by Rachel Grant
Josh laughed. “Old man? That’s not what your mother said.”
There was laughter over the radio, then Javonte said, “Weren’t you a SEAL too, Owen? Why don’t you have a girl? Can’t be the scars. Chicks dig those too.”
Owen had several scars on the back of his head from his injury and subsequent surgeries. They’d be hidden, except he chose to wear his hair military short. He laughed into the radio, and Josh could have wept at hearing the genuine amusement in his voice as he said, “I only arrived in town on Thursday. Gimme a few days, at least.”
“Desmond’s got a sister,” Javonte said. “He won’t let me near her, but—”
“And for our next lesson, gentlemen,” Josh said, “we will discuss how you are not the keeper of your female siblings, and they can date whomever they damn well please. But for now, we should focus on the rally—”
“She’s fifteen,” Desmond said.
“Oh. Never mind, then. Javonte, you go near her, and I’ll come after you myself.”
Desmond, at nineteen years old, was the youngest of the volunteers. The rest were between twenty and twenty-three. He thought of Ava, barely seventeen and about to start her junior year in high school, and nope. No way. He wouldn’t tell her she couldn’t date, but her pool was limited to high schoolers. Nineteen years old max.
Josh kept his gaze fixed on Troy Kocher’s bright yellow shirt as he slipped through the crowd. Where was he headed?
“I’m gonna follow Kocher,” he said into the radio. “Desmond, take over my spot on the front line.”
“Yes, sir.”
Josh wove his way through the crowd, keeping his eye on Kocher, who stopped and spoke with one man, exchanged high fives, and moved on.
Josh tucked himself into the counterprotest crowd and cast his gaze down as Kocher paused to scan their gathering. The guy had sensed he was being watched. He might have the instincts for security after all.
Kocher left the gathering on the lawn and slipped between news vans. Josh followed at a distance, catching a glimpse as he entered a narrow alley between two buildings. Josh reached the alley and hesitated. This was the perfect place for an ambush.
But that would give Kocher credit for planning that was beyond him. After all, he couldn’t have known Josh would be here today. Hell, Josh hadn’t known until two days ago.
He radioed the others and alerted them that he was entering the alley and gave the location.
“You want backup?” Owen asked.
“No. Just giving the heads-up.”
He walked slowly, making no sound. His gut said the alley was empty. Kocher wasn’t behind a dumpster, and he doubted the guy had climbed into one. He reached the far end of the alley and found doors on either side. One building housed a restaurant, the other a clothing boutique. Kocher must have entered one of the businesses through the back door.
With nothing more to learn here, he headed back to the entrance of the alley. He reached the street as Javonte said, “Guys, is it just me, or are the marchers surging this way?”
“Not just you,” Arthur said. “The speaker just called us terrorists trying to steal their homeland.”
Shit.
“Guess they’ve never heard of Native Americans? Sorry, Darrell.”
Darrell was a member of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation. He responded, “Oh, they’ve heard of us, but they believe they’re entitled to our land.”
Josh scanned the alley behind him and the street ahead as Arthur said, “I don’t like the look of that guy, Dez. On your left.”
A bunch of unintelligible chatter sounded, and in the distance, he heard the crowd noise rise. Josh broke into a run.
“Shit! That fucker has a knife!”
Josh couldn’t be sure who spoke, but thought it might be Arthur again.
He reached the counterprotest area to find chaos. People were screaming and running toward him. There were barricades to prevent cars from entering the protest and counterprotest vicinity, so they must be running from the man wielding the knife.
By the time his path cleared, only a handful of counterprotesters remained, plus a dozen blue shirts and the other four green shirts. In the center of it all was Desmond, with his knee pressed to a white man’s back, the man’s arm wrenched behind in a basic restraining hold they’d practiced yesterday. The right side of his face was pressed to the sidewalk, his mouth locked in a sneer or snarl, or maybe pain. It was hard to tell, but he didn’t make a sound.
