by Vince Milam
“She’s better.”
A worrisome answer.
“Better? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Tinker Juarez had to go to the vet.” Tinker Juarez. CC’s dog. A rescue mutt, now woven into Mom and CC’s life. CC’s protector and friend and constant companion.
“Uh-oh.”
“Simple ear infection. But she didn’t take it well.”
“She handy?”
CC came on the line full of energy and concern.
“Case! When are you coming?”
Knife through my heart. I dropped into Charleston once or twice a month, always staying for a couple of days. Longer stays presented danger. Danger to Mom and CC. The bounty.
“A couple of weeks, my love.”
“Are you close?”
“Not too close.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, indicating troubles. “We had a problem.”
“With Tinker Juarez?”
“Yes! With Tinker Juarez. He was sick.”
“But now he’s better.”
“Yes. Now. But we had a problem.”
“I’m so, so sorry, my love. How is Tinker now?”
“Oh, he’s still a dog.”
“A great dog?”
She laughed; the joy and exultation of a great dog and best friend lit her answer with neon. “You know he is!”
I joined her laughter. And fought back a rip, a tear, with instant thoughts of the day Tinker Juarez waited at the Rainbow Bridge. And how CC would take it. “Yes, I know he is. I do know.”
“He’s better now.”
“Are you helping Mom? You and Tinker?”
Her voice lowered again, this time expressing secrecy. “Mom has a man.”
“A man?”
“A nice man. I like him. Peter. Tinker Juarez likes him, too.”
I waited for the passing roar of a semi rolling past my motel room. The room was comfortable, clean, and tucked away on the outskirts of Bend.
“As long as you like him, my love. And Mom likes him. And he’s a good man.”
We chatted about wonders and miracles surrounding her daily life. A windstorm. New garden blooms. A fat bumblebee landing on a sleeping dog’s head.
“Let me talk with Mom again, CC.”
“Are you coming?”
“A couple of weeks. Remember I love you.”
“I do, Case. I do!”
She found Mom and handed her the phone.
“Mary Lola Wilson. You’ve been keeping secrets from your only son.” The tease came through even though I fought it.
“Oh mercy. Didn’t think CC would go there.”
“So you’ve plucked one of your suiters from the pile and now hold him to your tender breast.”
“Hush.”
“Tell me about Peter. Peter of the plucked pile.”
“Hush and I’m not telling you anything. Except he’s a lovely man. There. That’s it.”
“Do we need to have the talk?”
“What talk?” She slurped coffee, wary.
“Senior intimacy, Mary Lola.”
“Hush! Hush or I’ll flat wring your neck and don’t think I won’t. The notion!”
We signed off with love and affection and a final warning from Mom to behave. Particularly regarding Peter when I met him. The world’s greatest mom, bar none.
Midmorning the next day I made it to The Dalles, pressed against the mighty Columbia River. Wide, cobalt blue, and the western US’s Mississippi. Lewis and Clark turf. Salmon runs. Log booms. I arrived where winds howled down the Columbia gorge, a mecca for kite boarders. Pulled off the highway at Hood River and took a break with a sandwich and beer, sitting at an outside table. I watched and relished the ingenuity of us human critters.
A kite, similar to a parasail, and pick your color. Long nylon cords from the sail attached to a harness wrapped around the midsection. Strap your feet onto a small surfboard. And get your mind right, as you would soon be part and parcel of the Columbia River Gorge’s howling winds. A show, a display of rainbow-colored wild abandonment and athleticism. Ride the wind, skim the water. Take thirty-foot leaps and twist and turn and splash back down, only to be snatched again and whip across the whitecaps. I loved it and finger-tipped the arrow wound with the promise of someday making it back here. The day warmed, sunshine danced across the river’s wave tops, and life was fine and good. Until I spotted them.
