Nature Noir by Jordan Smith (romantic books to read .TXT) 📗

men produced a plastic bag containing some dog-eared papers. O'Leary removed the papers, looked at them cursorily, then handed them to me: a form filled out in blue ink, bearing the imprint of the California Department of Fish and Game, stapled to a few pages of regulations. I gave them back to O'Leary, who gave them to the miners. We thanked them and left.

I looked over at O'Leary as we drove up the beach. "Ron, why does Fish and Game—part of our own Resource Agency—issue permits to dredge for gold here if it's illegal to use even a hand tool like a shovel to disturb a riverbank under our own laws?"

O'Leary sighed. "Welcome to Auburn" was all he said.

We approached the bottom of the road up the canyon wall.

I looked over at him again. "Aren't we going to do anything about the gun?"

"You can if you want to," he answered.

"Okay then, I will," I said.

O'Leary glanced at me through his aviator sunglasses—questioningly, I thought—then turned the Jimmy toward the first camp. I called in the contact on the radio, then flipped the switch to public address. "Mr. Fowler," I announced through the speaker on our front bumper, reading the man's name on O'Leary's campsite registration sheet. "Could you please tie your dogs up in camp and come meet us here when you're finished?"

The miner appeared from behind one of the tents, still armed. He shrugged his shoulders and lifted both palms, questioningly.

"Just tie them up, please," I repeated through the PA.

The miner called the dogs and busied himself rummaging for ropes and making them fast between the dogs' collars and the trailer hitch on one of his trucks. When he finished, he crossed the sand toward us with a pained expression. I got out and faced him from the other side of our vehicle's hood, where the engine block afforded some cover if I needed it. He looked at me warily.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, arriving at the Jimmy.

I stepped toward him to stand directly to his right, within reach of his gun hand.

"Could you put that gun on the hood for me?"

"Why? Is there a problem?" His face darkened.

"You've got a gun."

His eyes narrowed. "So? I haven't done anything illegal."

"You can't carry it in this or any other state park campground," I replied.

"This is a state park? No way!" said the miner. "Where's the sign? I thought this was just the American River. Anyway, it's never been a problem before—like when you were just here a few minutes ago."

He had a point, but you've got to start somewhere, I thought. Beads of sweat were breaking out on my face. O'Leary was out of the Jimmy now, but said nothing.

"Look, just put the gun on the hood, then we'll talk," I told him.

He gave me a don't-you-ever-turn-your-back-on-me look, then slowly unholstered the gun and clunked it down on the hot green steel of the truck's hood. I moved for it, swiftly but with studied nonchalance. Once it was in my grasp, I spun the cylinder and dumped the ammunition. It was loaded with six .357 hollow-points.

"Could I get some ID?" I asked him.

He gave me a defiant look as he handed me his driver's license. I called in a warrants check on him and ran a stolen-gun check. Miner and gun were clear, so I began filling out a citation. When I finished, I turned my citation book toward him.

"What the hell is this for?" he asked. "I haven't done anything wrong, and I told you I'd pay you next time you come. You don't have to be a prick about it."

"Your dogs are off the leash. You're carrying a gun. It's a state park."

"The hell it is—I know better than that. It's a dam site." The man looked at O'Leary and his tone changed. "Hey, Ron—you know us. Tell your rookie to leave me alone."

"Just sign the ticket. It's not my call," O'Leary growled through his beard. It was plain he wasn't enjoying himself. I couldn't tell if he was more irritated at the miner, or at me for disturbing his peace.

Turning back to the miner, I continued. "You have been cited into Georgetown court; your appearance date is—"

"You can bet I'll be there," he snapped back. He snatched the citation book and the pen I proffered out of my hands. "See you in court, asshole!"

He scrawled his name across the bottom of the ticket and thrust the book at me, poking me in the chest with it. I tore off his copy and handed it to him. He wadded it into his pocket. "Now give me back my gun," he demanded.

"Well, that's not exactly what's happening today," I replied. "I've taken your gun as evidence. If you have no prior felonies, you can ask the judge to release it back to you. Then we'll give you back the gun."

The miner gave me a withering stare, then turned and stalked back toward his campsite. The dogs barked happily. We got back in the Jimmy. I put the gun in the back seat. We pitched and rattled back up Sliger Mine Road. For the rest of the drive to the ranger station O'Leary didn't say much.

Back at our compound I found Steve MacGaff working at his desk. I told him I'd seized a gun, and I asked him where the evidence lockers were and who the evidence custodian was.

"Come with me," he said, getting up.

I followed him back out the door and up to the mess hall. He led me into the back room to a row of gray gym lockers and unlocked a cheap padlock on one of them. Inside were three things: a chrome-plated semiautomatic pistol, an empty beer can around which was wrapped a rubber band holding a scrap of paper with a citation number scrawled on it, and a crumpled paper lunch bag containing several pop-bottle rockets.

"You can put it in here," he said. "And you can be our evidence custodian."

Maybe a ranger