Blood dripped from Desmond’s arm, the short sleeve of his blue shirt split open and a bloody knife rested on the sidewalk, just out of the white man’s reach.
Police officers moved in, and Desmond was surrounded by no fewer than six officers, all pointing their guns at him as he held down the man who’d slashed open his arm.
“He was going for the kid next to me.” Desmond’s voice rang out over the crowd. “I had to act.” His voice shook with fear. Understandable given the guns pointed at him.
Desmond had a conviction on his record. The cops could decide he was the problem here, not the guy with the knife.
“You did good protecting the others,” Josh said into the headset radio. “How’s your arm?”
“Stings like a bitch. I think. I—I’m not sure.”
Josh understood. Adrenaline could do that. Mess up perceptions of pain or mask it altogether.
“Put your hands on top of your head,” one of the officers shouted.
A half dozen cameras were recording the standoff. This was playing on live TV locally, and probably on the national cable news channels.
Running footsteps sounded behind Josh, and he turned to see the senior officer overseeing the safety of the rally running toward the standoff. A white man in his late forties, the officer had over twenty years’ experience with the bureau. Josh had spoken with him yesterday on the phone and today in person, before the rally started, and his gut said the man was solid.
“Tell your officers to lower their guns,” Josh said. “They’re making this worse.”
“We have a report that your man has a gun.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. We submitted to searches when we arrived.”
“He could have picked one up after the search.”
“He stopped a guy with a knife from attacking a counterprotester, and you’re going to make him the villain here?”
The officer let out a heavy sigh. “We need to do our jobs.
Josh waved to the cameras. “The optics on this won’t look good for your department once the footage reveals the White Patriot was the only one armed.”
“Get your guy to cooperate, and we’ll get his statement.”
“You won’t arrest him.”
The officer looked at the cameras and back at Josh. “We won’t arrest. Not in front of the cameras.”
“Not at all.”
“If footage shows he was armed or he initiated the fight, we’ll arrest him.”
The footage would show nothing of the sort. He’d searched the guys himself, and they were too smart to obtain weapons after that. The stakes were too high for them. Into his radio, Josh said, “Dez, I need you to very carefully raise your hands. Announce it before you move.”
“They’re gonna arrest me,” Desmond said.
“No, they won’t. They’re going to interview you and review the recording. Your cut will be looked at by a medic.”
“Don’t let me go back to jail, Josh.”
“I won’t.” He hoped to hell his words were true. Guilt swirled through him, and he had to force it back. He’d let it strangle him later, after Desmond was safe. Josh never should have agreed to train them. They were risking too much.
Desmond announced his movements as instructed and slowly raised his hands and rose. He stepped away from the man he’d pinned to the ground, and one officer approached, gun still out, and ordered Desmond to lie on the ground.
Josh turned to the commanding officer. “Stop this shit now
, or I will make sure the media crucifies you for lying and endangering everyone.”
“Stand down, Officer Thomas!” the man said, stepping forward.
“He’s got a gun,” Thomas said, not lowering his weapon.
“He disarmed a man with a knife, and he’s wounded. His hands are at the back of his head as instructed. He does not need to lie on the ground. He’s the hero here. What you need to do in this situation is holster your weapon, pat him down, then get him to a medic.” The commanding officer stepped in front of Desmond.
Officer Thomas lowered his weapon the moment his commander stepped into the line of fire, but Josh watched his face. He was pissed at the reprimand. Pissed he didn’t get to make an example of Desmond.
The commander patted Desmond down, but none of the other officers stepped forward to arrest the guy with the knife.
Owen must’ve caught the movement before Josh did. The white guy inched across the ground, forgotten, as everyone watched Desmond. Before Josh could react, Owen was there, stopping the man from grabbing his knife by planting a foot on the hand as it covered the handle.
