Serve & Protect

by L. J. Breedlove

  “Hard to be responsible for someone else.” His eyes were shadowed, as if he knew that first hand.

  “So, spill,” Mac said. “You rounding up the wannabes?”

  “They’re being interviewed,” Rodriguez said. “We’re looking for the ones who may have stayed behind on previous weekends for a more dangerous hunt. Craig Anderson is being helpful, but claims he didn’t know what went on after he left early Sunday mornings. Malloy has lawyered up. Norton is talking — I guess you’ve heard that? But they haven’t gotten to the manhunts.”

  “The reserves might know things there,” Mac said. Kevin had come by, a long trek from Mount Vernon for a man he barely knew. They’d rescued three reserves from the Wilderness Trek camp. There were four reserves still missing. Dead, everyone assumed. But the surviving reserves weren’t talking, Kevin had said. They had lawyers, too.

  “Thanks man,” Mac said simply. “You saved my life. You need me, you call. I owe you.”

  Kevin nodded. “I may need a job reference,” he said with an eyeroll. “My employer isn’t happy with me. I’m out of the reserves. And I’ve got a baby on the way.”

  He paused. “But I’m glad we made it out. And that you’re going to be OK.”

  Mac nodded. “Go by and see Ken,” he said. “Tell him he owes me, and I’m calling it in. Just say that, and then ask for a job.”

  Kevin nodded. He’d do it, he said. He thought he’d like working for Ken Bryson.

  Mac refocused on Rodriguez. “Truthfully, I don’t think Craig did know. I don’t think he wanted to. He turned a blind eye to Malloy’s extra activities, because he was making a ton of money selling guns to the certificate program. But Malloy and Norton? Two of a kind. Racist fucks. They bonded, and they shared the mlk4whites Facebook name and spread the hate.”

  “I’d like to nail Malloy for that,” Rodriguez said grimly. “But it will take time.”

  On day three, Shorty came by after work. “Sensei is still posting and still doing his newsletter,” he reported. “Any ideas for me to explore?”

  Mac nodded and gave him a name. Shorty raised his eyebrows, but promised to report back.

  Janet asked for more sidebars. More information. And yes, for cutlines to go with Angie’s photos. He obliged. He was getting more writing done in the hospital than he would have at work. And no blotter calls. But he wanted out. He wasn’t done yet.

  Not until he had Sensei. There were dead men who didn’t need to die because of him. Rodriguez said they were having to refer men and families to mental health services as they tracked down Anderson’s client list. He had destroyed lives.

  And he had more followers than ever.

  “Maybe,” Shorty said when he called on day four on his way to school. He’d done the content analysis Mac had wanted overnight. “He’s the first name you’ve given me that I can’t rule out anyway.”

  Mac thought that over. He started building his profile of the man he thought was Sensei. But he needed out of here to fill in a few blanks!

  Day five, Warren came by while the doctor was reviewing his chart. “Can he go?” Warren asked.

  “Please,” the doctor said. “Take him out of here.” He looked at Mac. “But be careful?” he said. “You’ve got a bullet wound. And broken ribs. Well, the ribs will remind you if you do anything too strenuous. But trust me, we don’t want you back.”

  Warren laughed.

  Mac smiled at the doctor. “I will do my best to never return,” he promised. He looked at Stan Warren. “And if you find me some clothes? You can give me a ride home.” His 4-Runner was still up in the North Cascades. And wasn’t that going to be a bitch to get fixed and brought home? Four flat tires, and probably a cut gas line?

  Stan Warren set a small gym bag on the chair next to his bed. “Your aunt,” he explained.

  The doctor was right, the ribs ensured he didn’t want to move too rapidly or do anything very strenuously. He didn’t go into the office, because at home he could type in a recliner. Sitting up straight at a desk fucking hurt. So, he made calls and filed more stories. Follow up stories about the investigation. Another explainer about domestic violence, mass shooters, and white militia. A story about white supremacists in the military and law enforcement.

  And he kept researching Sensei.

  On Sunday, he put together the information that outed who Sensei was and gave Rand a call.

