Mac thanked him and hung up. He thought about the discrepancy and wondered if it mattered. So, Norton had found a college, came up here and started over. He did get a scholarship eventually, so was the lie a big deal? He didn’t know. He added it to his list of questions he had for Norton. He’d corner him this weekend for a follow-up interview. Or call him Monday if he couldn’t.
He had coffee with Janet and updated her. Told her about Sensei and the number of followers.
“Forty thousand,” he said. “I just can’t get past that.”
“Drop in the bucket,” Janet said. “There’s a lot of militia growth. Southern Poverty Law Center says the white militia groups have more than doubled since President Obama was elected. They’re tracking over a thousand groups.”
Mac thought that over. “Most militias are small groups,” he said slowly. “A bunch of dumb fucks with guns. This feels different. From the ground level? Most of these guys see themselves as part of a small gun club — they’d be proud to be called a militia. Sensei is their guru, but not their commander. But from the command level? He’s got 40,000 men, loaded for bear, he could mobilize with an email. How many of them would actually respond to a call? No clue. But even if it’s 10 percent? A solid 4,000 is a hell of a lot of men to put on the streets — men who have guns, know how to use them, and have been indoctrinated that they are the patriots that will save this country from multiculturalism.”
“That certificate program,” Janet said.
“Yeah, and the wilderness survival weekends. These men have shot at another man,” Mac said. “I’m convinced of it.”
“So, have most veterans, though, right? Is that different?”
“Yes,” Mac said promptly, then had to think about it. “Yes, it is,” he repeated slowly. “Shooting at someone who has been clearly identified as an enemy of the United States, at the direction of your commanding officer is different. Very different. And if you’re a Marine in Afghanistan for instance, and you shoot at someone without that direction, you’re going to be court-martialed and serve jail time.
“This is more of a mob mentality,” Mac continued, thinking out loud. “The kind of mobs that lynched Black men in the South.”
“What about Norton’s role?” she asked. “Does his presence make it different in the minds of these men?”
“The reserves! Shit, Janet, I forgot to ask about the deputy reserves!” Mac said with frustration. How had he not thought of them?
“What’s important about them?” Janet asked. Mac suspected her questions were designed to help him think, not because she didn’t know.
“Reserves are volunteers, and mostly? They’re scary. They volunteer so they can ride around with real deputies, carry a gun and a badge, wear a uniform. They’re gung-ho wannabes. Most of them can’t qualify for it as a job,” Mac said as he thought about what the reserves would mean to a man like Norton. “Couldn’t pass some requirement for the police academy. They get a job driving delivery trucks or something and sign up for the reserves.”
“So why are you so concerned about reserves in Skagit?”
“Because, Sensei might not be the only one forming his own extrajudicial force,” Mac said grimly. “Norton may be, too.”
“Except with Norton?” Janet added thoughtfully. “It’s a legally sanctioned force, Mac.”
Mac called the friendly sheriff deputy back and asked her about the reserves. “Yeah, we’ve got a bunch,” she said. “Seventy or so. Norton spends a lot of time drilling them, working with them. I’ve had one or two patrol with me, but they make me uncomfortable. Over-eager, you know?”
Mac thanked her and put away his phone. “That’s three times the number I’d expect,” Mac said. He’d learned a lot about how law enforcement was structured in the last three years, he thought. Lots of stupid trivia sometimes paid off.
“They’re even called a posse,” Janet contributed.
“Yeah,” he said. “They are.” So why hadn’t Norton mobilized them to help with the search for the missing hiker? The dispatcher had mentioned that she’d tried, and he got really angry. But that’s what they were often used for — search and rescue, ride-alongs with deputies. And in a well-run department, they did a lot of good, he admitted. The problem were the departments that weren’t well run. Departments like Skagit Valley’s? What was Norton using them for?
After work, Mac hit the gym for an hour, and then ended up at Anchors for happy hour with Steve’s team. They talked sports mostly, he found, which was fine, and about beers which he just listened to, bemused, because when he had been a drinker, beer was pretty much a half-dozen brands, and a Heineken was thought to be avant-garde. And the hamburger was still good.
Mike waited until they were walking out to bring up his research. “So, preliminary results?” he said, sounding troubled. “There’s been a huge up-tick in mentions of guns in the civil records, and it’s growing almost exponentially. I’ve never seen anything like it, Mac. I need to re-run the data, to make sure I didn’t do something wrong in the search. And geographically? I did it per capita, but the hot spots are in Seattle suburbs stretching north to Bellingham. Not what I would have expected. Grant you, gun collectors in rural areas might not be considered note-worthy in these kinds of proceedings, but...,” he trailed off. Mike shook his head. “It worries me. I’d like to do a sampling from five years ago for comparison. You OK with that?”
“Sure,” Mac said, wondering why Mike even asked. Maybe initiative isn’t rewarded over in Special Projects.
“What do you want me to do with all this data?”
“Build an infographic to accompany my story?” Mac suggested. “Put in whatever you think is significant.”
Mike tipped his head to the side and looked at Mac quizzically. “Janet give you that kind of freedom?”
“Freedom?”