All at once, two white officers noticed and stepped in, pulling the White Patriot to his feet and slapping handcuffs on him. Josh turned to one of the cameras and caught the eye of the woman filming. He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the scene. Had she gotten all of it?
She grinned and nodded, giving him a thumbs-up.
Josh smiled back as relief swamped him. The local police would have their hands full explaining how they’d managed to zero in on the hero of the hour as the villain and nearly let the guy with the knife slip away.
But Josh had also screwed up. If he hadn’t followed Kocher, Desmond wouldn’t have been on the front line. He’d left the young man at risk, and for what? Did it matter where Kocher had gone?
He’d been thinking of Maddie and not the job he was here for, not the men he’d promised to keep safe.
A microphone was thrust before him, and much as he wanted to say, “No comment,” and walk away, this was his one chance to frame the narrative and make it clear that Desmond was a hero for protecting others.
Because they wore Raptor shirts, he’d cleared his talking points with Keith yesterday, and thankfully had his opening comments memorized, because his brain was a jumble.
The confrontation had effectively ended the rally, and by the time his interview was complete, the crowd had dwindled down to police, press, a handful of counterprotesters, and a few dozen remaining White Patriots.
Josh scanned the remainder and spotted Kocher among them. Josh waved and smiled like he’d spotted an old friend. Kocher glared at him and turned his back.
“Daaaamn, snubbed by a white supremacist,” Owen said. “How will you ever get over the heartache?”
Josh laughed as his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.
Maddie: You’re on the news.
Josh: Did they capture my good side?
Maddie: Not yet. Turn around.
He laughed as his phone chimed again.
Maddie: Is the guy who was cut okay?
Josh glanced over to the ambulance, where Desmond was having his wound stitched by an ER doctor who’d tagged along with the medics on his day off in case things got out of hand. As he watched, the rear door of the ambulance opened, and Desmond shook the doctor’s hand then jumped down.
Josh: He’s all stitched up. Should be fine.
Maddie: One of the networks got footage of the WP guy pulling the knife. They keep replaying it in a loop. You can also see he has a gun in his sock. It was knocked out when they fought and disappeared in the grass.
Josh glanced to where the struggle had taken place and saw two officers pacing the area, clearly searching for something.
Josh: Looks like someone picked it up. Cops are searching. Thank God the news caught it on film. Hard to argue with that. WP probably intended to plant it on Desmond.
Maddie: Is he going to have trouble with the police?
Josh: I don’t think so, but the WPs will try to pin it on him. BTW—Kocher is here. With that curator guy.
Maddie: I wish I were surprised. Religious reasons my ass.
Josh: Next time you go to the house, I want to be with you. All day. I’ve got a bad feeling.
Maddie: Thanks, but I need to be able to do my job—and you need to do yours. I can’t afford Raptor’s fees.
She was right, but still, he was worried.
Josh: Maybe we can work something out. Thanks for the updates.
Maddie: Welcome. Ohh. There’s a hot guy on TV. Gotta go.
He smiled. He shouldn’t have kissed her. Shouldn’t want to spend more time with her. And he really shouldn’t flirt with her. But still, he typed another message.
Josh: Hope they’re showing his good side.
Maddie: Don Lemon doesn’t have a bad side.
A laugh burst from him.
He looked up to see Owen shaking his head. “You’ve got it bad, man, if you’re sexting now.”
“Not sexting.” But Owen had a point, and he did have it bad. “Maddie’s watching the news, and there was a gun in knife guy’s sock. Caught on camera.”
“I thought something like that might have happened. Cops started searching the grass a few minutes ago.”
“That gun is long gone,” Josh said.
“Yeah. Question is, did one of his buddies retrieve it, or did a counterprotester grab it?”
Josh blew out a breath. “I don’t like any of this.” He nodded to where the remaining White Patriots were gathered. “This was clearly a setup to make it look like the counterprotesters were the problem.”
“Straight from the false flag playbook. Blame Desmond and the rest of us for starting the violence. Basic game plan.”