Chapter 11
They turned off the Hood River exit, several hundred yards behind me. Traffic was light, and I did my usual slow-down and let them get close, to be sure. Two men with neat haircuts and Ray-Bans. They drove another indistinct sedan. A couple of businessmen, maybe. Government law enforcement, possibly. Or bounty hunters.
I headed for the shore cafés and they turned at a side street, losing me. I eased off the anxiety a bit. If they were government, my rental car was tracked with its internal GPS. Standard for a car rental company. And if they felt the desire, standard for US law enforcement to tap into that feed. Meaning my eastern Oregon high desert meanderings, with no one for miles, was a futile exercise. The big bird in the sky tracked me, and these guys were sent from Portland. Intercept and follow.
Far-fetched, and I lowered the paranoia dial another notch. As for bounty hunters, the odds were slim they would suddenly appear on the interstate and discover my presence. Still.
The sandwich and beer, excellent, were exceeded by the kite boarder show displayed across the wide Columbia. And then they showed. Pulled into a street parking spot fifty yards away. Where they sat, staring in my direction while the human kite show played out on their right. A mistake. People don’t do that. You pull off the road for a purpose. Not sit in a car and stare. Unless it was to watch the watery show. They weren’t.
The outside table offered an excuse for sunglasses. And a view of both the kite boarders and their vehicle. Whoever they were, I was certain the interior of their sedan held an atmosphere of surety and cover. Wrong.
I took my time, enjoyed the food and drink. Smiled at the occasional wind-driven acrobatics—leaps and twirls and landings of kite boarders, while casting glances their way behind my sunglasses. By appearances, unaware of their presence. One of them, the driver, exited the vehicle and said something to his partner. Then headed my way. This wasn’t going to happen on public, neutral, turf. My rules. My setting.
A sitting stretch and I drained the beer, waggling the bottle. A man contemplating another brew. The stranger continued approaching. Several of the outdoor tables around me held lively conversations. I stood and strolled inside, toting my empty beer bottle. A man going for another brew or to take a leak or both. The bottle went in the recycle bin as I passed through the small café, clinking as it joined others. I lifted a cloth napkin from a just-emptied table. Down a narrow hallway, the bathrooms. An exit door at the end. Passing the men’s room, I closed the bathroom door and slipped out the back exit.
Outside, a small parking lot, full of cars. And a chain-link fence circling a dumpster. The fence held plastic green strips woven through it, a visual barrier around the trash bin. Perfect. The Glock moved into a front pocket, and I waited next to the exit door. Back against the concrete café wall, a man in repose, relaxing. There were no other people around. My quarry would now have entered the café. Stood at the center of the room, assuming I occupied the bathroom. It wouldn’t last long. He’d peek out this back door soon enough. And meet Mr. Lee.
Sixty seconds passed. I mulled the options and settled on simple. No showdown, no talking. Just take the guy down. Drag him into the tight fenced dumpster area. Check his pockets for ID. A sign—any sign—he was a bounty hunter allowed no room for mercy. I’d kill him. Then kill his partner.
Senses tingled this was a government guy. The look, the walk, the cold watchful face through the windshield of their car. If true, he’d live. Wake up hugging a Hood River dumpster, sure. But alive. Then I’d have a little chat with his partner.
The heavy steel door swung ope
n. I positioned against the back side, hidden, and wrapped the cloth napkin around my right fist. The guy must have scoped the area on his right, out of my sight. I waited. Laughter and chatter and the clang of dishes drifted from the inside. He took a half step and looked left, exposing his head.
It’s a clean sound. A distinct pop. When done right, the opponent’s head snaps so violently it causes brain trauma, leaving the recipient unconscious. A common prizefight occurrence. Two points on the jaw are vulnerable to knockouts—the extended sides of the chin and where the jaw attaches to the skull. I chose the latter. To be sure. The Ray-Bans flew and he dropped like a rock.
As he collapsed I grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled him through the open door. It closed with a metallic click. Dragged him into the fenced trash area and closed the small gate. Then checked his pockets. A wallet. And a leather ID holder. Government. CIA.
