by Jeff Nania
“Hey, John. Hey, Len. What did you guys do to the jeep?” He walked around the front, crawled under the hood, and then looked at the tire. Then he started to look at things more slowly. He took a tire gauge from his pocket and stuck it through one of the holes in the radiator. It came out the other side, the tip pointing right at the distributor. He repeated the process with the other hole.
Doc O’Malley looked at both of us, his eyes as wide as saucers.
“You guys, these look like bullet holes. Was somebody shooting at you?”
“Doc, it’s a long story. Right now, we need to get this jeep loaded up and out of here,” said Len.
“This poor thing is all shot to hell. The radiator, carburetor, distributor are bad. Looks like the oil cooler or transmission cooler might have taken a hit. Bet it stopped pretty quick when all this happened.”
“It did. That’s for sure,” I answered.
“You’re not going to be driving this thing anywhere today. We’ll winch it up on the flatbed and haul it to the shop. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning, but there’s a whole pile of damage, and I won’t know much until I get it apart. Chief, I hope you get the guy that did this. What a shame shooting up a wonderful vehicle like this.”
Clearly, for the moment, Doc’s main interest was in the damage to the jeep. As he continued his assessment, he found another bullet hole, this one in the lower corner of the windshield. He followed the bullet’s path and found where it had ripped through part of the driver’s seat and continued on into the vehicle. He stopped cold and looked at us, then back at the windshield.
The look on his face said it all when he blurted out, “You guys are lucky you didn’t get shot!”
“No truer words were ever spoken, Doc. We are lucky men,” I said.
He backed up the truck and tilted down the bed, hooked on his winch cable, and activated it with a handheld power switch. As the jeep slowly began its ascent, the front wheels pulled it to the left.
Doc stopped it and asked, “Len or John, would you mind jumpin’ up there and holding the steering wheel straight? That blowout might have damaged the steering gear, and that’s what’s making it pull like that.”
I jumped up on the deck and held the wheel while he winched the jeep into the travel position. The bed was lowered, and he locked it down with front and rear chains.
“We’re ready to roll. Hop in.”
Once on the road, Len brought up an important point. “Are we going to drop the jeep off at the garage?”
“No, we can’t,” I said. “We need to take it out to my place and put it in the storage building. This is a small town. A vehicle that shows up at a garage all shot up is bound to get a lot of attention. We don’t need that.”
“I am the chief of police. Someone just tried to murder us. This is not one of those things that we can ignore.”
This was uncharted territory for a man who had lived his life by the letter of the law. I was sorry that he was in this spot. But the truth of it was, he brought me into this, not vice versa. It was too late to turn back. We needed to finish what we started.
“Doc, take us and the jeep out to my place. We are going to put it in the shed. If you’ve got time, look it over and see what parts you are going to need. I will pay you double your normal rate to fix it at my place instead of your shop. I would appreciate it if you would keep this quiet and don’t tell anyone. We are not committing a crime here. Every crime needs a victim that becomes a complainant. I’m not filing a complaint about getting my jeep shot up. As far as I know, somebody was out in the woods target shooting and forgot to use a good backstop—a stupid accident. Is that the way you see it, Chief?”
He stared off through the windshield of O’Malley’s truck. “Pretty much the way I see it too.”
“How about you, Doc O’Malley? Are you good with this?” I asked.
“Yup, I’m good except for one part,” he replied.
“And what part is that?”
“I will be glad to fix the jeep at your place. You cover the parts, and I’ll cover my time. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it seems like you two have your hands full. It’s the least I can do to help. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
We pulled into the driveway, and O’Malley drove the truck down to the storage building. With the double doors open, he was able to back his big rig right in. The bed was lowered and the jeep was unhooked. Then he tilted the bed a little, and with a bunch of pushing on our part, the jeep rolled free. It stopped in the middle of the shed.
