The deputy who’d shot him pointed at a dry branch about an inch thick and two feet long that Nyland had picked up as a weapon. He moved over to show Kendall what had happened, explaining, his voice rushed.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
From behind, Marquez heard Kendall’s voice. “It’s okay, just back away from the body, Pete. We all heard you order him to stop.”
Marquez slowly turned to look at Kendall, who was still talking to the deputy.
“You did what you had to,” Kendall said, and then to Marquez, “I hope you’ve got all the answers because I sure don’t. Why’d you let him run?”
46
The stick Nyland had charged the deputy with had flown out of his hand when he fell. Nyland’s broken finger was coated in blood, the violence done to him, the bruising around the nose, bright stain melting new snow near his neck, made him appear the victim rather than the perpetrator. Nearby a snowcovered tree shook loose last night’s drop, and Marquez moved away from Kendall and the other officers and in among the saplings. He saw the deadfall where Nyland had snapped off a stick. Running, dodging trees, was it just final desperation or did he have a place he was supposed to get to? Marquez made his way back to Kendall, kicked the snow from his shoes, drank more water, retrieved his pack, and looked at Nyland’s crumpled body again. He felt little compassion, more regret and anger.
“What do I need to know before you go?” Kendall asked, trying to hold to his detective role.
“He claimed there’s a bear farm in Nevada just over the border in Minden. He said Petroni was kept there, then he got moved to Johengen’s.”
“How did he know all this?”
“Sophie told him and he acted like Troy has been there also.
Claimed he was in jail when it all went down, named Durham and referred to another man as Durham’s partner, called him ‘Bearman’ and ‘the freak.’ He told me Bearman was in charge of everything, even Durham.”
“Do you believe anything you heard?”
“I think there’s a bear farm or farms somewhere, and Nevada just might fit. And, yeah, there might be a Bearman.”
“Where’s Petroni fit in?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m wondering how Petroni got to Nevada. Maybe they lured him there or maybe he found it on his own.”
That was the thought Marquez had been having, hiking out the last mile, that Petroni got there on his own, which meant he was trying to find it. He related Nyland’s story, a ranch with metal buildings and a lot of acreage near Minden, an illegal Chinese immigrant doing the daily work of caring for the bears.
“My team will search for this place in Nevada,” Marquez said. “We have an agreement with Nevada wildlife. We’ll make the call this morning. Nyland didn’t say it, but it sounded like the bear out at the end of the orchard got shot because it was sick and the other bears got moved to another farm in Nevada.”
“Everything while he was in jail, right? He didn’t have a part in any of it.”
Marquez didn’t answer that yet, continued explaining. “We’re sure from scat and food that there were other bears at Johengen’s recently. They moved them somewhere. It makes sense the bears would have a permanent caretaker, and a Chinese immigrant with experience bear farming would be the right person.”
“If Nyland was so innocent, why’d he take off running?”
“He was hiking out to meet a ride.”
“He told you that?”
“No.”
“We checked everything out there, including your people.”
“What about the lake?”
“There are whitecaps, no one is on the lake.”
“My team picked up on a boat in Emerald Bay. Nyland may have thought he was going to cross the road, drop down to the water, and take a boat ride out of here. That may have been what he had in mind.”
The deputy who shot Nyland approached, and Marquez took the moment to step away and call Shauf. She was parked at the Emerald Bay Overlook. He heard emotion choking her voice and for a moment was afraid something had happened to one of the SOU.
“I just talked to my sister,” she said. “She’s turned down the option of more extensive chemo. She wants to talk about what kind of aunt I’ll be to her children.”
Her voice broke off, and Marquez looked back at Kendall and the assemblage of officers with their brightly lettered coats, talking about whatever. Waiting on the coroner. Two officers on horseback were riding up to retrieve Nyland’s pack, and Marquez watched the horses climb into the trees. He heard Shauf sob and looked at Kendall and the deputy who’d shot Nyland. They were the only ones still focused on what had happened here.
“You’ll be the best aunt there ever was,” he said. He waited for her to catch herself, added, “I’m on my way out. Talking with Kendall about the boat right now.”
“It’s a Colbalt with blue trim.” She drew a breath. “After sunrise there were a couple of boats that came into Emerald Bay and we figured them for photographer types trying to get a picture of the bay with the first snow on the mountains. But there was also a lone guy in a Colbalt who circled the island, then sat along the shore for a while. He stayed on this side in the shadow so we could never really get a good look at him. When the patrol units showed up he moved farther back and then took off back out the channel. We got the CF numbers and it’s registered to an Ed Schultz who lives in Palo Alto. We’re trying to get a hold of him.”
“Where’s the boat at?”
“Near Zephyr Cove, starting to work its way up the east shore, and it’s rough out there, rougher still on the east shore.”
“See you soon.” He didn’t hang up with her yet. “Carol, this isn’t the same but I’ve got to say this to you. I had a wife I was so in love with once that after she was killed I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. But what I’ve learned is that as long as you have memories, she’s going to be with you forever.” Part of that is true, he thought.
Kendall was coaching the deputy to remember Nyland charged him with a stick that could crush his skull. He broke from that and turned toward Marquez.
“I’m going to need a formal statement from you. A couple hours with you this afternoon.”
“I’ll call you.”
Kendall nodded and as Marquez started to leave, started walking with him, leaving the deputy. Marquez knew what was coming. He stopped and watched Kendall gesture back toward the stick Nyland had brandished.
“The sheriff is an old pacifist. He’ll want to know there was no other way with Nyland, so he may want to talk to you. But you saw it.”
“I didn’t see it, I heard the shot.”
“You must have heard the deputy order him to stop.”
“I heard Nyland yell.”
“You didn’t hear our deputy order him to stop?”
“No.”
“All right, then, answer this for me,” and Kendall pulled his hand back. “Why wasn’t he handcuffed?”
“One wrist was clipped to his coat. I had him cuffed for most of the hike out, but his hand with the broken index finger had swollen so much I felt I had to take the cuff off that wrist so he’d have circulation and better balance for the steeper parts. His hand might have frozen.”
“So you devised this deal where he was cuffed to his coat.”
“That’s right.”
“With his hand hidden behind his back, the deputy thought he might have a rock or a knife. We didn’t know you’d cuffed him.”
“Did anybody hear me yelling while Nyland was running?”
“I heard you, but they were down here trying to find him.”
They looked at each other, and Marquez knew there hadn’t been much warning given. His guess was the deputy had shot him as soon as Nyland lifted the stick, and yet, what Kendall said about the hand hidden behind his back carried weight.