“Yeah, I’d have to present all this data to Steve, and we’d review it as a group. Steve would decide what should be the most prominent finding, and I’d build the information according to his directions. And then a graphic designer would be brought in to do the packaging.”
Mac shrugged. “We don’t usually have that kind of time line,” he pointed out. “I’d tell Janet I had some numbers, and I was going to graphic design to get them to do a graph or chart or map or whatever. And when I had it, I’d tell her what the dimensions were. Then she’d review it when she edited my story. Of course, usually those kinds of graphics are much simpler. A locator map, or the crime stats for last month. But you’re the expert on the numbers you’re finding. Why would I dictate what you should do with them?”
Mike looked conflicted for a moment, and then he sighed. “How much do you know about the newsroom politics happening right now?”
“Not enough,” Mac said. “What’s going on that’s got you bothered?”
“Rumor has it that there are going to be major cuts in this budget — July 1. The probability is that the Special Projects unit will be eliminated, and we’ll be merged into the general newsroom. I’m not as opposed to that as I was on Monday. Working with you on a beat story makes me see why Janet thinks that’s how it always should be: that special projects should come out of the beats and not be completely separate. But the big issue is who would run the combined newsroom — Janet or Steve?”
“Two very different styles of management,” Mac said. Shit, he thought.
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, and he headed away from Mac toward his own car. “Top down, or bottom up. You wouldn’t be allowed this kind of autonomy if Steve Whitaker is the news editor.”
Mac just nodded, and got into his car. He wouldn’t be in Steve Whitaker’s newsroom, he thought. Either by his choice or by Steve’s, he’d be gone in a month. Just how deep were those cuts? And who would know? Someone outside the editorial division would be best to ask. Advertising? Circulation?
He put that on the back burner, and thought about where he needed to go next — a painted lady Victorian in the U District — and the
talk he dreaded to have with Kate Fairchild.
He sent her a text inviting her for a walk as he took the exit to the U district, and then he focused on his driving. Driving through the U District was worse than a military defensive driving test. Pedestrians ignored sidewalks, crosswalks and even traffic lights. Cars made left hand turns from the right lane, or U-turns on yellow lights. There was music blaring from a house party, and down the street, a group of young men were hanging out a window and yelling at the young women walking down the sidewalk. Mac couldn’t tell if the young women liked the attention or hated it. He doubted the men could either.
He parked in front of the old Victorian Kate and her mother ran as a boarding house for Christian college students, most of whom came from rural small towns and found Seattle overwhelming. Kate was now a teacher herself at 26 and working on her master’s in biology — which seemed odd for a woman who didn’t believe in evolution, Mac thought yet again.
She came out the door with a light jacket on and smiled at him. He smiled back, took her arm, and tucked her up against him.
“You’re ending things, aren’t you?” she said when they’d walked a block or so without comment.
“Yes,” he said, grateful to her for making it easy. “Yes, because I will never be able to give you the kind of home you want. I want a home, too. But I can’t give up who I am and my relatives and friends to fit into your world, Kate. I won’t ever believe what you believe. And it’s better that we go our separate ways now before we hurt each other.
“This way our paths will cross decades from now and I’ll say Professor Kate? Yes, I knew her back when. And you’ll say that reporter for the Examiner? Yes, I knew him when he was just starting out.”
She smiled at him, a bit shaky, but it was a smile. “Are you sure, Mac? You know I believe God loves you and has a plan for your life.”
“I know, Kate,” he said, and hesitated, then added, “But if God loves me and made me like I am, then why are you and your church so determined to change me into something I’m not?”
She said nothing. They’d made it around the block and were nearing her house. She stopped, “Thank you, Mac,” she said. “I’m grateful to you for so many things. You’ve broadened my perspective on things, you’ve made me question. That hasn’t been always easy, but I’ll never regret it. You taught me about physical love, more than you will ever know. And I’m grateful you did this, like this. You didn’t leave me wondering what did I do wrong? You didn’t blame me. And I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Mac smiled at her. He kissed her gently, and let it linger. “You’ve given me a lot too, Kate,” he said. “I’ve gotten a taste of what a home looks like. You remember the day we met?”
She nodded. There was tears in her eyes, but she was laughing. “I was making brownies,” she said.
Mac laughed. And she’d had handprints on her butt where she’d wiped floured hands. “And you said, want to scrape the bowl like when you were a kid?”
She nodded and looked puzzled.
“First time I’d ever scraped the bowl,” he said quietly. “Baking wasn’t something my mom did. First time, I’d ever had a lot of homey things that you take for granted. And you’ve made me realize how hungry I am for a home.”
She kissed him gently. “There’s always a seat at the table for you, Mac,” she said. “Just let us know, and we’ll squeeze in another plate.”
Mac knew they probably would, but he’d never ask.
He kissed her once more and walked to his car, and turned to make sure she was in the house safely. She waved and closed the door. And he looked over to the window, and saw her mother Naomi standing there. He lifted his hand in farewell, saw her nod and then she turned away.
Mac got in his car, and for a moment he just sat there, looking at the big old house, and the potential it had enticed him with.
He remembered something Janet had said early on: “The problem is Mac, you can’t unknow what you know. For good or bad, you know things that won’t fit in her world.”
