Serve & Protect

by L. J. Breedlove

  She shook her head, and that made the fuchsia streak across her bangs fall forward. She brushed the hair out of her eyes impatiently.

  Mac wanted to brush it out for her. He kept his hands to himself. He liked Angie. She was barely 5-feet tall, but sturdily built so that she didn’t seem small. Not fat, but muscled and curved. And the snug black jeans and the T-shirt she wore — today’s featured Mary J. Blige — emphasized the curves. He liked how she looked. Liked it a lot.

  But he was in a committed relationship that didn’t allow for touching other women’s hair, or asking out a feisty photographer — and wouldn’t she take him to task for the word feisty. A committed relationship where he wasn’t getting any either.

  And his body noticed the woman in front of him and reacted. Mac sighed.

  He wanted to make a relationship with Kate Fairchild work. So, he cleaned up his language, and he took her to church on Sundays. Well, some Sundays. They went out on dates. He had Sunday dinner at the Fairchild boarding house with Kate and her mother, Naomi, and assorted other boarders. All devout, evangelical Christians.

  And while Kate insisted he shouldn’t change for her, he couldn’t see how a relationship would work if he didn’t. Would he want her to change to be with him? To don a skin-tight dress and go dancing at the Bohemian? Or to spend the night in his bed? Well OK, he wanted the last at least, but he wasn’t going to seduce a good Christian girl — even a 26-year-old one — into losing her virginity.

  Even if he’d gone without sex for six months now.

  Even if that was five-and-a-half months longer than he’d ever gone without sex since he discovered girls at 13. Even when he’d been fighting in Afghanistan.

  He believed a man should control his body, not the reverse, and so he stayed celibate to see if he had a chance to build a lasting relationship with one of the smartest women he’d ever known. A kind, happy woman with no shadowed corners. He wanted that. He wanted the sense of home he found at the Fairchilds.

  His best friend Shorty had asked, “You in love with the girl, Mac? Or do you want to be adopted by her mother?”

  Mac had to admit there might be some truth to that.

  He’d grown up poor with a single mother who moved across the country at a whim, who left him alone for days when he wasn’t even school-aged yet to hook up with different men. A mother who had a borderline personality disorder and should never have been allowed to raise a child, according to his aunt. His aunt had taken over his rearing when he was 15, but by then he was already headstrong and roaming the streets. He went into the Marines at 18 to avoid a felony auto theft charge.

  So yeah, damn right he wanted a home. A real one.

  So why hadn’t he proposed? As Shorty said, time to shit or get off the pot. For a math teacher in well-to-do Bellevue, Shorty could be crass. But he was right. And Mac didn’t know why he hadn’t proposed.

  At least he’d get regular sex then.

  He shook his head, refocused on what Angie was doing to his photos, and ignored the pull of that damn fuchsia hair.

  “OK,” she said. “Tell Janet, I sent three to her queue. A broad shot of the walls of weapons, a closeup of someone tagging one, and the one of what looks like the murder scene with the detective. She probably won’t use it, but it’s there.”

  “Thanks,” Mac said. “Could you also do your magic on the ones that are photos on the wall? And send them to me? I want to take a closer look at them.”

  “Will do,” she said, and handed back his camera. “Now quit hovering and get out of here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, teasing, and she laughed.

  Mac put the camera in his backpack. Looking at his watch, he swore under his breath, and headed for his desk. He was behind schedule. He needed to get this story written and make his morning calls to all the law enforcement and fire departments to collect information on anything else that had happened over night — blotter items. And the clock was ticking. Janet needed them all by 8 a.m. Not 8:02 a.m. but 8 fucking a.m.

  He glanced at the large clock on the wall above Janet’s workstation. There wasn’t any art on the walls. Bulletin boards. And the damn clock. The newsroom was primarily a bunch of desks with computers on them. Linoleum floors in some non-descript beige pattern. High ceilings with overhead lights that most companies would have replaced years ago. Beige walls.

