Tamarack River Ghost: A Novel

1. Josh Wittmore

9 Josh Wittmore 1 Josh Wittmore wondered how long his charade would last, how long he could continue until they found him out. He was reclining on his lumpy bed in front of the flickering TV in his dreary motel room in Crumpet, Missouri, when his question was answered. The Sleepy Rest Motel’s sign on the highway proudly proclaimed, “American-owned, clean, restful, all on one level.” When Josh parked in front of the motel a few days ago, he followed the little path to the door that was marked “Office.” Inside, a deeply tanned man with a Missouri accent greeted him. When he got to the room, it was one of the smallest he’d ever seen, maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. It included one hard-backed chair; a narrow desk; a tiny TV perched precariously on a metal shelf in the corner, its power cord stretched across the window air-conditioner to an outlet shared with an underpowered table light; and a bed with a reasonable mattress. The bathroom, not to be outdone by the rest of the accommodation, was tiny and sparsely furnished, with a shower made for those tall and skinny and not prone to turning around when showering. But the room was clean, as advertised. The motel, like so many built in the late 1940s, allowed a motorist to drive right up to the door, as if the room was to be shared by a vehicle. Josh was in room 18, his truck parked so close he could nearly reach it by stretching an arm out the room’s tiny window, which faced the highway. It was Friday night, and Josh was bone tired. He wondered why he should be exhausted; he was only thirty-two years old and in reasonably good shape. He was thin and tall, a little over six feet. Soon he was dozing, thinking about what he had been doing the past few weeks and at the same time trying to drive the job from his mind. 10 Josh Wittmore The brick that crashed through the motel window landed at his feet with a thud, missing him by a few inches. Broken glass scattered throughout the room—a rush of warm September night air poured through the jagged hole. The red brick had a grimy piece of white paper held around it with a thick rubber band. Fully awake, Josh jumped out of his chair and picked up the brick, removed the rubber band, and unfolded the paper: Nobody takes pictures at the Lazy Z. The words were written in bold, black strokes. Josh put the brick and the paper on the only table in the room. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Were the culprits who tossed the brick still in the parking lot? Would they next be pounding on his door? He began to perspire. He ran his hands through his thick hair, which he had dyed from its natural brown to blond to help with his disguise. He also wore dark-rimmed glasses to complete his makeover—the glasses, all dusty and dirty, sat on the little desk. Afew weeks earlier, Josh’s boss, Bert Schmid, the editor of the Midwest’s Farm Country News, had phoned him from the paper’s main office in Willow River, Wisconsin. Josh, a reporter for this popular agricultural weekly newspaper, worked out of the paper’s regional office in Springfield, Illinois. He’d been there since Bert hired him in 2000, when Josh graduated from the University of Wisconsin’s agricultural journalism program. “I’ve got an assignment for you, Josh,” Bert said when he called. “What have you got?” “You ever hear of the Lazy Z operation? They’ve got huge cattle feedlots scattered in three states. Got a big one over in Crumpet, Missouri.” “Yeah, who hasn’t heard of the Lazy Z?” “Some rumors flying around that they’re cutting a few corners, fudging some of the environmental rules, and lots more.” “I heard about that,” said Josh. “It’s more than a rumor. I was wondering if you could do a little digging around. Find out what’s going on there.” “Think I could. Should be kind of interesting.” 11 Josh Wittmore “There’s a little more to it—might as well tell you right up front. A reporter from St. Louis spent some time...