Savage Beast (Max Savage Book 1)

by Sloane Howell

“Early flight?” Shirley asked.

  He shook his head. “Here.”

  My eyes vaulted open. I figured Shirley’s did the same thing. I shot up to attention. Things just became a thousand times more complicated.

  34

  “THE PRESIDENT IS COMING HERE? Tomorrow?” My mind raced a million-miles-an-hour.

  “Not exactly. Not to Tulsa. But nearby. I shouldn’t be telling either of you this.” He turned to Shirley. “I should be at home. Preparing. Not harboring felons.”

  Shirley stared at him with two expressions at once: one of fear, and one as if he was breaking her heart one word at a time.

  “Sir, if you’re going to be pissed, be pissed at me. I dragged her into this. But know any help you can give us is vital. Our names will be cleared in the next few days.” I caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror and was relieved to have given Shirley some reprieve. He was a calculator. Harvard, the Escalade, it all made sense. “Why are you meeting the president?”

  “Professional reasons.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Oil and gas exploration.”

  “Do you know McCurdy? From the farm?”

  He shook his head, not in a way that said he didn’t know him, like in a way that said the guy was a nutjob. “Yeah. Everybody knows him. Nobody likes him.”

  “We really need to go there first.”

  “I can’t. I told you already.”

  I wasn’t really in a position to bargain, and I couldn’t beat information out of him and steal his car because Shirley would freak out. I needed to crack his shell, not his head. Sometimes, diplomacy was the best option.

  “I’m Charles Morgan, by the way. Since Kristine forgot her manners.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He looked over at her and his face warmed a bit. “Me too. I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this. It’s so unlike you, Kristine.”

  “It’s not what it seems.”

  “I believe you.” He hesitated for a second, put a hand on her shoulder, and shook her a couple of times.

  It looked awkward, like he wasn’t good at affection, but it was a really intimate gesture for him.

  “Do you like puzzles? Codes?”

  “What?”

  Shirley had resigned herself from the conversation since I was getting further with him than she had.

  “Codes? Ciphers? Encryption? That kind of stuff.”

  I read the part of the ad to him I hadn’t figured out yet—the Roman numeral windmills, the dolls, and the couch with cushions. I gave him a quick and dirty thirty-thousand-foot view of the situation. “Any idea what they mean?”

  “Of course.”

  My eyes whipped up to his in the rear-view mirror. “Seriously?”

  Shirley stared at him with the same look I imagined was plastered to my face.

  “They pertain to why the president will be here.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  We pulled into a driveway. I hadn’t been paying attention to where we were, but I knew which way was north. I always knew that. We were in his driveway and I could see the skyline of downtown a few miles away.

  35

  A LARGE ANTIQUE GRANDFATHER CLOCK greeted us on the way in, and the gong inside of it sounded one time. I figured it would sound twice at the half hour, and three times at a quarter ‘til. It was getting pretty late and we still had to get to the farm. I needed to confirm the suspicions gnawing at my gut.

  We followed Charles Morgan into his bedroom, and he stepped out to make a quick phone call. He’d been ironing a suit. Interesting. I thought he’d have taken it to the dry cleaners. His house was enormous and old. It was stucco on the outside like some kind of vintage Santa Fe-style compound. I had no clue how many square feet or rooms it had. My first guess was, a lot. Why was he ironing his own clothes? Maybe it was a business ritual. Maybe he was self-made, and the habit stuck. Didn’t care.

  He walked in a few minutes later. “So your riddle. Is it what got your friend killed?”

  I nodded. “Kind of. It’s all speculation right now. We think someone found out he knew more than he should.”

  “That type of information isn’t easy to come by. The three lines you read. Can you tell me what the rest of it was?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re in a hurry. I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

  He scrutinized me for a few long beats. “I only figured out the first line.”

  Shirley stood next to me and didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” I said.

  “I’m hesitant to say for two reasons. One, I’ll sound like a quack. And two, it could cause a shitstorm if word got to the press.” He paused and stared off for a bit, calculating. “I’ll tell you what the three lines mean.”

  “You got all of them?”

  “Yeah. You’ll understand my hesitance once I tell you.”

  “Ready when you are.”

  “The first part isn’t really Build-a-bear. It’s a halfish-rhyme similarity.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “1954 is the Roman numerals. I assume you got that far with the internet?”

  “We did.”

  “The Netherlands are famous for their windmills. That was the first part of the clue.”

  I went over the photograph of the clues in my head.

  “In 1954 in the Netherlands, a meeting took place.” He sighed. “You’re going to think I’m insane, but I only know this because I’ve been to subsequent meetings. They’re very traditional and go over the history during the opening and they’re held annually.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ever heard of the Bilderberg Group?”

  I snickered.

  “See.” He pointed at me and half-smiled, but then his stare turned ice cold.

  “What the hell is the Bilderberg Group?” Shirley asked.

  I turned to her. “Conspiracy theory. The most powerful business minds and politicians in the world meet there every year. Plan world domination or something like that. It’s one step below the Illuminati.”