  Besides that damn clock, the only decoration to be seen were the bulletin boards with agendas and minutes thumbtacked on them, and the piles of newspapers and reports that accrued on every desk, intermingled with coffee cups and half-filled pop cans.

  A few reporters might have a personal token on their desk. Or a smart-ass sticker on their computer. Mac didn’t. He didn’t do personal stuff at work. And Seth Conte, the other cop reporter, had given up on personalizing their work space. He also accepted Mac would not allow dirty coffee cups.

  But Mac had finally conceded the battle over the stacks of paper. He came to realize that most reporters — including Seth — didn’t even see them. It seemed to comfort them to have the paper there, like rats making a nest out of paper they shredded. So, Mac had grimly come to tolerate the paper. He’d learned to tolerate the rats as a child after all.

  He tidied it up on occasion, but he didn’t throw it away anymore. He didn’t even shove it in a desk drawer. And Seth, who was actually a good guy in Mac’s book, took it graciously as the win that it was.

  Mac sat down and turned on his computer. He pulled his notebook out of his backpack, and flipped to the page with phone numbers of all the law enforcement and emergency services departments, and began the calls.

  While on hold at the Bellevue police department, he looked over at Janet Andrews, the news editor and his boss. “I’ve got a story about a weapon stockpiler who killed his wife and children, pictures are in your queue. Rodriguez called me at 2 a.m. Inside page — barely.”

  He turned back to the dispatcher who was now talking in his ear, and tucking the phone between his shoulder and head, he started typing up the information.

  As he hung up, Janet said, “So why did Rodriguez call you out for it?”

  Mac nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I said. With a few additional comments,” he said.

  That made Janet smile. His foul language was newsroom legend. He turned back to the phone as the Tacoma police department finally answered the phone. He typed a few things, then hung up.

  “They’re done,” he said. “Nothing particularly interesting. But Rodriguez? I want to talk about that when we’re off deadline for the day.”

  Janet nodded, more focused on his copy on her screen than on him. Blotter items were easy to screw up. And they were the last thing written for the newspaper, and the least scrutinized — bait for a libel suit. Mac made a point of not screwing them up.

  While she edited his copy, Mac studied his boss. He worried about her. Last fall had been rough. She’d been kidnapped and held hostage. She’d had to face her past growing up in an isolationist Christian community. Her house had been blown to bits. She met her 20-year-old son for the first time and learned he was part of the group stalking her. That was a lot. Maybe even an overwhelming amount to deal with.

  Life had stayed difficult. He had watched her struggle to regain her balance personally and professionally. There was little he could do about the personal life. The professional part pissed him off. The harassment, kidnapping and all-too-public revelations of her personal life had set her up as a target for a lot of right-wing Christians in the city, and even some media people who ought to know better. He personally thought they did know better, but were willing to use this as an opportunity to throw shit at Janet Andrews because she was one of the most respected journalists in the state. Fuckers.

  She was carefully building a relationship with her son, Timothy Brandt, who Mac privately thought was a little shit. And since Timothy was living at the Fairchilds, he had more exposure to the kid than he wanted. Brilliant, Mac conceded. But he was a real prick.


  Janet was also rebuilding her house while living in an apartment not far from the office. Everything she owned was gone. The house, the garden, her thousands of books. Mac suspected it was the loss of the books that really hurt.

  And she was in a long-distance relationship with FBI agent Stan Warren who was trying — unsuccessfully so far — to get a transfer out to Seattle.

  That was a lot, so it was understandable that she was stressed and closed off. But Mac thought it wasn’t all that shit, but something else. Something she couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk about. And that worried him.

  So, when she was done with the paper for the day, he sent his usual message suggesting coffee at the coffeehouse across the street. Not that he’d drink coffee. But they kept some cans of Mountain Dew on hand for him.

  Janet nodded and headed for the door. Mac followed her. She was a tall woman, approaching 40, and she worked out, so she had a long stride and determined walk. Coffee. She is on a mission, Mac thought amused, do not get in her way. Her brown hair was still in a braid, so he figured it hadn’t been a particularly stressful morning. He had learned to judge how the morning went by how messy her hair got. She never raised her voice, never got angry at a reporter. Her tell? Running her hand through her hair. On a bad morning, the braid was practically gone, and she had hair in her eyes, which she impatiently brushed out of the way. Those were the mornings everyone walked lightly and got things done on time.

