the gold, 99 percent,” I said. “Caught a glimpse of a silver semi-auto, gray hair and a hoodie.”
‘License number?”
Sal stretched out his hand where he’d written the letters and digits. Forte copied them down, buzzed Lucy to his office and gave her the slip of paper. “Run that, wouldya Luce?” She nodded and left.
“We need to talk to old man Wilson and take a look at the Madrone on his property,” I pointed out.
“Thinking the same thing. I’ll bring Billy along. Wilson’s a foul-mouth curmudgeon. The more uniforms, the better.”
Lucy returned. “The car’s a rental. Thrifty up in Coos Bay,” she said. “Rented to a Sarah Cavanaugh eight days ago.”
“The lady who told us about the Tree Man?” Sal asked. I nodded.
“You think she’s the one who shot at us?”
I shrugged. “Crazy world, Sal. If she knew about the gold ball, wouldn’t surprise me.”
Forte interrupted. “Good idea if we talked to her, don’t cha think?” He turned to Lucy and instructed her to put out an all-points for the Honda and Cavanaugh. “Also tell the Coos Bay and North Bend police we’re looking for her urgently.” Lucy nodded and left.
“We need to get up to Wilson’s,” Forte said. “If she’s the shooter, she already knows we found the ball and could be looking for the original Tree Man to see if there’s another one.”
“Whoa, amigo,” I said. “My guess is she already knew about the ball because she found one as a kid. The discovery of a second Bandon Dunes Tree Man would lead her to assuming there was a second ball of gold in that Madrone and once we found it, she wanted it.”
“To Wilson’s?” Sal said.
The three of us stood and exited the Chief’s office. On the way out he told Lucy to have Billy meet us at the Wilson farm.
A quick left out of the parking lot, falling behind Forte’s cruiser, and south on Highway 101. We were joined by a new Chevy Tahoe police SUV driven by Billy Jenkins, a big kid who I once coached in the high school baseball program. Sweet swing, could hit anything, but a disaster on defense. More errors than all the Washington National players combined.
“Do you really think that Cavanaugh lady is the shooter?”
“Sal, nothing surprises me much. Small gun, purse size. Cheap. Good for close in defense or waving at a mugger. A lady’s weapon.”
Sal nodded. “Fits.”
We reached the Wilson spread in less than 10 minutes, pulled into rutted gravel and dirt driveway parking in front of a weathered tan and green double-wide. The front door opened and a woman in her mid to late 50s came out on the porch.
“Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on a flowered apron that covered a pair of dark-blue jeans and a red denim shirt.
“Mrs. Wilson, we’re looking for your husband,” Forte said. “He around?”
Smiling, “Sure is, Chief. He’s out in the field somewhere. Want me to call him?”
“If you don’t mind.”
She dug deep into the pocket of the apron and pulled out a small Motorola walkie-talkie, pressed the call button and said, “Gabby, the police are here wantin’ to talk to you.”
A crackle over her handset, “Tell ‘em to stuff it. I’m busy.”
Forte walked to the porch and took the walkie from Mrs. Wilson. “Not gonna happen, Gabby.”
Crackle, “Chief, is that you? What the hell do you want?”
“Need to talk to you, right now.”
“Got a warrant?”
“Right now, Gabby.”
“Shinola on a stick. Man can’t go a day without being bothered. Okay. Come on down to the north pasture. You’ll see my Jeep.”
We climbed into the Tahoe and edged around the house toward a small open gate leading to the pasture. Sheep lazily munching the tall grass. People picture sheep as cute white critters, but the reality is they’re usually dirty, grungy from the hips down and smell bad – especially in winter when the rain hits the wool and entire fields smell like wet dirty sweat socks. Worse still, walking through a sheep pasture is, well, that’s the reason boots are called “shit kickers.”
The Jeep was at the north-west corner of the 500 acre pasture. Topless, rusty, hauling a small equally rusty utility trailer, both probably were a dozen years old and unlicensed since neither ever touched tires to a paved street. Pure farm-bound transportation.
Billy pulled the Tahoe behind the Jeep and the four of us climbed out.
Wilson – closer to 60 than 50 -- was leaning against the Jeep, a long-bar chainsaw rested on the hood. Rubber field boots, dirty jeans and a plaid wool shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His eyes squeezed near-shut as he watched the four of us approach.
“Whatcha need, Chief?”
Billy circled to the right and stood a few paces to the side of Wilson. Standard cop procedure “just in case.”
“We came to take a look at your trees, Gabby.”
“Asked before. Got a warrant?”
Forte reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded 8-1/2 by 11 paper. “Don’t make me give this to you, Gabby. You know how a small town is. I hand this over and it becomes official. Goes into the police reports. Newspaper picks it up. Then everyone starts talking about how Gabby Wilson got busted for dope or worse. Child molesting is the hot topic these days. Tell ‘em you’re cuttin’ down a 100 year old Madrone – I saw the chain saw -- and you’ll be up to your ass in Department of Environmental Quality bureaucrats, Coquille and Confederated Tribes people looking for their ancestors’ sacred burial grounds, dope-smokin’ environmentalists and just plain gawkers. You want that?”
Gabby’s face went pale. “Guess not. Put it away, Chief.”
Sal and I cut a glance at each other.
“The Madrone is back here,” he said, turning and walking into the wooded area bordering the field. We followed.
About 100 feet in through some brambles and pines, where the sun was barely able to cut through the canopy of branches, stood a massive Madrone, its pale bark flaking, thick limbs flared in all directions. The tree was deeply rooted, massive legs spreading out from a core trunk measuring at least 12 feet in diameter. Old, gnarled, looking like something in a sci-fi movie.
About six feet from the ground was an opening maybe a foot wide and the same dimension tall. Wilson pointed.
“Where’s the lid, Gabby?”
He reached around the back of the tree and held up what looked like a large cork plug. “Fits in like this,” he said, pushing the plug
