So was the mining equipment-picks and shovels, a couple of gold pans, a chemical kit, and a collection of smaller items like hammers and a compass. There were also half a dozen books on the subject. Most of the stuff was brand-new, as if he'd gotten a list somewhere, walked into a store, and bought everything on it. There was an element both laughable and pathetic about it, like with a kid who decides he's going to take up a hobby and acquires all the gear, then quickly loses interest.
But it strengthened my guess as to the actual reason Kirk had wanted this place. He'd never intended to prospect or even spend any time here to speak of. The mining tools and building materials were for show-an excuse to come here and a red herring for the ranch hands. They probably shook their heads at his ignorant belief that he was going to find gold-but never suspected what he was really up to. The Canadian border was within another two miles-just a waist-high barbed-wire fence across those empty fields. The contraband could easily have been brought here or even thrown over the fence for him to pick up.
I also didn't have much doubt by now that I'd been wrong in thinking Wesley Balcomb wouldn't be involved in something so crude. His horse-raising business was just as much of a sham as the gold panning.
The pieces were fitting together better by the hour.
When I'd talked to Reuben last night-Christ, was it only last night?-he'd told me the story behind the sale. Balcomb had already looked at several other pieces of property around the state, without making any offers. But he'd quickly gotten serious with Reuben and agreed to the asking price.
Reuben was dubious. As a matter of course, he'd checked Balcomb's financial history and learned that it was shaky. Because of that and Balcomb's inexperience, Reuben figured the venture was doomed to foreclosure. But Balcomb came up with a down payment of more than three million dollars, which must have been the last of the money he'd been able to squeeze out of Laurie's trust, plus financing for the remainder. Reuben was surprised that any bank would give him that kind of loan-and more surprised when Balcomb not only kept up with the payments, but started throwing a ton more money into building projects.
"Everybody but the government understands that if you're already up to your ass in debt and you keep spending way more than you bring in, you're bound to crash," was how Reuben had put it.
He did some more clandestine checking through his banking connections, but all he could find out was that Balcomb's money was coming from numbered offshore accounts. His puzzlement turned to suspicion about the legitimacy of the income's source. But Balcomb had cashed him out and now owned the ranch, so at least officially, Reuben no longer had any dog in the fight. He let the matter go.
But now I knew that the money was coming from an ultrarich Belgian "investor"-a connection that Balcomb wanted kept secret.
For a man like DeBruyne to acquire, say, heroin in Pakistan or Afghanistan and transport it across Russia would be easy. Alaska was a short hop from Siberia, and its northern regions and the Canadian Arctic were so wild they made this area look like Disneyland. The tricky part would be getting the stuff into the continental United States. For the kind of money we were talking about, the quantities would have to be fairly large and the runs frequent. Strangers around here often would quickly attract attention, and would also face the vulnerability and complications of transporting the stuff a long way to its final destination. Kirk had a legitimate ticket to travel in and out of this area and an influential family name as an added buffer. He could get the contraband to the ranch quickly and safely, and Balcomb could put it on a private jet.
That was why he'd agreed so readily to Reuben's terms. The Pettyjohn place was a perfect glossy cover-nobody would dream that a wealthy, upper-crust gentleman rancher might be involved in such a thing-and Kirk was the perfect mule, already dabbling in crime and easily persuaded to go deeper.
The timing bolstered my guesswork. Soon after Balcomb's arrival on the scene, Kirk's supposed interest in gold panning here had flared up. Soon after that, he'd gotten flush. And Balcomb's much bigger money train had come rolling in, with the bonus of stroking his ego through living on a grand estate like a feudal lord ruling over his serfs.
There were plenty of gaps in the framework, but the only piece that really didn't fit was those murdered horses. What Madbird had suggested was still the only thing that made sense. But with Kirk's smooth setup in place, why the need for it? I had to think they'd been brought across the border under the eyes of the authorities-otherwise, using them for concealment wouldn't have made sense-and that meant extra risk and expense, plus the trouble of getting the contraband into them.
Not to mention the horror of getting it back out.
I spent a few more minutes poking around through Kirk's stuff. There wasn't much to see-nothing to suggest that he'd done more than occasionally pass through. The dates on the food cans were all about two years old. Then I noticed a folded sheet of paper sticking out slightly from one of the books. I was surprised that he'd ever opened them. It was a paperback titled Consumer Guide to Precious Metals And Gems. The sheet had numbers scrawled on it. I slipped the book inside my shirt. I doubted that people who might check on Kirk would notice that it was gone, and if they did, all they'd know was that somebody else had been here.
I hiked back up to the rim of the coulee, out of its shelter and into the cold raw wind, and stood there for half a minute, looking down at this little pocket of land that embodied Kirk's easy-money, wise-guy dream.
My hand had killed him, but that dream had pushed my hand.
44
When I got into the pickup truck, Laurie gave me a kiss that was generous and sweet with brandy.
"Let's get away from here," I said. "Then we'll find a place to spend the night."
"You promised me your full attention, remember?"
"I remember, believe me." I started the engine and pulled out of the weeds onto the road. For another half minute, I hesitated, reluctant to trespass on her affectionate mood. But this was too important to put off.
"Laurie, did you ever think your husband might be involved in some kind of illegal operation?" I said.
I could feel her shrug, nestled against me.
"He's committed crimes. But you don't need me to tell you that."
"I mean smuggling."
That brought her sitting up straight. "Smuggling?"
"Yeah. Using Kirk's place to run dope across the border."
"That's just crazy." She looked at me in some combination of amusement and outrage, then moved away and rolled her window down a few inches. A breeze swept into the cab, ruffling her fine hair.
"What about that guy DeBruyne?" I said. "Could he be in the heroin business?"
"Why would a man that rich deal heroin?"
"Maybe that's how he got that rich."
The breeze was chilly. She rolled the window back up.
"I told you, I don't know much about him," she said.
"You know his first name?"
"Guy something-one of those hyphenated French first names. Guy-Luc, I think."
"Did you ever meet him?"
"No. Look. Forget about your theories. Wesley is determined to have us both killed. What does it take to get that through your skull?"
"Like I've been saying, the only thing that might help-"
"None of this is going to help! It's just you jerking off."
I'd already had glimpses of the edge she could get, but this time she flared up white-hot, scorching me with her glare and voice.
"I've sat around and waited for you hour after hour, slept in a greasy toolbox, peed on the ground, and now you drag me to this asshole of the earth. I want a hot bath and a bed. I want decent clothes."