Nyland was up there long enough for Marquez to wonder if he had another way out, possibly a dirt road falling off the back of the ridge. But just before dawn headlights snaked down through the trees. Then Bobby Broussard’s headlights came on, and he left the road shoulder where he’d sat all night. Nyland went past westbound, and Marquez cued his radio.
“Okay, he’s off the slope and westbound in lane one at sixtyfive, just passing Fresh Pond. Here comes S-2 right behind him, also lane one at sixty-five.”
Marquez used the S-2 or suspect two designation for Troy, as they had through the night. Nyland was S-1, Bobby S-3. He called it out as Bobby went by a few minutes later.
Nyland exited at Six Mile Road, Troy and Bobby continuing to a restaurant in Placerville where Shauf reported Troy’s getting wearily out of his truck, his fatigued face gray as granite in the early light. There was no reason to stay with them any longer and, with the exception of Alvarez, Marquez told the team to stand down, get some sleep, be ready to roll again later that day.
Alvarez met him across the river and up the canyon outside a restaurant in the small town of Kyburz. They bought coffee, a half dozen sugared donuts, and stood in cold wind near Marquez’s truck, eating, talking, gulping coffee, letting the caffeine and sugar do their work. In Marquez’s truck they drove up behind the abandoned diner and then along a potholed asphalt road until reaching a steel gate. Beyond the gate was a dirt track climbing into the forest.
From tire tracks it looked like Nyland had driven up the steep slope and around the gate, and Marquez shifted into four-wheel drive and followed his tracks up and around pine stumps. They slid down to the thin track on the other side.
From there it was tough going, narrow and steep, forty-five minutes to get up onto the ridge. On top they stood outside the truck, zipping their coats against the cold early wind. Eastward, peaks rose above the dark green of forested canyons, and on the highway side, sounds of traffic carried up the slope. They could see into the Crystal Basin but were having trouble finding Nyland’s tracks. They saw where he’d parked yet they hadn’t found his trail. Alvarez hiked one direction, Marquez the other.
Walking north and a little bit down the lee side, Marquez found the semblance of a trail, followed that and found scuff marks, old bear scat, and boot prints. He dropped down the slope into a small clearing and got Alvarez on the radio.
“I’m looking at a three-sided wood shack built against an outcrop.
It’s got a new chain on the door. We’ll need a shovel, a pry bar, a hammer, and two of the groundhog cameras.”
Marquez checked out the shack while he waited. The plank siding had long ago weathered white. A door built of the same planks held a shiny chrome padlock and chain that looked new. Marquez looked that over and then called Roberts, woke her, and asked her to start trying to find out who had the lease on this land.
He wanted her to try to get around needing a warrant to go into the shack. He walked the perimeter and found bear tracks down alongside the creek drainage beyond the clearing.
“Looks like your house,” Alvarez said, as he walked down into the clearing.
“Yeah, it might be sixty, seventy years old. Loggers or maybe a hunter’s shack or someone living off the land. I’m building that addition this winter, and I’ll need your help for a day or two.”
“I can still swing a hammer. I worked summers on a framing crew when I was in junior college.”
“Show me, I’ve been hearing about it for years.”
When Alvarez laughed, Marquez smiled, and maybe they were punchy from the long night or maybe it was knowing they were close to finding something. He touched one of the square-headed old bolts and looked at the door’s hinges, figured out the easiest way to get in, then decided to wait for Roberts to call back. They followed bear tracks down into the brush, decided to look for the bait pile first, and about a quarter mile below the shack heard the unmistakable whoof of a bear warning them.
Before they could back up a large black bear rose from brush, and Marquez registered a slash of white fur on the chest as it snorted another warning. He watched the bear’s ears as it dropped to four legs again, watched to see if the ears flattened, knowing they were probably safe if the ears stayed up. The bear turned away, its coat rippling fluidly as it moved almost silently down through the trees, four hundred pounds or even bigger. It turned, looked back, its dark face visible well down the slope, then was gone.
“He’s out of here,” Marquez said. “Let’s take a look.”
Paper trash. The chewed remains of tin cans. Bits of Styrofoam, remnants of black plastic garbage bags. Alvarez held up a crust of bread. The bruin was missing a toe on his left rear, and there were other tracks, a second bear, an adolescent, and Marquez found tracks of two more adults. After looking it over they hiked back up to the shack, and the call came from Roberts.
“You’re on Federal land leased to a lumber company,” she said. “I got a hold of the judge at home. You’re good to go. What’s the situation there?”
“We found a bait pile. We don’t know what’s in the shack.”
If the rusted screws and nails holding the hinges on came out easily enough, they could put everything back the way they found it, then bury the groundhog cameras and record anyone coming and going. Infrared beams on the cameras would trip with movement and start the film. Marquez messed around with the door hinges for a few minutes, then pried one loose, the nails groaning as they came out. He laid the nails on a rock. They would put it back together the same way.
Inside, it smelled heavily of rodents, chipmunks. There was a small table, a chair, a pine cabinet sitting on the floor, plank shelves nailed to the wall, blankets, a Coleman stove, white gas, an aluminum and canvas folding cot, three plates, two chipped mugs, an iron skillet, and cooking utensils. They found canned food, Vienna sausages, green beans, tuna fish. Marquez read the expiration dates, all fairly recent.
Alvarez bent and picked up an empty container, handed it to Marquez. “Freon.”
“Petroni said something like that to me. He thinks Nyland is dialed in with meth cooks.”
They searched for more proof that Nyland was cooking up here, but they didn’t find it, though it was Marquez’s guess the lab equipment wasn’t far away. If they reported the Freon, they’d be leading the ATF or DEA up here, and he knew how that worked. Fish and Game would have to take a ticket and wait. He wasn’t going to do that.
Alvarez climbed onto the table, checking a space above. The shack had a ledger board bolted to the outcrop that served as one wall. Roof rafters had been nailed to this ledger, and on one end of the shack a crude shelf was suspended from the rafters, a piece of plywood held in place by two-by-fours. He slid his hand along the dusty board, talking to Marquez as he did, feeling in the darkness for the wood ledger in back.
“I’ve got something,” Alvarez said, then pulled down a package wrapped in canvas and tied with leather laces, handed it to Marquez, and hopped down. Marquez untied the laces, and the canvas unfolded slowly like a flower in morning sunlight. Then they were looking at a watch and ring, the ring gold with scrollwork, what looked like snakes encircling. The watch was a Seiko with a chrome band and showed the correct time and date.
Marquez moved them around with a knife, didn’t touch them.
“We’ll videotape them and put them back,” he said.
“Got to be stolen.”
“I don’t know what we’ve got here.”
They put the hinges back on, buried the groundhog cameras, and started the jarring ride down. Thirty minutes later they bounced down the last rough stretch. Morning traffic raced by on the highway, and Marquez waited for a gap. They’d retied the laces and left the watch and ring in their hiding place. He dropped Alvarez at his truck. When Marquez got back on the highway he called Kendall.
“I’m going to steal your line,” Marquez said. “I’ve got something to show you. Where are you?”
“In Placerville eating an early lunch.”
“We found a bear bait pile and a hunter’s shack we’re pretty sure Nyland has been working out of. I’ve got a video we took that I want to run by you.”
“What’s on it?”
He told him, then listened to Kendall breathing.
“Can you take me up there?”
“Yes.”
“I’m at the little yellow fast-food stand on the east side of town.”
“See you in half an hour.”