Read Online Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley - Free Book Online

still, damn it!” Philip was bent down next to me with a large magnifying glass in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. The tools came from his fly tying workshop. “I don’t know whether I can do this, Cal. Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
    â€œCome on. Tying a number sixteen fly’s a lot harder than extracting a few splinters from my neck. You can do this.”
    â€œYou got something against hospitals?”
    â€œJust not a big fan. Carry me in to one, okay. Otherwise I’m looking for a work-around.”
    Philip shook his head. “Okay, but this work-around’s going to hurt. The next little bastard’s straight in like an arrow. I’m going to have to dig it out.”
    I gritted my teeth at the stab of pain as he began probing around in the wound.
    â€œGot it. Now, hold on. This next one’s the size of small log.”
    When the last splinter was out and I was rebandaged, we went into the kitchen and popped two beers. Philip said, “My wife’s visiting her sister, and I only cook camp food. We can go out if you want.”
    â€œTell you what, if we can find something in the fridge, I’ll cook. I owe you for medical services.”
    Philip opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of ground beef. “Uh, how about hamburgers?” Archie eyed the meat, sat down at Philip’s feet, looked up at him and whimpered.
    I smiled. “Looks like Arch has first dibs on that.”
    Philip laughed. “Good point. The hero dog deserves a special treat tonight.”
    â€œYou got any pasta?”
    â€œYeah. Should be some in the pantry.”
    â€œSmoked salmon?”
    He looked insulted. “Of course. In the fridge.”
    I found a nice chunk wrapped in foil along with some green onions and white wine, and after rummaging through his wife’s spices I picked out some dried dill.
    I started heating a pot of water for the pasta. “So, tell me how you found Watlamet.” I handed him the onions and nodded toward the chopping block between us. “Chop these while you’re talking, and if you’ve got a couple of cloves of garlic, chop those, too.”
    â€œI tried every contact I had over at Yakama Rez,” Philip began. “They asked around to their friends. You know how it goes. All dead ends. They knew of him, but nobody had a clue where he was living.”
    â€œDid you tell them what it was about or mention my name?”
    â€œI didn’t use your name at all with those guys, just said someone wanted to talk to Watlamet about the disappearance of a Wasco Indian, Nelson Queah, to get their attention. Of course, I used your name with Watlamet, so he’d know who to expect.”
    â€œSo how did you find him?”
    â€œMy father remembered Watlamet used to be a hunting guide. He suggested I call Henry Johnson. Henry’s a Yakama who used to hunt elk with Dad in the Wallowas. He got back to me a day later. Said he had to make about a dozen calls to track Watlamet down. He’d pretty much dropped out.” Philip handed me the chopping block.
    I scraped the now-chopped garlic and onions into a skillet of hot olive oil that spattered and sizzled. “What was your take on Watlamet when you met him?”
    Philip stroked his chin and thought for a moment. “Like I said, the guy’s a loner, or was a loner. Some of the people I talked to used the term ‘apple.’ You know, red on the outside, white on the inside. I was a little surprised by his spread. He was living above the poverty line, for sure.”
    I nodded as I added some wine and dill to the skillet. I was pretty sure that’s what my wife put in the sauté. Then I added the pasta to the big pot of water, which was now at a roiling boil. “You said he seemed a little reluctant at first—”
    â€œYeah. When I mentioned Nelson Queah he seemed to react, you know, his eyes kind of flared. But then he