A Fine and Private Place

By Marshall Dunham

Buck Webster is an aging beekeeper, volunteer firefighter and Emergency Medical Responder in the Oregon Coast Mountains. He is trying to finish his honey harvest when his department is called out for a crash on a cliff the truck drivers call "Dead Dog." Buck arrives in time to hear a dying man's last words. The cryptic comments send Buck on a search for a killer, deep into some of the wildest country in the Pacific Northwest timber lands. Buck's misspent youth and checkered past has left him uniquely suited for the quest he undertakes. He finds more pleasure, pain, and pure evil than he ever imagined could exist in sleepy Chepenefa County.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marshall Dunham
• Release date: Jul 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9780982369616

Book preview

Buck Webster was harvesting his honey crop on a sunny September afternoon when his fire department radio squealed its piercing alarm.

Not now, Buck said under his breath, as he set the box of honeycomb gently back down on the open bee hive.

Station Five Hundred, Walden, respond for a single vehicle rollover, unknown injuries.

Somebody else, please take this one, Buck said to his bees as he picked up the lid and closed the hive. Nobody else answered the call. Buck bent down, ripped up a hand full of green grass, twisted it into a plug and shoved it into the nozzle of his smoker. Stepping to his truck, he dropped the hot smoker into an army surplus steel ammunition can, clamped down the lid, and placed it next to the stack of honeycomb filled boxes he’d harvested. He had hoped to finish the job today but the shrill squeal of the alert tone on his portable radio instantly changed his plans.

He peeled off his veil and coveralls and tossed them into the passenger side of his pickup cab. Wearing cut-off denim shorts, a sweat soaked tee shirt, and running shoes, he started his truck and drove over the ridge from his apiary to his house. He dashed inside long enough to don thirty pounds of firefighting gear. He kicked off his comfortable running shoes and stepped into a pair of tall boots. The legs of his fire resistant insulated pants were scrunched down over the tops of the boots. He pulled the heavy britches up and cinched the suspenders tightly. He jammed his arms through the thick sleeves of a thousand dollar Nomex fire resistant insulated coat, the pockets loaded with a spare radio battery, hose strap, fire gloves, latex gloves and a seat belt cutter. He unclipped the heavy tactical flashlight from the chest hook and left it behind, glad to be shedding a little weight. Full turnouts on a hot day were like wearing a sauna but he could not go to a wreck without wearing his personal protective equipment. He picked up his helmet and fluorescent green safety vest, locked his house door, hurried back to his truck and drove a mile to the Congestion substation of the Walden Creek Volunteer Fire Department.

The barn-like steel covered pole frame building held three fire apparatus: a thousand gallon pumper, a two thousand gallon tender, and a rescue-utility vehicle. Buck opened the center door and climbed into a Ford 350 four-wheel-drive truck fitted with steel tool cabinets, a two hundred fifty gallon water tank, pump, and a hose reel.

He fastened his seat belt and started the engine just as the radio squealed its shrill alert tone again. Second Tone for Walden Fire, single vehicle rollover, unknown injuries.

Buck grabbed the microphone and said, One hundred, five six three is responding with one.

Five six three, you are responding to Milepost Sixteen Road 292. One vehicle is off the road approximately fifty yards down a steep embankment. Unknown occupants, unknown injuries.

Is the caller on scene? Since the invention of cell phones, Buck always asked if the caller was on scene. Many times people driving by something would call 911 and keep going. Often there was no emergency and the call was an aggravating waste of time for the volunteers who responded. In paid departments, false alarms were all in a day’s work. In volunteer departments, false alarms were expensive inconveniences for the people who had to drop what they were doing to respond.

Affirmative. Caller is a log truck driver. Buck took a deep calming breath, thinking if a log truck driver stopped, it had to be serious.