“Since I’m here now, I’ll start making a list of parts we’re going to need to get this back on the road again. I can’t tell you how long it’ll take until I know all that’s wrong. I’ll work on it nights and over the weekend, and it is still gonna take some time. It may be a couple of weeks before we even have all the parts. What are you gonna drive until then, John?”
“Good question,” I answered.
“Well, I have an idea. A customer of mine recently passed away, and his wife brought his pickup truck down to the shop for me to sell. It’s an older Chevy, but it’s in great shape. Four-wheel drive, heater, and all the windows work. She doesn’t want much for it, and it would be a good dependable ride for you. After we get the jeep fixed up, you could put it back at my place and get your money out of it. That is, of course, unless it ends up with a bunch of bullet holes.”
“I’ll take it. How much do you need?” I replied.
“Nothin’ now. I’ll do all the paperwork when I get back. The keys are in it, and it’s ready to go. I even have a month’s worth of insurance on it.”
“Fair enough, and Doc, thanks for all you’re doing. I want you to know that you’re on the side of right here. Have no worries about that,” I assured him.
“Never had one doubt,” he smiled.
We got into Len’s truck and left.
“Len, take us back to where we got shot,” I said.
“Holy crap, John. Haven’t we had enough for one day? I mean, I’m kinda worn right down.”
“Len, it won’t take long.”
Reluctantly, he drove us back. He first stopped at the antifreeze stain on the road.
“Keep going, Len, but go slow.”
Right at the curve there was a narrow fire lane that went off into the forest.
“Stop here.”
I could see some fresh ruts and splashed mud where the truck must have turned off. The trail was easy to follow up a shallow slope to a landing where logs were waiting to be loaded. I climbed up the log pile and had a perfect view of the road. From where I was, I could see something shining on the ground.
“Chief, look by your feet.”
A shell casing. Len looked but didn’t touch. Even though at least four shots had been fired, only one casing remained. The shooter had probably pocketed the rest—a careful man.
“I have a couple of old evidence bags in my truck. We changed over to a different kind at the department, and the guys and I found out these old ones are a perfect fish bag. They’re still good, though.”
We both canvassed the scene, carefully noting anything that may be of value to us. There were clear tire tracks, the exact type of tire impression that had been left on the road near my shop.
Len and I inserted a pen in the mouth of the shell casing to lift it into the evidence bag. It’s common for fingerprints to be left on shell casings, most often a thumb print from pushing the shells into the magazine when loading it. Sometimes if you find the right weapon, it can also be matched up to the firing pin, chamber, or extractor marks. This casing had 7.62x39 stamped on the cartridge rim, the same kind fired by an AK-47, the same kind of rifle carried by the man we were following.
Other than the tire tracks and the shell casing, the scene was clean. It was a fast hit-and-run attack by someone who had enough experience to seize the opportunity when it was presented. If he had wanted to kill us outright, he could have done it. From his vantage point, he had had a clear fie
ld of fire. We couldn’t even see him, and he could have sprayed us until nothing moved. He had intended to deter us, but if a round like the one through the windshield had hit us, so be it. The jeep had taken almost all the punishment, and it was a warning. The next time, if there was one, would be different.
The fire lane led out to the highway, and we turned toward town. We didn’t speak all the way to Bill and Jack’s Garage. Len pulled in.
“Chief, we need to find out who this guy is. I have some pretty good pictures, and I know someone who has access to the Fed’s photo recognition program. In the meantime, you start snooping around. Turn over some stones. We have a distinct advantage.”
“What would that ‘distinct advantage’ be?”
“Local knowledge, Len. You know everything there is to know about this community. You’ll recognize anything out of place in a second. The Feds could never develop the kind of intelligence network you have even if they put a hundred agents on the ground tomorrow.”
“Well, those two agents, Chandler and Street, sure didn’t want my help.”