  Rand came by the house and sat in the living room and listened to what Mac had to say with narrowed eyes. He looked increasingly grim as Mac presented his information.

  “Circumstantial,” he said. “Intriguing but not enough viable evidence to even bring him in for questioning.”

  Mac nodded. “I know,” he said. “What I’m asking you for is back up. Not Rand, FBI agent, but Rand, Ken Bryson’s former guide.”

  “Back up for what?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I think I need to have a conversation with Sensei in person,” Mac said. “An interview, if you like.”

  He explained his plan, and Rand nodded thoughtfully. “OK,” he said. “I owe Ken that much.”

  Monday morning Rand drove the two of them to Sedro Woolley. Mac had some tire patch kits and the materials he’d need to get his truck running and out of the camp. It was making him nervous to have it sitting up there with all of those weapons in it. Maybe he did need to reconsider keeping them in his 4-Runner, he thought. But if he hadn’t had them all, he wouldn’t have made it out alive. Angie wouldn’t have either.

  To his surprise, the 4-Runner was parked by Wilderness Adventures. They went inside. Ken was there, although he was as battered as they were. He looked them over when they walked in. “You both look like hell,” he said.

  “You look in the mirror, old man?” Rand said, shaking his hand.

  “Try not to,” he agreed. “On the other hand, we’re alive.”

  He looked at Mac. “Brought your rig out,” he said.

  “Saw that,” Mac said. “Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to that chore.”

  “Had to get my own out,” he said. “One more was no big deal. Tow truck driver commented that yours was heavier than it should be, though.”

  The three of them looked at each other and cracked up. “Ouch,” Mac said. “Laughing hurts with broken ribs.”

  Ken nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Been there, done that.”

  He paused. “You did good, Marine,” he said.

  “You weren’t so shabby either for an Army grunt,” Mac replied.

  Rand rolled his eyes.

  “Stuff it, Mr. FBI agent,” Ken said. “You’ve been moonlighting for me for years, and never mentioned your real job?”

  Rand shrugged. “Never came up,” he said. “And when they needed someone inside on this? What am I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, you probably didn’t know this, but I’m FBI?”

  “Would have fired your ass,” he agreed.

  “Am I fired?” Rand asked seriously. “Because I like the work. Minus the white supremacists, anyway.”

  “Might be a while before we’re doing trips again,” Ken said. “That SOB Peabody pulled my permits and licenses. But I’ll give you a call.”

  He looked at Mac. “And yes, I gave Kevin a job too. He’s a better fit with me than driving truck. When I’m back up and running.”

  Mac nodded. Kevin was a better fit, especially now, he thought. Because after that disaster of a weekend, he’d have PTSD like the rest of the men Ken Bryson hired. But he’d done the job and gotten Mac out. Couldn’t ask for more than that in a partner.

  Rand dropped Mac off at the end of the drive and let him walk in. Mac found even that left him tired and hurting. He sighed. It wasn’t his first recovery stint. Recovering took longer and was more tedious than getting the injuries in the first place. Always was.

  Mac broke into Sensei’s house easily. It was a nice house, rustic-looking on the outside, comfortable and modern inside. He explored it from top to bottom, looking in drawers, cupboards and closet
s. He found his office computer, and following Shorty’s instructions, he pulled the hard-drive, router and cords and shoved them into his backpack. The books on the shelves were interesting, and he photographed them carefully. God, he even had Turner Diaries, Mac thought with disgust. Did he never have visitors? He might as well have a Confederate flag or Nazi paraphernalia sitting out. But near as Mac could tell from his research, Sensei was a loner.

  But this wasn’t the house of a man who was barricaded in because SHTF paranoia. Mac frowned. He then proceeded to go through the house a second time. Somewhere the man had a bunker, an arsenal. Be a good thing to know before he confronted him.

  It was hiding in plain sight — almost. What looked like stairs to a root cellar off the kitchen actually went down to a nice bomb shelter left over from the ’50s — probably when the house was built. And it was outfitted for when SHTF, part prepper, part militia. Well, well, Sensei actually believes what he preaches, Mac thought as he looked over the weaponry — a more thoughtful selection than what they were pulling out of the wannabes’ homes. He closed the door and went upstairs to the man’s office. He sat in the chair behind the desk and made a list of questions.