Copy that. On the way. Buck turned on his overhead lights and siren and left the station behind in a cloud of dust. He slowed down for the railroad crossing, checked the highway for traffic, and rolled right on through the stop sign at the intersection. As he started down Congestion Hill he saw a tall figure wearing a turnout coat, denim work pants and barn boots, clutching a helmet under his arm like a football, dashing down a driveway.

Buck braked to a stop and shut off the siren as the runner climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

Thanks for coming, Leo. How’s your hernia?

Oh, I’m fine. I was cleaning the barn and didn’t hear the call. I heard your siren. What’s up?

Sounds like somebody went off Dead Dog. Milepost Sixteen.

Uh oh. That’s a long way down.

Dispatch said fifty yards.

This could be a bad one.

Could be.

It’s been too quiet lately. Whenever it gets too quiet that means the shit is going to hit the fan. Fifty yards down Dead Dog, man, I just know it, this is a bad one. We’ve been overdue for a bad one.

Buck turned the siren back on so he could drown out Leo’s commentary and concentrate on driving. They crossed the Chepenefa Bridge and started the climb up Cemetery Hill. The narrow, twisting mountain road had a vertical embankment on the uphill side, a nearly vertical drop on the downhill side, and no shoulder on either side leaving no room for error. The pavement was exactly wide enough for two log trucks to pass. Pull-outs were few and far between in the convoluted terrain of the Oregon Coast Mountains.

Buck drove as fast as he dared, which wasn’t quite as fast as it used to be. These days he was most concerned about getting to his destination alive. The problem with driving a rig with half a ton of water in the back is that it sloshes. Even a small fire truck is easy to roll. Buck wasn’t about to risk wrecking his favorite truck on the way to a call. Anyone who expected an instant response to a nine-one-one call in the backwoods of Oregon was living in the wrong place.

Climbing the ridge, Buck heard a familiar voice on the radio and quickly shut off the siren. Five eight nine responding to Milepost Sixteen, POV. (Privately Owned Vehicle)

Good, Sandy is coming too, said Leo.

They topped out on Cemetery Ridge and went down the other side in the same gear they used to climb it. Buck sped up a little on the twisting flats in the next narrow valley, getting up some momentum for the climb up Dead Dog, the most treacherous ridge between Congestion and Fishtrap Junction. The log truck drivers called it Dead Dog because if you made the slightest mistake there, you were a dead son of a female canine. Coming from the Congestion side, the ascent was relatively easy. There was even a guard rail in a spot where it wasn’t needed, placed there for a reason known only to the Oregon Department of Transportation.

They climbed through a series of twisting curves, then went over the crest of the ridge and started down the steep side of the hill. On the right, a few Douglas fir trees and stumps lined the road, growing precariously from niches in the mudstone cliff. Far below, down a nearly vertical slope, the Chepenefa River wound around the foot of the mountain.

A loaded log truck with flashers blinking had stopped on the only pull-out available on the long down-grade, leaving just enough room for Buck to stop behind it.

Buck shut off the siren, keyed the mike and said, One hundred, five six three on scene.

Dispatch replied with the time, At fifteen forty three.

Leo, would you set the chocks while I talk to this guy? Buck was a reluctant leader who only gave orders when urgency demanded fast action. He preferred to ask people to do things because that was the way he liked to be treated. The rescue-utility vehicle had more lights than battery and could never be shut off on scene. Buck pulled hard on the parking brake and wiggled the shifter to make sure the transmission was in neutral before he got out. The log truck driver climbed down from his cab as Buck approached.

It’s down there, he said, pointing toward the steepest part of the cliff. I just saw it when I went by. It wasn’t there this morning.

Buck and the log truck driver walked back along the road until they saw the wreck. Pieces of white sheet-rock strewn across the face of the cliff marked the rolling path of a gray Ford 150 pickup truck with a steel rack and tool boxes on the back. The rack was crushed, the tool box sprung open. The front bumper had snagged on a stump. The upturned vehicle hung at an angle. If it broke free it could tumble the rest of the way to the river below.