“They never do, until they do. They are the FBI, which supposedly makes them automatically smarter than you or I could ever hope to be. Don’t forget Chandler is somehow connected to the guy who shot at us. I don’t know what the connection is, but the photo of them together and the fact that it’s a surveillance photo is telling. Watch out for him.”
“I will, John. I will. Take care of yourself. I will let you know if I find anything.”
The Chevy truck was in great shape. It was dark blue with a bench seat and an extended cab. The interior was pretty plain and had a strong scent of pine needles emanating from the styrofoam evergreen tree hanging from the rearview mirror. The keys were in the ignition, and it started right up. I lowered the driver’s window and drove out of the lot. There were many things on my mind. It had been a long day, and there was no turning back. The number of questions needing answers seemed to increase by the minute.
I couldn’t concentrate on my drive back to the lake. At the last minute I remembered that I had promised to give Bud a call so he could get Julie’s things. I called his number.
“Hey, John,” he answered. “I thought you forgot about me.”
“No. Sorry, Bud. I got tied up with some stuff.”
“No problem. Okay if I come out right now? I’m a couple miles on the other side of town.”
“Fine. I’ll see you when you get here.”
I parked my new truck on the other side of the shop, not really hidden but out of view from the cabin. I didn’t want Bud to see it and ask questions. Mostly, I didn’t want to lie to Bud. I retrieved the bunch of keys from the cabin, went to the shop, and opened up my uncle Nick’s gun locker. There were a few guns, mostly hunting rifles with scopes attached. Two beautiful LC Smith shotguns filled a couple of spots. Both were worn but well cared for—nothing really that fit my current needs. I needed to be ready to meet firepower with firepower with long-range capability. A bolt action rifle with a good quality scope could be an awesome weapon, but a five-round magazine and the slowness of working the action, in all but the most practiced hands, made this a poor choice. The double-barreled shotgun was the age-old close-range weapon but had significant limitations. An AK-47 has a 300-yard effective range and when selected to full auto is capable of emptying a thirty-round magazine in five seconds. Carrying a pocket pistol into a situation like this was foolish, and I was damn lucky to have survived. No one in a gunfight ever wanted a smaller gun or less ammunition. No more stupid mistakes if I could avoid it.
I heard Bud’s big truck pull in, his presence announced by the rumbling diesel engine.
“Hey, John!” He half hollered at me. “Working on something that I can help with?”
“Nope, Bud. Just looking around.”
That’s where the conversation stopped, and Bud began to closely examine the toes of his work boots. His cheeks were bright red, and it was clear he had something to say but didn’t want to say it. Bud is a powerhouse of a man blessed with a pure and giving soul without a mean bone in his body.
“Well, Bud, spit it out. I will listen and not say a word.”
“Well, yeah, okay. I, ah … well, John, it’s just that…”
I waited. If you needed your boat dock fixed, Bud would do a good job and get right on it. As a speech maker, well, it was not his forte. He’d get to it when he was ready. So I was patient. Then the dam burst.
“Julie wants me to get all her stuff, I mean all of it. She says she is moving out of here forever, and she says she is not coming back. Not ever! She told me to tell you to stay away from her and her school. She really means it, too. When she gets like this, nothing will change her mind. I found out it’s better for me to do what she says and keep my big yap shut. I am sure going to miss you, John. I sure liked comin’ out here and doin’ fun stuff. Julie says she has done enough for you now that you’re healed up and you don’t need her anymore. She says you want to get on with your life and so does she.
“John, she was really pissed off when she was telling me this. She was unpackin’ but kinda throwing the clothes around instead of folding them up neat like she does. I tried to tell her that I needed to go and fix something. She yelled at me saying, ‘What do you need to fix at this very moment, Bud?’ I got all sort of jobs that need doin’ but I could not think of one of them. So, I just stood there like a bump on a log. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry this is happening.”
I felt bad for the big man. He was taking on the burden of the falling out between Julie and me. He assumed that where Julie went, he had to follow and that our friendship would be gone along with Julie’s possessions.