  Edward Peabody came home for lunch and as soon as he opened the back door he knew someone had been inside. He pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket and moved quietly through the kitchen and into the living room. He checked out the guestroom, cleared the dining room, and then taking a deep breath, he went upstairs.

  No one in his bedroom, but he knew someone had been there. He was a tidy man and things weren’t quite as he left them. He checked his bathroom, but he was pretty sure if someone was still here waiting for him, he was in his study.

  Or the bunker. He hadn’t cleared it. He hesitated. Then decided to check the study while he was up here.

  He opened the study door and saw Mac sitting at his desk.

  Mac looked up. “Hello, Sensei,” he said.

  Peabody came into the room, put his pistol back in his pocket. “Mac? What are you doing in my home?”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “Really? You’re going to try and bluff your way out?” He shook his head. “I’ve spent the last three days of my hospital stay researching you. I know you. Although your house is interesting. Your books are even more interesting.”

  Peabody took a seat in the armchair next to the bookshelves. It swiveled so he could face the man who had staked his claim to his desk. His eyes narrowed when he saw the vandalized computer.

  “And what do you think you know about me that you didn’t from our tour a few weeks back?” Peabody asked.

  “Let’s start with that tour,” Mac agreed. “You were so blunt about Norton. It seemed strange, but your frustration was understandable. Norton wasn’t responding to your rangers’ calls for help. But what was really worrying you was that Norton wasn’t responding to Sensei’s instructions either. And you knew enough about the rise and fall of militia to know he was gearing up to challenge you for control. Which was stupidity on his part. Because the man couldn’t do what you’re doing online. He and Malloy tried. They concocted that foul name MLK4whites, and they tried to build a following like you had. And 3,000 followers is not too shabby. But it isn’t 40,000. They ended up just being an agitator within your community, and that actually worked to your advantage. They said things that you wouldn’t say. You came across as thoughtful by comparison. But it wasn’t going to end there, and you knew it.”

  “Interesting, but you don’t have any proof that I’m behind the Sensei account,” Peabody said.

  Mac nodded. “So, you take us out to the ravine and we get shot at. Validates your story. But it really didn’t make sense. Angie mentioned it. She said you expected to get shot at that day. Which was an interesting observation. Who was out there, I wonder? One of the deputy reserves? Then Norton makes arrangements for me to go along. You didn’t know about that until the very end. And it pissed you off. But then you thought it might be the solution to Norton’s desire to take over.”

  “Norton is an idiot,” Peabody said. “What was he thinking taking in some reserves and attacking you guys like that?”

  “He was thinking that Sensei wanted to see more of a war games scenario rather than a manhunt like he and Malloy had been doing,” Mac answered. “That’s what he told me. It’s what he’s telling the FBI. He’d planned to go along on the trip. He wanted to be there in the camp when I realized Angie and I were going to be the next ones hunted. But you changed the game. And then a couple of people ended up dead. The wrong people. And I wouldn’t let my team fight back against deputy reserves. We’d be dead or in prison if we did, and I wasn’t going there. Norton was pissed that I wouldn’t fight back. So, Norton decided a manhunt was still possible, and cut a deal with Ken Bryson. He can get his people out if he’s willing to leave me and Angie behind.”

  “And how did you feel about Bryson when he did it?” Peabody asked.

  Mac shrugged. “If he’d asked me, I would have told him to do it. Might have tried to get Angie in the trek out, but he made the right call. Leaving Rand behind was a boon. He gave us that. Upped our chance of survival tremendously.”

  Peabody’s mouth tightened. “So, go on,” he said. “I still don’t see what it has to do with me, but it’s an interesting story. And anything that takes Norton down is going to have my stamp of approval.”