Buck turned to the log truck driver and said, Thanks for calling it in and sticking around. You saved us some time. If there is anybody dead in there, I’ll have to close the road so you might want to head on out now.

Yeah, I’m already late. You sure there’s nothing else I can do?

You’ve done plenty. Go on.

Buck keyed his mike and said, Leo, pull the chocks and back up here. While Leo moved the truck, Buck said, Sandy, when you get here, park on the pullout below sixty three and go to Channel Two for traffic control.

Copy that. I’m about three minutes out. This wasn’t exactly correct radio protocol but it was close enough. Buck surveyed the situation, composing his first-in size-up before he keyed his mike again.

One hundred, I can see the vehicle, it is a Ford pickup, it has rolled about a hundred feet. I cannot see any occupants. We need rope rescue, extrication, a long line wrecker, an ambulance and we may need a helicopter. I have to get closer before I can give you any patient information.

Dispatch repeated his requests and gave the time.

As 563 pulled up, a car came over the crest of the hill. Buck held up his hand, motioning for the driver to stop. The driver slammed on his brakes and came to a screeching halt. Buck stepped to the driver’s window and said, Turn on your flashers and set your parking brake. We need your help.

Huh? said the startled driver. Buck darted to his truck, grabbed his own safety vest, opened a tool cabinet, and took out a STOP/SLOW hand paddle. He gave both items to the driver and said, Go back up past the corner and stop the traffic. A cop or somebody will be along to take over as soon as they show up. Can you do that?

Well, uh, sure, why not? the man took the vest and paddle and jogged away

I coulda done that, said Leo. Man, this is a bad one. I knew it was going to be bad!

I need you here to run the winch. Back up, then cut it hard and come forward, get the bumper closer to the edge.

Closer to the edge?

Yeah. Watch me. I won’t let you get too close.

Whatever, said Leo and followed instructions. When the truck was positioned at right angles to the cliff, Buck set the chocks and dug the winch controls out of the tool box.

You’re not going down there? Leo said, looking over the edge.

Yeah. You’re going to winch me down and back up. Go to Channel Two.

This is a job for rope rescue, Leo said.

It’ll take those guys an hour to get here and I don’t feel like standing around waiting for them, Buck said as he took his nylon webbing hose strap out of the cargo pocket on the leg of his pants. He quickly fashioned a crude sling from the loop of one inch wide webbing, wrapping parts of it around the drum line hauling hook.

What are you doing? Leo asked.

Making a sling to sit in while you lower me down there.

You sure you want to do this? It doesn’t look safe to me. Leo said.

The cable is stronger than any rope. This is nothing with the winch to do the work.

And you think I’m nuts, said Leo.

Listen. Can you hear that?

What?

Somebody is calling for help. Get the trauma bag.

Leo opened the medical cabinet and grabbed an orange duffel bag with the word Trauma inked on the side. He handed it to Buck, who gave him the control unit of the electric winch. Buck slung trauma bag strap over one shoulder and backed closer to the edge.

I don’t hear anything. Leo said.

I do.

Buck turned the control knob on the winch to feed out line, then leaned back to tighten the cable.

I can’t believe they made you Safety Officer.

Nobody else would do it. Just don’t reel me out too fast. We’ll be fine.

Buck grabbed the cable tightly with both gloved hands, leaned back, and began walking down the mudstone cliff as Leo fed out the line. Slowly and steadily, he descended to a point just above the wreck, then took one hand off the cable, keyed his mike and said, Stop, Leo, I’m here.

Good thing too. We’re about out of line.

The driver side door was up in the air and impossible to reach. The passenger side door was pinned against the cliff. The safety glass windshield had shattered into tiny pieces, all held together by a layer of plastic sandwiched between them. Buck took off a glove, dug in his pockets for his Leatherman multi-tool, opened the serrated knife blade, and cut through three sides of the plastic sheet that held the fractured glass together. He put his knife away, put the thick insulated fire glove back on, grabbed a loose corner and peeled the windshield aside, trying not to jerk hard. The wreckage shuddered but didn’t slip. Buck tried to keep his weight on the cable as he inched closer to peer inside the overturned cab.