“Maybe that’s the goal of knife guy and the other stooges, but there’s always a bigger goal. Oklahoma City was supposed to signal other white militias to rise up. It was supposed to be the start of a revolution. The frequency of marches now makes me think they’re building up to something bigger.”
Josh stared across the lawn at Troy Kocher and wondered if he was a pawn or a knight in the White Patriot army.
6
After a week in the crypt, it was a relief to finally be aboveground. All the remains in the basement had been documented, and now Maddie could go to town on the data that mattered most: Otto’s notes.
With the exception of the kitchen at the back of the house, the museum filled the ground floor of the mansion. The front hall, all three sitting rooms, library, living room, and dining room had all been converted decades ago to display the artifacts. A second staircase led down into the crypt, which had also been open to the public. Supposedly, all the vaults had remained closed, but that was another lie the family got away with for far too long.
Adjacent to the kitchen, next to that staircase, was a study that served as the museum office. It was in there that Otto Kocher’s notes and maps were stored and where she’d found the misplaced bag of bones last Friday.
Now Maddie was settled into the office with new appreciation for tall windows and sunlight. And cell service. Not to mention it was a lot harder for Troy to find excuses to stand too close.
She took a deep breath of the fresh air wafting in from the open window. The heat wave had ended, and it was a perfect summer day, the last of July. She’d spent at least an hour on the phone with Josh every night since she’d last seen him a week ago, and today, he would stop by the house for a midday visit just to remind Troy he was still paying attention.
Troy hadn’t hovered quite so close in the crypt this week, and Maddie suspected seeing Josh at the rally had rattled him. There had been no shortage of interviews of Josh, Arthur, and Desmond as the days passed, and with every replay of video from the rally, Josh looked like a calm-headed leader, Desmond was a hero for protecting several counterprotestors from a man with a knife, and the White Patriot who’d assaulted him was facing more assault charges by the day. The offic
er who’d held the gun on Desmond after being told to stand down had been suspended, and there was a call to review all his arrests, examining for racial bias.
All in all, it was a win for the good guys, and Troy Kocher was pissed—but he was keeping his distance, which was all that mattered to Maddie.
She did her best to ignore him as she fed Otto’s papers into the document feed of the full-size scanner. There were too many pages to mess around with the portable scanner she’d used in the crypt, and she hoped to finish making copies today so she could put this house in her rearview mirror.
The nightly calls from Josh had been the best part of her days. Even though she knew it couldn’t go anywhere right now, she still enjoyed the flirting. The man.
Every night as she drifted to sleep, she relived that last good-night kiss and the one on the first night by the door, which had been pure wild heat.
She focused on the papers in front of her. She didn’t need to read them now, she would spend the next weeks combing through them, but it wouldn’t hurt to redirect her thoughts and get a jump start on the next phase.
Otto’s wife, Sally Kocher, had done much of the note-taking while Otto dug. Her handwriting was distinctive and, thankfully, easy to read. Flipping through the files, which had been ordered chronologically, Maddie noticed there were big gaps in the years. Otto was extremely wealthy for his time—the family logging business was booming, and hired managers ran the business. With loads of free time and plenty of money to support his habit, he spent his summers adding to his collection. Newspaper articles were written about him as if he were a swashbuckling adventurer.
She knew the newspaper articles were a product of their time—and it wasn’t as if her own professional predecessors were much better—but it was still disturbing.
The multiyear gaps in the notes were likely because Otto had been digging on federal land and the documents were destroyed in the seventies. As she scanned what remained of their papers, Maddie skimmed the pages, looking for references to previous excavations—as sometimes the woman noted similarities between finds. She also studied the news articles looking for references to specific digs and their timeframe. NAGPRA only required a preponderance of evidence to show an item was subject to repatriation. She didn’t have to worry about “beyond a reasonable doubt” and a passing reference to a dig would add the data needed to fulfill the preponderance requirement.