  “I just bet it does,” Mac said with a laugh. “So now we’ve got a manhunt going, which Norton is more comfortable with. And no man has escaped him so far. Because if they do? You take care of it. You can’t afford for any man to live and tell the story. So, like that last hiker? He almost made it out. He thinks he has, actually, because there you are in your Ranger uniform. And you listen to his entire story. Does it turn you on? I bet it does. And then you give him a fatherly hug and tell him he’s safe now. And then you broke his neck and tossed him in the ravine. Irony? You don’t even know your own park well enough to know how discoverable that ravine is.”

  Peabody’s mouth tightened, and he glared at Mac. Mac grinned. The man didn’t like criticism. “And the truth is? The person who has been taking those potshots at your rangers? That’s you. You don’t want them going into the Park. You want them sticking to the roads. Especially on the weekends Craig’s got his clients up there. Especially when they might find a dead body early enough for the coroners to determine cause of death isn’t natural or accidental. And god, it gives you a rush doesn’t? Sitting out there with your rifle and firing off shots at your rangers? Watching them duck? You don’t even try to hit them. And of course, the ranger who did get a ricochet got a hold of you! You were only 100 yards away....”

  Mac shook his head. That one had really got to him. Peabody had balls, he’d give him that much. More than he’d first thought.

  “I backtracked your career you know,” Mac continued conversationally. “Once you popped into my mind as a ‘person of interest’. My friend who does the deep dive into social media and data mining helped. He’s insisted Sensei knew me, by the way. And he confirmed that your writing was consistent with Sensei’s writing. He’d been ruling out the players as I listed them. Quite frustrating chore really. His fear was that Sensei was a coworker at the Examiner. But I didn’t think so. Maybe law enforcement. But not a reporter. But back to your past.

  “See, I didn’t want to know your resume,” Mac explained. “I want to know what happens in an area where you’re stationed. Are there crimes that go unsolved? Does white militia rhetoric increase? What impact are you having in the communities as you pass through? And since I was confined to a hospital room for the week, I had plenty of time to track things down.”

  Mac had actually been surprised at how easy it was, once he’d focused on Edward Peabody. He’d moved a lot for one thing. Twenty years in the Navy, the last station in San Diego. And yes, he overlapped with Norton’s time there. Peabody was older. But Norton’s experiment with boot camp happened during Peabody’s last year in San Diego.


  “So, did you know Norton when you were both in San Diego?” Mac asked. “You overlapped. You must have thought you struck gold when you get up here 20 years later and there’s your Skinhead from San Diego.”

  Edward Peabody shook his head. “A lot of Marines go through that camp for boot. And you think I knew any of them? In the first place, I was Navy.”

  “Oh, you probably didn’t know him as a boot,” Mac countered. “But you knew there were men out attacking Latinos, didn’t you? How could you not? It was making headlines.”

  “I read about it, I suppose,” he admitted. “But you’re making connections that don’t exist.”

  Mac smiled. “And then you went back to college, got a master’s in forest management and signed on to the Park Service. In the last 20 years since then, you’ve been at five different parks including this one. That’s a lot of moves. Park Service rangers are usually more stationary.”

  Peabody shrugged. “I like seeing the country,” he said. “I’m single. Why not?”

  “Haven’t always been single though,” Mac interjected. “You were married. Got divorced in San Diego. Tried to get custody of your son and lost. Explains a lot of the rhetoric around custody battles in Mount Vernon among your fans, doesn’t it? The divorce was interesting — one of her concerns was your growing obsession with weaponry and prepping for disaster.”

  One of the things Mac had learned working this story was the value of searching civil cases and records when doing a backgrounder on someone. Mike Brewster had been really helpful with that.

  “So?” Peabody said defensively.

  “It’s interesting, that’s all,” Mac said. “Your presence in this region has increased the number of divorces linked to weapons significantly.”

  “You’re reaching, Mac,” he said, dismissing the link.

  Mac just grinned. “Well it’s not as significant as the increase in hate crimes wherever you go, and then they taper off when you move on. Come on, Peabody, just admit it. You’re Sensei. You’ve got 40,000 followers on Facebook. You finally found the medium to sell your white militia message. And it’s been resonating and growing. Aren’t you proud of it? Why hide? It’s just you and me, sitting in your house, talking.”