He heard a groan and crawled closer, afraid of being trapped if the wreckage tilted or if a loose chunk of mudstone came crashing down. Buck took a deep, calming breath and inched inside the jagged maw of the gaping windshield.

Sprawled in a bloody heap like a rag doll in a cement mixer, a fat man in work clothes lay on the headliner of the pickup truck. Buck pulled off his fire glove and groped for a blue latex glove in his turnout pockets. Putting on a latex glove one-handed was difficult but Buck had enough training in blood borne pathogens not to risk checking a pulse bare handed. The fire gloves were thick and fine for ripping windshields aside but useless for checking a pulse.

As Buck reached for the driver’s neck, he felt a sudden flash of recognition.

Elmo? he said, Elmo Waszinski?

The bloody mess groaned weakly as if answering in the affirmative.

Hang on Elmo, we’re going to get you out of here.

Buck keyed his microphone and said, One hundred, we have a sixty year old male with severe traumatic injuries. He has a weak pulse, open airway, shallow respiration, facial bleeding, clear fluid from both ears.

Copy 563. We have activated Rope Rescue and notified Life Flight.

Elmo, help is on the way. Hang on buddy. What happened?

Elmo’s eyes opened. Uhmmm, he wheezed, eee.

What? Buck asked, not sure what he heard or what Elmo was trying to say.

Elmo gasped for breath, then said, Ummfee.

Umfee? Buck repeated, not sure if he heard right.

Vee,Elmo gasped and groaned again. Umvee, he said with an effort that seemed to sap his remaining strength. His body began to tremble. He looked at Buck with fear in his eyes and his body shook harder.

Hang on, Elmo, Buck said loudly.

Elmo’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. His chest rattled and Buck knew there was nothing in his training or trauma kit that would help now. He felt for the carotid pulse again but found nothing. He briefly considered starting CPR but decided it wouldn’t help and, being alone half way down a cliff, there was no way he could keep it up long enough to be effective.

Buck keyed his mike and said, One hundred, from 563, our patient has coded. Cancel Life Flight. Responding units can reduce to Condition One. Buck did not know why he wasn’t supposed to say a person had died or was dead on the radio. The code word for death was code. Surely anybody listening in on a scanner could figure out what had happened. Even though he did not understand the reasoning behind the rule, he followed it.

563, do you have a code? Dispatch asked to confirm.

Affirmative. We are closing the road.

Buck switched his radio to Channel Two and said, Sandy, Leo, we have a code. Don’t let anybody drive through. This is a crime scene now.

Chapter Two

Reel me up, Leo, Buck said into his microphone. Slow and easy. He clutched the cable tightly and began walking up the crumbling mudstone face of the cliff. Small chunks of rock dislodged by the cable bounced off his helmet. Sweat gushed from every pore but he felt glad to be wearing his personal protective equipment. He also felt glad the rescue-utility vehicle had a winch. In his younger days he could have climbed out of the hole but today he was happy to let the machine do the work.

As soon as he came over the top, he began stripping off his heavy turnout coat and helmet. Leo handed him a plastic water bottle from the medical supply cabinet. Buck drained it in a few greedy gulps.

Thanks, bud, good job on the winch, Buck said when he stopped swallowing.

Jeeze Buck, I don’t know about you sometimes. Why do you do stuff like that?

I couldn’t stand around waiting after I heard him calling for help.

I didn’t hear anything.

You didn’t?

Buck scratched his head. I did, but it’s weird, Elmo could barely say anything when I got to him.

Elmo?

Elmo Waszinski. Known him since grade school. I asked him what happened but he couldn’t talk, just made noises, sounded like ‘umfee’ or ‘umvee.’

Umvee?

"Something like that. It was hard to understand but he was trying to say something before he