“Bud, come over to the picnic table and sit down.
“I want you to take a deep breath and listen to what I have to say. Julie has made a good decision. She needs to find happiness in her life, maybe even get married and have a family. I could not have made it without her. She helped me when I needed it the most. I have no right to expect anything more. On the other hand, she does have a right to expect that I will respect her wishes, and I intend to do that. I don’t want you to think I’m playing the lonely desperate guy that has a ‘Born to Lose’ tattoo on one arm and ‘Mom’ on the other when I say this, but I’m nothing but trouble. I am a guy who never wants anyone to take care of him but ends up having to have somebody take care of him. I will never be any different; it is who I am. Julie would have a miserable life with me, and she and I both know it. It’s best for both of us we go our separate ways.”
“I thought we were kind of a family, John. Ya’ know, hanging out, having dinner together. It felt like that anyway.”
“We will always be friends, Bud. You can come out to see me anytime you want. We can even have dinner together. I’m not going anywhere. Heck, maybe Julie will end up with a bunch of kids, and you can all come out swimming and have a picnic.”
Bud gave me the most quizzical look, sadness framed by incomprehension. “You really don’t care that Julie’s gone? Don’t you care that she moved to town? You aren’t going to miss her?”
“Sure, I’ll miss her. But you know how it is, Bud.”
His look now changed. His gentle giant face turned to a mask of anger. Not a mean bone, but he could still get mad. He stared at me hard then said, “I don’t know how it is, John. I sure don’t know how it is. I guess I am not as smart as you and Julie, because you two got it all figured out, and I can’t see it. I’m leavin’. Julie can get her own stuff, and if that boat dock of yours breaks again, call someone else to fix it.”
Bud swung up into his truck and roared down the driveway. Caring and being cared for is a burden, one that I likely am better off without. Two of my best friends had moved on, and I would not pursue them. For now, I needed to go on unencumbered.
The cabin felt empty. I poured a little brandy in a glass with ice. I looked over the titles on the bookshelf and settled on Death in the Long Grass by Capstick, an enticing tale of Afr
ican hunting adventures and close calls. I settled into Uncle Nick’s favorite chair and started to read.
As exciting as the story was, it could not keep my attention. I found myself drifting to thoughts about today, reviewing next steps. The chief and I had blown it, getting caught tailing that guy. He had paid us for our stupidity with a few shots from his AK. The fuse was lit and we had to keep moving. Len Bork and I were on our own loosely operating within the law, if not just outside the law.
I fell asleep in the chair. Sometime after midnight, the ringing phone woke me. I let the answering machine pick up.
“John, this is Jack Wheeler. I was hoping you could make time to see me right away in the morning regarding your case and some other things. Please give me a call. I will keep my schedule open. Anytime you can meet is fine. John, this is important. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”
I woke up early after a restless night. The sun was rising over the lake, orange hues reflecting off the perfectly calm water. It was a cool morning, the air crisp and clean.
One half of me would have rather been motoring up the lake to do some fishing or maybe paddling a canoe like Wheeler’s around hidden bays. Instead, I was charging off at another windmill, the bullet wounds in my body barely healed, and I was looking for more.
I pulled into the angled parking stall in front of the office of now-deceased lawyer Derek Anderson. There was a temporary sign in the window: Jack Wheeler, Attorney at Law. The door was open so I walked in. The receptionist’s desk was empty, but I could hear someone in the back office.
“Hello? Anyone around?” I called out.
Jack popped out of the office wearing the comfortable version of lawyer clothes—dress pants, dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, no tie. He had a huge file in his hands. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.
“John, thank you so much for coming in. I wouldn’t have bothered you unless I felt it was important. Come on back to my office and have a seat.” His office was organized chaos. Every flat surface was occupied by a neat pile of files, some a couple of feet thick. There were two laptop computers, one on each side of the desk. An open file lay in between.