  The coffee house was a dark place, with a counter to order drinks at and a case of pastries. Janet didn’t even bother to order, she headed for a corner table in the back, and the barista brought her coffee and set a can of Mountain Dew in front of Mac. He thanked her and got a short nod back. It amused him. The coffeehouse really hated that Mountain Dew. But they liked Janet.

  Janet sipped her coffee while Mac told her about Rodriguez’s concerns. His “twitch.” When he was done, she said, “Have you heard of the Bundys?”

  He shook his head.

  “Sovereign citizens? Constitutionalist sheriffs?”

  “No.”

  “Sandy Hook?”

  “The school shooting? Of course,” Mac said.

  “OK, that was when people really started paying attention to people stockpiling weapons,” Janet said. “But out here? There’s always been anti-government groups operating going back to the posse comitatus groups and John Birch Society in the ‘50s. Right wing, anti-federal government. They believe that local control supersedes all other agencies. The Bundy family in Nevada are locked in a battle against BLM —Bureau of Land Management — for instance. And they’re all gun hoarders. The 2nd Amendment is their Bible.”

  Janet looked at Mac thoughtfully. “I’ve wanted to do a story about them forever,” she said. “But never had the right reporter to do it. I think you could.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a vet, you like and understand guns. And you’re skeptical of all government and paranoid to boot,” she said promptly. “You’ll fit right in.”

  “Fit in with the lunatics?” he said amused.

  She just grinned at him.

  “Get yourself informed,” she said. “And then see if you can find that club they belong to — or clubs. That’s new. And I have just the person for you to do a feature on. Sheriff in Skagit County is a constitutionalist. And he’s refusing to enforce any newly passed laws regarding guns, not even background checks and registration requirements.”

  She paused. “And stay on top of what’s going on here. That’s an odd group of men to be stockpiling.”

  “Got it,” he said, then hesitated before asking, “You doing OK?”

  She bit her lip. “Tough times,” she said. “But I’ll get through it.”

  “Of course, you will,” Mac said. “But sometimes a bit of help from your friends makes it easier.”

  She slid out of the booth and patted his shoulder. “Thank you. And if I need something blown up, you’ll be the first person I call,” she promised with a laugh and went to pay the bill. Her turn. Mac followed her, taking his Mountain Dew with him.

  Chapter 3

  Mac decided some things were done best in person and talking to gun shop owners was probably one of them. He made printouts of the photos from the morning and went to visit a gun shop where he bought some of his weapons.

  Hank Owens was in his 60s, wiry, thin, energetic. He was mostly bald with a fringe of white hair that he kept trimmed close. The owner of Shoreline West Guns, north of Seattle, Hank had been a Green Beret back in the day. A lot of vets like Mac found him comfortable to deal with.

  Mac showed him the photographs. Hank squinted at them and scowled. He turned to his desk and found a loupe; something Mac hadn’t used since his college photojournalism class. Hank looked at the photos again.

  “Like a team photo, but with AR-15s?” Hank mused out loud. “Vets? They don’t look like vets.”

  “The one I know isn’t,” Mac said. “How’s business been? The guy’s house I saw this morning probably had 100 guns stashed away in it.”

  “It’s been good,” Hank agreed. “But not unusually so. And nothing that felt like a run on something or anything weird. But then really? Those pictures feel weird, and stockpilers can be very strange dudes. But they’re usually harmless. They just like guns.”

  “A banker, an accountant and a desk jockey at the Port Authority,” Mac said, quoting Rodriguez.

  “I am seeing more of that kind of clientele,” Hank said, still looking at the photos. “Which is good news for me; they have money.”