  “Something like that, even though the Illuminati is a crock,” Charles Morgan continued. “It’s heavily guarded and secretive, so naturally speculation occurs. It’s far more boring than people realize.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, so what does that have to do with the president and you?”

  “There’s another meeting like it. It’s even more closely held, because of all the speculation that surrounds Bilderberg in the mainstream. But it’s reserved for only oil and gas industry representatives and heads of state.”

  “Okay.”

  “It would be seriously unpopular with the public. You can imagine why. Bilderberg already gets a bad rep. You start talking big oil and—” He made a gesture like his head exploded.

  “Middle East?”

  “Exactly.” He pressed the iron onto his pants and ran it down them in smooth strokes, almost creating a crease acceptable by military standards. “People already think terrorist attacks in the U.S. are state-sponsored. 9/11 for sure. And not just the fringe. A large portion of the population think the government had a hand in it. The meeting is really just to discuss policy.”

  “And the energy heads are all meeting with the president? The Saudi Royal Family comes to mind. People the public don’t really trust.”

  “You’re sharp. You a detective too?”

  I shook my head.

  “Military? You’ve got the look.”

  “Something like that. So why here? Why not Houston? Isn’t that where all the energy trade happens?”

  “It does nowadays. But these types of meetings and groups are traditional. Are you not familiar with Tulsa?”

  I said nothing.

  “Kristine, do you want to fill him in?”

  I knew there was a lot of oil money in the city, according to Shirley, but I didn’t know all the history. I figured I was about to learn.
/>   “Tulsa was the original oil capital of the world. It moved to Houston later,” she said.

  Morgan continued for her. “Correct. But a lot of the money stayed here. People were different back then. A lot of the infrastructure is still here. Which gets to the second part of your friend’s riddle.”

  “The cushions?” I asked.

  He nodded at Kristine. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on that one.”

  She flashed him a blank stare.

  He grinned. “Cushions? Cushion? Sound like a city you know if ya say it with a Suhthun accent?”

  She said, “Cushion. Cushion. Oh my God—Cushing.”

  “Exactly.” He pointed an index finger at her, then turned to me. “Your friend was very clever. How’d he get the riddle to you?”

  “Classified ad. Tulsa World.”

  He snickered. “Genius. Very smart guy. That sounds like something they do up at Langley. Did he mark the wall with chalk too?”

  I grinned. “No chalk.” If he only knew. When spies made dead drops, back before technology made the transfer of encrypted information simpler, they’d leave the intelligence somewhere public in an envelope and then mark the nearest wall with a chalk line. The handler would see the chalk, know it was there, and go pick it up. They would never actually meet, and surveillance would never catch them together.

  “So, what is Cushing?”

  “Small town, but more importantly the pipeline,” Shirley said.

  Morgan cut her off. “And oil storage. Largest storage facility in the world is in Cushing, Oklahoma. And, like Kristine mentioned, a major pipeline hub. Not even major. Like the pipeline hub. The president visits Cushing more than he does Tulsa. Especially in recent years with the huge debate over expansion of the Keystone pipeline. Cushing is also where the price of West Texas Intermediate, light sweet crude oil, is set on the New York Stock Exchange. When you hear oil prices debated on the news, they’re talking about what happens in Cushing. All of this exists in a town of about eight thousand people.”

  “Wow. Had no idea. How far away is it?”

  “Hour, maybe. From here,” Charles said.

  “How far from Claremore?”

  “Hour and a half, give or take.”

  “What’s with the dolls?”

  “It says seven 1950s era dolls, all related, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the fifties, Iran nationalized its oil industry, and they faced an embargo. To bring Iranian oil production back to international markets, the U.S. State Department suggested the creation of a consortium of major oil companies. There were seven, and they were called the Seven Sisters.”

  “So, it was another clue to this big meeting that’s happening.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Tell us more about the meeting.”

  “It’s out West. Well, northwest of downtown, kind of. At a lodge. Big fancy place north of Sand Springs. All the major energy players meet with politicians there. Make deals. Discuss strategies. The future of oil.”

  “How to keep the public hooked on petroleum? How to maximize profits and do illegal things the public wouldn’t find out about?”

  “No comment.”

  “Which politicians are there?”

  “Which ones aren’t?”

  I walked over and sat down on his bed. I started thinking. First, I needed to go out to the farm and confirm our suspicions. We could’ve been way off, but I’d know for sure once I got a look.

  “A guy we know said McCurdy tried to get into the oil business and was told to piss off. That true?”

  Charles Morgan nodded. “I think so. He never came to me directly. I’ve seen him at charity functions and Chamber of Commerce crap. But we don’t run in the same circles. Word gets around, though. It’s a pretty closely held network to have such huge implications on the world.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “It’s not like that for me. I’ve invested heavily in compressed natural gas, clean-burning coal, hydro-electric, wind, even nuclear.”

  “That sounded like a press release. You rehearse that in a mirror?”

  Big corporations. I hated them. Stuff like this was the main reason I lived in the woods.