No right. They had no right on domestic turf. The CIA is limited to overseas operations. Period. No right tapping into the rental car company’s systems and tracking my vehicle. No right to tail me. No right doing anything here. Home turf. My turf. I’d explain as much to his partner.
The partner sat craning his head from the passenger seat. He attempted a look inside the windowed café down the street. I approached from the rear. Sidled alongside the parked cars behind him. His and his buddy’s windows were open. Approaching, I opened the CIA ID holder and folded the cover back.
In one motion, I sailed the ID through the driver-side open window where it plopped on the empty seat. And pulled my Glock, leaning through the window. A guy chatting with a friend, bent through the driver’s window. The partner caught a glimpse of the ID as it landed and reached for his sidearm. My Glock drew his attention. He stared at the business end of a .40 caliber and stopped scrambling for his gun. Our little vignette, frozen, as chatter and calls drifted from the kite boarder beach.
“You kill him?” he asked.
“He’s resting.”
Calls continued from the Columbia’s beach as kite boarders fixed gear and took off. A dog barked and a car passed behind me.
“We just want to talk, Lee.”
I cocked my head, waited.
“Deliver a message. Someone way up the food chain wants a chat with you. That’s it.”
“Not in the mood. And you’re out of your playground here. Land of the free, bozo.”
He smirked. I held back the urge to pop him.
“Apparently you’re a hard man to find,” he said. “But opportunity struck.”
“And now there’s an opportunity to kick your ass.”
He looked around, delivered a half smile. “Right, Rambo.”
I started opening the door. Thump the SOB inside his own car. Short, sweet, and send that smirk back to Langley. On the balls of my feet, common sense flooded. The arrow wound yelped and helped drive the decision. I backed down and reigned it in. A bit.
“What’s the message?”
He held up both hands, a sign of calm, and used thumb and forefinger to retrieve his wallet. Opening it, he pulled a business card.
“My card. In case you want a dance sometime.” He thought himself a hard-ass. Right. “The number to call is on the back.”
“Need a name. Or it won’t happen. Might not happen anyway.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Fine. Keep your card.” I stood, sliding the Glock into my waistband. “And as for you and I dancing, sorry. I let others do my light work for me.”
I started a turn back toward my approach path. We were through.
“Deputy director of operations.” His voice carried through the open window, mixed with the stiff breeze.
Marilyn Townsend. I knew her. The head spook. The Company’s clandestine big dog. Ran the Directorate of Operations. Her identity was known by a select few in the Company. Congress couldn’t name her, nor the media. The world’s top spy. She and I met once, during Delta days when she wasn’t as high up the ladder. Her ascent in the organization was clear—several of us in Delta surmised her selection as head of clandestine operations.
“Toss it on the seat.”
He did. “Turn your head.”
“Gimme a break, Lee.”
“Pick a bone you don’t mind having broken or turn your head.”
I kept him in a vulnerable position and plucked the card off the seat. The phone number was written by hand, blue ink.
“Don’t tail me again. That’s a threat, in case you weren’t taught about those in spook school.”
“We’ve delivered the message. Job done.”
“And tell your partner it was fun while it lasted.”
His goodbye consisted of a middle finger extension. Bosom buddies.
They’d continue tracking me, so I altered plans. Drop the car off at the Portland airport and disappear again. Take trains, buses, and taxis while in Portland. If I called Marilyn Townsend—a big if—number one on the conversational punch list was leave me the hell alone.
The sole impetus for calling Townsend was based on a simple reality. I respected her. Among the Company’s clandestine players Delta Force dealt with, she stood as a rare find. Smart, insightful, tough. An understanding of the mission chasm between the Company and Delta. We stripped away nuance, subtleties. The Company players swam in them. Townsend understood us and messaged her understanding during operational endeavors. But this whole little exercise—tailing me, contacting me—was a message in itself. We can find you, Mr. Lee. We’re the Company. Well, to hell with that noise, Marilyn Townsend.