  He took the loupe back to the photograph again. “Huh, thought I recognized him. That big dude in the back row? That’s the owner of Marysville Tactical Guns. He might know something. But that’s an even weirder place for a bunch of white desk dudes to be hanging out, I’d think.”

  “Surprised they could even find it,” Mac agreed. He thanked Hank and bought some ammunition to encourage further good will. Besides, he always needed more ammo. He got out to the truck and added his purchase to the locked box under the spare tire. He was cautious about his weapons; he thought everyone should be. Having been set up by an old Marine friend who stole one of his weapons had only enhanced his paranoia. There were people out to get you; no sense making it easy for them.

  He looked at his watch. Not even noon yet. Marysville was even further north of Seattle, but at this time of day it would probably only take him 30 minutes. Getting back home again was another matter. Rush hour in Seattle started at 3 p.m.

  He shrugged. He wanted to know how a gun dealer in Marysville got to be in a “team photo” with a bunch of desk jockeys from Seattle. He liked that term of Rodriguez’s. Made him laugh.

  The shop was closed for lunch when he got there. He frowned and walked the neighborhood. It was just what he’d expected. Run-down, a couple of car repair shops. A carwash. Two pawn shops that also sold guns. Marysville wasn’t quite as dangerous as it used to be, Mac had heard, but it was still poor. And he knew first hand that poor and crime went hand-in-hand. At least the kind of crime that made it into the police blotter.

  Twenty minutes later the “big dude in the back row” came back to his shop and opened it up. Mac pushed up his sleeves so his Marine tats were visible on his forearms. He usually preferred to keep them covered. But here? He shrugged.

  He went inside. The shop was better kept than the outside might have suggested. Mac looked around with interest. He wasn’t in the market for a new weapon right now, but you never knew.

  “Help you?” the man asked.

  “Mac Davis. I’m a reporter for the Seattle Examiner. Hope you might help me out.”

  “Oh Lord, another liberal journalist who doesn’t know an AK-47 from an AR-15 and wants to know why I’m against gun registration,” he said.

  Mac laughed. “Do I look like some bleeding-heart liberal?” he asked, genuinely amused. “I spent four years as a Marine in Afghanistan. And those were the years I carried legally.”

  “S
orry,” the man said. “Craig Anderson, Army, Desert Storm. I don’t have much patience for the clueless ones.”

  “I hear you,” Mac agreed. “And I have to put up with a lot more of them for longer periods of time than you do.” And that was no lie, he thought.

  “OK, so how can I help you?” Anderson said. “You buying? Or what?”

  This could get expensive if he bought ammo at every stop. “Looking for some information,” he said. “But I might stock up a bit on some ammo for a 9mm.”

  “I can help you with the second, but information?” He shrugged. “Ask.”

  Mac brought out the photograph and pointed at him in it. “So, got a strange call out this morning,” he began and told him about the murder. Craig Anderson winced at the death of the children.

  “Not the gun’s fault,” he said.

  “No,” Mac agreed. “He’d have grabbed the butcher knife if a gun wasn’t there. But what was weird is he must have had 100 weapons. In his garage, in his house. And he’s like some desk jockey downtown. Strange. And on his wall were several of these pictures. Like they’re some sports league team photos. A friend recognized you. So, I thought I’d come out and ask if this was some new craze among the middle-class, white-collar crowd?”

  Craig Anderson snorted. “That about sums it up,” he agreed.

  Anderson got a Pepsi out of the cooler behind the counter. Raised it in question.

  “A Mountain Dew if you’ve got one.”

  The big gun dealer pulled one out of the cooler and tossed it to Mac. He caught it. Popped the top, and took a long swallow.

  “So? White-collar gun stockpilers?” Mac asked.

  “Been, oh about eight months ago,” Craig Anderson said, settling against the counter comfortably. He was in no hurry. “Gotta call from a man I know who runs a range, teaches some classes, does gun safety. Good enough guy. He’d been approached by a bunch of men who wanted to learn to shoot. Well, sure he says, that’s what he does, teach people to shoot. But these guys didn’t want to learn to shoot one kind of gun, they wanted to learn to shoot them all.”