“I love you, Kate Fairchild,” he said softly. And then he started the car and pulled away.
Chapter 17
(Friday, May 9, 2014)
Mac was in a foul mood by the time he got into the Examiner offices for morning calls on Friday. He’d gone home, checked in to Facebook, made his presence known. There was a leadership email from Sensei, talking about the importance of having been tested in battle. That it wasn’t enough to know how to shoot a gun, you also needed to know when, and that you could. All soldiers had had experiences where someone had frozen when faced with an enemy fighting back, often leading to disastrous results. That’s why the wilderness survival weekends were so vital for the development of strong men who would lead in the coming civic unrests. Make no mistake, he said, it’s coming. He talked about taking the survival weekends to the next level, and that there would be more on that soon.
Mac emailed him back: Wouldn’t it make more sense to train the men to be civic leaders, to run for public office, to coach Little League baseball for God’s sake, than to sit in their homes, cleaning their guns hoping for the breakdown of society so that they could go play in some real-life video game? Or hell, they could enlist!
There had been no response, and Mac worried about that. Had Sensei decided he wasn’t buying in and written him off?
But there’d been a message this morning: We’ll see how your ideals hold up on the battlefield, Mac. What will you do when what you hold dear is under attack?”
Mac frowned. He thought that was a reference to the upcoming weekend, but just in case, he suggested to his aunt that she go spend the weekend at her lover’s place.
“Mac,” Lindy had said, pouring herself coffee. She was teaching an early class this term. “What are you into this time?”
“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “A bunch of gun nuts. But this last email? I’m not sure if he meant it as a threat or not. But just in case, be elsewhere?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Sure,” she said. “I can do that.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I broke up with Kate last night,” he said.
She reached up and patted his cheek. She didn’t attempt to say anything, and he was grateful.
He put his duffel and the carry case for the Remington in the lockbox in the back of his rig. The Glock was still in his backpack with his computer and camera. He added the Ruger for Angie to his backpack. He considered if he wanted anything else, and rummaged through his hidden lockbox for his arsenal, he thought with a grin, and found a tactical knife. He slid it inside his duffel. If he thought of something else, he could always transfer it to his kit.
And then he headed into work. He hesitated and then left a message on Shorty’s phone, about the latest email, and that he should be wary. Sensei didn’t even know he exists, Mac reassured himself. But just in case, it wouldn’t hurt for a heads up.
He made his calls, then called Rodriguez and updated him. Rodriguez grunted. He still thought Mac going off on “this survivalist weekend thing was a damn fool idea.” Mac couldn’t disagree.
When he got off the phone, Mike Brewster was standing by his desk, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Show you what I got?” Mike asked.
Mac nodded. “Pull up a chair.” He looked over at Janet. “Janet, you got a moment?”
Having Janet looming over his shoulder made Mike increasingly uneasy, but he pulled up his account in the system and opened up his data files, and a graphic. He walked them both through the research and the data.
“So, bottom line? In the last 18 months the number of divorce and child support cases that mention concerns about guns, arsenals, or collections has risen from 10 in 2008 to nearly 1,500 in 2013. And it’s still escalating. In Washington, the hot spots are not in rural areas as one might expect, but in suburbs around Seattle and stretching north to Bellingham. And I did a gut check by going back to 2008 and doing the same geographic analysis, and those hot spo
ts didn’t exist. They appear to have started in 2010, and have been snowballing ever since.”
Mike Brewster paused, and called up a different file. “So, I ran the same content analysis on criminal cases, both overall, and domestic violence. Your cop source is right, 15 in six months is a lot. The first such case was in 2009, and they’ve slowly been growing. Same clusters as the civil cases.”
“Why 2008 as your start year?” Janet asked.
“I gave it to him,” Mac answered. “The Sensei keeps using Obama’s election as a trigger point. Figured it would be as good a starting point as any.”
She nodded and studied the numbers and the graphics. “Good job, Mike,” she said, with obvious approval. “Get it polished up. We’ll probably need it early next week. Do you need me to clear it with Steve?”
Mike looked relieved. “That would help,” he admitted. “I didn’t have anything pressing in my queue to work on, but a request from you two would cover me.”
She laughed. “I’ll backdate it, even,” she promised.
“What made you go after these numbers, Mac?” she asked. Mike lingered to listen.
“One of Rodriguez’s cops ran the DV numbers after those two calls last week,” Mac said. “And I remembered one of the articles you sent me talked about how almost all mass shooters have a history of DV in their past. But our society doesn’t take domestic violence seriously, and we don’t see it as the warning sign of danger ahead. So, the bastards escalate and then when they kill someone — sometimes lots of someone’s — we go, oh, look, he was arrested for domestic violence five years ago. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
Both Janet and Mike looked at him with startled expressions.
“Sorry for the rant,” he muttered. “I’m on edge today.”
“No,” Mike said slowly. “That gives me an idea for another data dive. Let me play around with that idea, and I’ll tell you two about it later today.”
Mac nodded. “Leaving early, though,” he warned. “Angie and I are headed up to Skagit Valley to do that wilderness survival weekend.”
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