Heading west the gorge narrowed and the weather changed. Clouds and drizzle. Trees along the road displayed moss. Dripping moss, dripping rain. I wasn’t followed and rolled into Portland. I always liked the town. Nestled against the Columbia, defined by rivers. The Willamette River split it in two prior to joining the Columbia and heading for the Pacific Ocean. And bridges. Lots of bridges. I hadn’t visited Portland in quite a few years, and during my absence the city gained the reputation as eclectic and weird and unique. But remnants of the old town remained. One of its nicknames was Stumptown, gained during the long period of harvesting timber. Remnants of such time and place remained. Gorgeous old neighborhoods where the timber barons once lived. High curbs, built as mud control when the mules dragged massive logs through the streets. And more than a small dose of Paul Bunyan ethos drifted in the air. Yet as certain as the sun rising, a couple of things here remained steady and resolute. Catch and Bo.
Chapter 12
The warehouselike shop declared “Bella Forme,” written large with flowing longhand. The written medium consisted of one-inch iron rods heated, bent, and welded. Below the company name and with the same technique, the words “An Artisanal Machine Shop” hung. Moss grew on the roof.
I paid the cabbie, cash. Below the sign, double sliding doors, half-opened. Inside, a collection of machine-shop tools arrayed against the near wall. Several machinists worked away at drill presses, lathes, and grinding machines. Noise and sparks and bits of metal flew. The rest of the shop contained rows of tables and standing dividers. Tools of all sort and projects of wild imagination were strewn across the area.
Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez always was a “can’t miss him.” Catch stood at one of the tables, legs spread and hands on hips. Jeans, work boots, plaid flannel shirt. And a beard thick, black, and hanging past his neck. A bear of a man who, at the moment, displayed a crinkled nose and frown of abject disgust toward a young man gesturing, making a point. It wasn’t sticking.
“Can I help you?” An attractive robust woman approached, her hair a tight bun and wearing Carhartt bib overalls over a long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Willa?”
“Case?”
Two wide grins sealed the introduction.
“A hug? Catch said you’d been injured.”
“If we can pull it off easy-like.”
We did. She smelled of jasmine and machine oil. A gentle release and she gripped my head with both hands
and delivered a loud smack on the lips.
“That lying SOB said you were pretty. Why, you’re nothing but a handsome son of a gun.”
Her openness and warmth and energy combined and shouted instant friend.
“And the lying SOB appears to be applying his usual tact over there,” I said.
She whipped her head, eaglelike, and said, “Oh sweet Jesus. Hold on.”
She took two steps, spun, and returned and delivered another hard kiss, patting my cheek. Followed with long, quick strides across the cavernous work floor. She inserted herself between Catch and his young male victim. It was her turn to stand legs spread, hands on hips, a no-nonsense facial expression pegging the meter. She edged nose-to-nose with my brother. Catch broke into a grin; white teeth shone between a sea of coal-black facial hair. Willa clearly commenced reiterating, for the hundredth time, the ways of both the world and her machine shop. Catch glowed. He loved her. Clear as day, he loved her. And I got it. He’d met his soul mate.
In the midst of her law of the land statements, she pointed my way. Catch and I locked eyes, my grin so wide it hurt. Head thrown back, he roared, loud and—if you didn’t know him—disturbing. The young man near them scooted for the other side of his worktable. A barrier.
And here he came, rolling and rumbling and belting out expletives that defined every conceivable fault of mine. Arms wide, he froze at my upraised hands, unsure of a physical greeting.
“Can I grab you?” he asked, head cocked.
“No. You may not. I’ll take a hug, delivered with the utmost tenderness. Out of consideration for my traumatic wound.”
“Man, you’re turning into a wuss. Come here.”
It was like hugging a tree trunk. Willa wandered back over.
“I see you’re busy critiquing people’s artistic endeavors,” I said to Catch.
“That idiot?” he asked, throwing a thumb toward his former shop floor position.
