was a local though.”
Etienne glanced over at Paul. “Remember when we first moved here?” He chuckled and looked back at Casey. “Denny asked Paul about our relationship.”
“I told him it was a don’t-ask-don’t-tell situation,” Paul explained. “Denny nodded and nothing has been said since. What’s this about anyway?”
Casey briefly considered the pros and cons of discussing Gabriel’s personal life with virtual strangers.
These men were not longtime Valley residents; they wouldn’t know anything about Heidi Karne aka Holly Pritchard.
But Gabriel wasn’t currently hiding from anyone as far as Casey knew.
What was it that Gabe often said? Act first, ask permission later.
“My—” Casey hesitated. “My partner discovered earlier this week that his mother’s name at birth was Holly Pritchard.
As you said, Pritchard is not an unusual surname, but sometime soon after 1978, a teenaged Holly Pritchard chose to go by Heidi Karne instead, which is how Gabe always knew her.
Gabe’s trying to connect the dots between Holly in 1978 and modern Heidi.
She recently passed away, and her legacy appears to be mystery and conspiracy. I’m just trying to help.”
“You do know it’s only Wednesday, right?” Paul said.
“Isn’t it Thursday?” asked Etienne, then shrugged.
“It is Thursday,” Casey confirmed.
All three of them began to laugh. Who knew what day it was. It was March in the Pacific Northwest.
“So,” continued Etienne when they’d gotten themselves under control. “Are you thinking Denny could be related to Gabriel’s mother?”
“If he’s in his late eighties, he’s old enough to have been Holly Pritchard’s father or some other older relation, an uncle maybe.”
“There’s only one way to find out. You’re going to have to ask him in person. Denny doesn’t have a phone.”
This fact did not surprise Casey in the least. Denny Pritchard seemed like the kind of person to shun modern life entirely. Although from previous drop-ins, he knew the man had a working generator, so maybe he was just allergic to communication with the outside world.
“If you’d like, one of us can ask him about this Holly person the next time we see him,” Paul said. “Etienne has a soft spot for the old coot, takes meals up to him a couple times a week.”
“I’m going to head over there now. Might as well since I’m up here.” Casey tugged his wallet out of his back pocket, removed one of his business cards, and handed it to Paul.
“Here’s my cell phone number and email address if you remember anything. Or if you see or hear anything suspicious.”
“Thanks,” Paul said, slipping the card into his shirt pocket. “We’ll be in touch.”
Denny Pritchard’s place was even more remote than Paul and Etienne’s.
Dilapidated and forlorn, it was surrounded by a lifetime of broken and discarded machinery—truck chassis, an old yellow school bus, two semi-truck containers, and more—that also dotted the cleared area around it.
The forest was creeping back as well, making a play for consuming the yard and all of its ornamentation with the help of its sidekick, the European blackberry.
Casey didn’t want to think how or why he’d brought those vehicles up here.
A trickle of woodsmoke leaked from the stovepipe-style chimney at the roofline.
The gravel drive that led from the road to Denny’s house had been regularly maintained, and Casey wondered if that was Etienne and Paul’s work.
As suggested, he’d honked his horn several times as he drew closer before parking next to the twin of Elton’s pickup.
He waited a few minutes for some kind of acknowledgment from Denny before getting out.
Gabriel would not be happy if Casey returned with extra holes in him.
The front door opened wide enough for Denny himself to shuffle out onto the porch. An ancient shotgun was loosely gripped in his gnarled hands and vaguely pointing Casey’s direction.
Opening the door of his truck, Casey slid out and landed in the muddy churned-up earth at the end of driveway.
“Afternoon, Denny, it’s Casey Lundin from the Forest Service,” he yelled.
“I’m not so old I don’t know who you are, Lundin. What brings you by?” Denny grimaced, although it could have been that the man thought he was smiling. Casey figured he didn’t give a shit and greeted any visitor with a menacing scowl.
“We’re still looking for Calvin Perkins. Someone thought they saw his truck on the highway recently. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen or heard anything that might suggest he’s up this way?”
Casey continued to stand by his truck—the way Denny was handling that rifle had him wary. At least, warier than he typically was when dropping in on Denny. There was something less controlled about him this time.
To his credit, Denny appeared to consider Casey’s question for a few seconds before shaking his head and saying, “Nope, I haven’t. Useless piece of shit, maybe he got himself killed. If the forest didn’t take him outright, one of his buddies probably did.”
A low rumble that Casey hadn’t been paying attention to increased briefly in intensity.
He realized that Denny’s gas generator was running in the background and wondered why.
But it wasn’t Casey’s business and Denny was what was politely called eccentric.
The man probably had enough fuel to last until the weather changed for the better and past that point.
“Thanks, Denny. If you notice something, maybe let Paul or Etienne know. They can reach out to me.” He knew full well that no one up The Valley would willingly call the Sheriff’s Office, but they might contact Casey or Greta.
Denny gave him a chin nod and then went back inside his house without saying anything further.
“Alright then.” Casey used the steering wheel to heft himself back into the truck. “I guess he’s not answering any more questions today.”
Bowie had no reply.
He stopped at a few more of the occupied homes on the way back down to the highway while Bowie slept like the dead in the back seat.
His dog didn’t even ask to get out of the truck.
No one other than Paul and Etienne had noticed any traffic that could be remotely considered unusual, which only added to Casey’s expanding theory about the Clark-Allards’ past.
“Those Newfies could be special agents too, Bowie. Enforcers, maybe. What do you think about that?”