“I know where it is, that’s all.”
Marquez and the team followed Troy’s old truck down a long dry desert road outside Minden, Nevada. Well short of the ranch, Troy pulled over and parked. His truck canted steeply, two wheels in a dusty ditch. He lowered his window but didn’t get out.
“Those buildings up ahead. He’s there. That’s his car and you’d better be damn careful.”
“What’s your role here, Troy?”
“If I had any part of it, would I bring you out here? Let’s just say he’s asked me to, but the law says I can’t trap or hunt.”
Marquez looked at him, thinking, You did anyway, didn’t you. He looked out across the sage and tumbleweed and knew they’d never nail Troy for it. If there was any chance of that, Troy wouldn’t have led them out here, and the question now was why had he. Must see Bearman as a competitor or has some other grudge against him.
From here it was roughly three-quarters of a mile to the house.
He saw the car Troy meant but couldn’t tell the make from here, amazing that Troy could. The nose of a car was visible around the back of the main building.
“The boy you killed up in the mountains brought me out here.”
“Nyland?”
“Yes.”
Funny, Nyland had said the opposite, but it could wait. Marquez glanced at Troy again, wondering if the old man was hoping they’d get killed approaching the buildings.
“Are there bears in those Quonset huts?”
“There are. Those aluminum buildings have bear in cages all lined up. I figure you and I are even now.”
“Do you feel anything for her?”
“I lost my little girl a long time ago.”
“And around town they say you know how you did it.”
“Sophie was a born liar, no different than her mother.”
Marquez watched him drive away and four Nevada police approach, dust roostering up behind them. He put on a flak jacket and briefed the Nevada officers on what he thought they were going to find. Another attempt was made to contact the ranch by phone and after that failed, someone spotted a man standing out in front of the house.
“That’s Ungar,” Marquez said, after lifting binoculars. “That’s who we’re looking for and he sees us.” Ungar didn’t move, stood frozen facing their direction. “He’s not sure what to do now. I think we can drive down there.”
Marquez rode in the lead vehicle. The Nevada officers took over as they parked near Ungar, asking Ungar if he was armed and Ungar shaking his head no, turning around, raising his arms so they could check him.
“I solved it for you,” Ungar said as Marquez walked up.
“What did you solve?”
“What you’re looking for is in those aluminum Quonset huts. My cousin called, gave this address, and I decided to check it out before calling you. There are twenty bears in there. I counted.
There’s a little Chinese man in feeding them. He doesn’t speak a word of English. I was just about to drive somewhere my phone will work and call you. How’d you find this place?”
Marquez let Ungar walk with him to the Quonset huts. A crowd of officers flanked them, two Nevada wildlife officers close behind Ungar. Sunlight reflected brightly off metal roofs ahead, and yet, the day was cold, the rain over the mountains to the west approaching, wind blowing hard. He watched Ungar’s black hair whip across his forehead, no cap this afternoon, no sunglasses, a shiny black leather coat. As they reached the first hut a small man in black baggy pants, black shirt, sandals, showed briefly at the door before retreating.
“What’s his name?” Marquez asked Ungar.
“Han.”
Marquez swung the door open, called to Han. He was maybe seventy, didn’t seem to speak any English, spoke rapid Cantonese that Ungar responded to.
“I barely know any Chinese,” Ungar said. “But I told him not to move, that you’re the police.”
“Don’t say anything else to him.”
Marquez left him with the state troopers and Nevada Wildlife, left him explaining how he’d helped California Fish and Game solve this case.
Marquez walked through the thick bear smells. It was so different from the cold sage-laden wind outside. The metal walls and roof creaked in the wind as he counted. Twenty, same as Ungar had claimed. Heavy stainless cages, thick, the same water trough system, same cages as Johengen’s. He looked at each bear, the catheters, eyes staring at him, then walked back.
“Troy Broussard trap the young bears?” he asked Ungar, taking in his mocking expression, not getting any answer, just a blank face.
Ungar grinned, said, “Do you want to play this game again?”
Ungar turned and as an aside explained to one of the Nevada wildlife officers that he’d been under suspicion ever since coming forward to help.
“But why would I have anything to do with undercover wildlife officers if I was engaged in something like this.”
To keep track of us, Marquez thought, and because you’re driven by hate so strong you have trouble controlling it. You found a like spirit in Durham. U.S. Fish and Wildlife shut Durham down in Michigan, and somehow you two found each other out here. Thing is, Durham didn’t have quite your ambition and he also had another successful business life. “Do you know Joe Durham?” Marquez asked.
“No.”
The Nevada wildlife officers began to question him. They’d take him in, start there. Before leaving here they’d ask him to remove his coat, check his arms for a wound. He’d have to provide the cousin’s name, whereabouts.
Cairo and Roberts went back for camcorders, notebooks, what they needed to start documenting. The first thing was to find a legitimate way to hold Ungar more than overnight. Marquez listened to the wildlife officers start with Ungar again, their patience infinitely greater than his own, and he walked out and down to the second Quonset hut. No bears were inside, but the cages were set up, the trough, the systems in place. He looked around outside again, the desert, neighbors far away, plenty of room. When he walked back into the first building he heard one of the Nevada officers liken the Quonset hut to a hog farm, the most apt description yet.
After everything had been recorded, but before the bears were moved, Marquez walked the cages alone, looking at each bear again, counting the yearlings, eight of them. He walked farther into the hut, empty cages stacked in a dark corner, the smell of bear excrement thick down here, despite the roof fans whirring overhead. Then he saw what he’d missed, a cage with a crumpled blanket, what looked like a pet bowl with dried spaghetti strands. He smelled urine, heard Nyland talking in his head, knew it was true.
He brought the wildlife officers down. They called a detective, handed the phone to Marquez, and he related what Nyland had told him and gave the detective Kendall’s phone number, said he’d wait here for him.
The SOU began documenting, and Marquez went to Ungar.
They were getting ready to arrest him because he’d refused to produce a way to reach his cousin.
“I have nothing to do with this,” Ungar repeated. “You’re incompetent. You’re fools. You’re the same as he is.” He indicated Marquez.
An officer moved in, and Ungar struggled against the handcuffing, fought three officers, but it was Marquez who reached over and gripped the bicep he’d seen Ungar favor. Lifted him by it and a cry of pain came out of Ungar. Cuffs went on, his coat got stripped, an officer explaining they wanted to make sure they hadn’t hurt him.
The bandage wrapping his right bicep was exposed.
“Is that a bullet wound?” Marquez asked.
“A hunting accident,” Ungar said. “A kill I haven’t finished yet.”
“I don’t think you ever will.”
“Oh, you can bet I will,” he said, as they walked him toward the door.
50
Nevada held Ungar while they tried to sort out the situation with the help of the California SOU. The ranch was owned by a Marion Stuart aka Durham, and Durham couldn’t answer questions, might not ever be able to. He had yet to regain consciousness and according to doctors attending him, suffered an as yet undetermined degree of brain damage due to oxygen deprivation. One doctor suggested in private to Marquez that Durham’s future, if he had one, was in a vegetative state in a nursing home. He was, the doctor added, perhaps unlucky to have been rescued.