  “It’s just business.” He shrugged.

  That’s how they rationalized it—just business. I stared around at his four-poster bed and elaborate crown molding, the French dressers and custom masonry with built-in bookshelves, all hand-carved. “Looks like business is rough.”

  “I’m ironing my own suit. I worked for everything I have.”

  “Everyone works hard, even the guy flipping burgers. I have no issue with anyone playing the game as long as the game isn’t rigged.”

  “There’s no game being rigged.”

  “Why you meeting with politicians then? And why isn’t McCurdy in the oil business?”

  He looked away.

  “Focus, guys.” Shirley butted in, always trying to keep the peace.

  I took a deep breath and thought some more. She trusted Charles Morgan. Obviously, he was an old family friend or something, like an uncle or second father. I should trust him too. Shirley had good judgment.

  I turned to him. “Okay. We need to get to the farm. Can you take us?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  “You should stop ironing your pants. You won’t need them. You won’t want to be anywhere near that meeting tomorrow. I mean it.” The meeting had to be the reason. Pretty much all of McCurdy’s enemies would be there. It was definitely what he was after.

  “Why?”

  “After we go to the farm and confirm, I’ll tell you. Nothing until then.”

  He switched the iron off and checked his watch. “Let’s go then.”

  36

  IT TOOK US ROUGHLY FORTY-FIVE minutes to drive from Tulsa to Peabody’s house.

  “Pull off to the side here.”

  Morgan steered the Escalade off the edge of the dirt road once we’d pulled off Route 66 and parked it under some trees.

  “I’ll walk up there myself. He might not like your car.”

  “Probably smart,” said Shirley.

  Morgan just shrugged like whatever.

  “If I’m not back in three hours, get that meeting canceled, I don’t care what it takes.”

  I climbed out and took off up the road. I thought about McCurdy as I walked. I ran his background through my mind. I needed to get inside his head. Something didn’t add up about him. He came from nothing, went to college, tried for the oil business multiple times. They wouldn’t let him play ball. This whole ordeal was like grown men in high school. I shook my head. It was so stupid—all of this was. Sean died because of men throwing tantrums about not getting into a club.

  I stared up at the sky between the long winding gravel driveway. Rows of trees lined it on both sides like high walls, caging in the road. Crickets chirped off in the undergrowth. It was nearly pitch black except for a single white light with a bluish tint glowing up ahead. That’s how I knew I was getting closer, that, coupled with all the crazy political signs. Electricity hummed away in the inky night just beyond. Above, the sky was incredibly clear. It was the middle of summer with light humidity for this part of the country.

  I could see the Milky Way. It arced across the sky like a cloudy black parabola. It would’ve been a good night for a telescope and stargazing.

  Once the buzzing light came into view around the bend it was time to get serious. Peabody would have his shotgun and it wouldn’t take much luck to hit a target, even in the dark. I crept along in the shadows on the balls of my feet, careful not to let the rocks crunch under my shoes. It was a tough task for someone my size. I was the biggest guy in Delta by far. People thought of special operations like SEALs and Delta Force and they’d imagine massive guys that looked like football players. It was not the case at all. That was Hollywood’s doing.

  Most guys in 1st SFOD-D (Delta) and DEVGRU (Seal Team Six) were thin and lean—small and wiry. They
were excellent swimmers, and good at sneaking in and out of places. All of them were capable of ridiculous feats of strength, yet bundled in small, covert packages.

  Shirley kept springing up in my mind. The time with her in the library was incredible. I wanted to do it again. Being around her was even better. We’d already grown close. I didn’t know you could get intimate with someone so quickly, but when your lives depended on one another, we’d probably been through more than what a lot of couples went through their entire lives. What was I going to do after all of this? I missed the solitude—the unexplored land and freedom that came with it. I also knew when I returned to it, I’d miss her. I had decisions to make, but they would have to come later.

  “Somebody out there?” Peabody’s voice croaked in the dark.

  How had he heard me?

  “It’s Savage.” I transformed my voice to a deep bass.

  Lower registers traveled farther than high notes. A deep bass in your tone could be heard at a greater distance than a shrill scream.

  “Well come on in then.” He said “in” like “een.”

  I ran up to the porch.

  “Thought ol’ Bertha was gonna pepper your behind up nice, didn’t ya?”

  I smiled when I was close enough for him to see me. “There was concern.”

  He plopped down in his recliner after we walked into the living room. “You’re actin’ like a spy now. That came after Delta, right?”

  “How—” I stopped myself, but it was too late.

  “Hah! Confirmation.” He waved me off with a hand. “Observations. Don’t read into ‘em. Can I do for ya?”

  “Same as last time. Maybe more, later.”

  “I’ll grab the Colt.”

  “You got any paper clips?”

  He nodded. “I just happen to have a couple of ‘em. Not confident in yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stared at me like I must be kidding.

  “Contingencies,” I said.

  “Paper clips’ll save your life. I don’t blame ya.”

  “You say that like you know from experience.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “’Nam?”