by L. J. Martin
Black bears and an occasional grizzly—the area is halfway between Glacier and Yellowstone National Park—moose, elk, mule deer, mountain goat, big horn sheep, cougar, wolf, and wolverine make their home here.
Elevations range from 5,100 feet lush valley bottoms to the 10,793 foot West Goat Peak. Sagebrush and willow flats and some of Montana's finest graze are found in the lower elevations where the west fork of Rock Creek, Flint Creek, and The Clark Fork meander. Slopes gradually rise to forests of pine, fir, and spruce, then more steeply to aspen, whitebark pine, and sub-alpine larch. The highest and most imposing slopes are often bare except for lichen covered talus. Forty-five miles of the three thousand plus mile Continental Divide National Scenic Trail traverses the length of the wilderness.
It's the spine of this great country.
Since the white man sent trappers and hunters into the country where once only Blackfeet, Shoshoni, and Salish Indians tread—and maybe even before—the wild country harbored those who didn't want to be found or their business known, and still does.
It's the high lonely at its best—and its worst. And it's country I love and am familiar with, having been raised in the similar mountains of North Wyoming.
The ARA compound occupies a narrow canyon floor crisscrossed by a three-foot wide stream, shaded by narrow-leaf cottonwoods, flanked by thick forests of lodgepole pine—so thick they are difficult to traverse, particularly as the slope rises higher and higher. The camp access road leads west off of Highway 1 and dead ends at their gate. However, higher on the mountain sides above it run a pair of Deer Lodge Forest Service two-track roads that lead deeper into the national forest—the ARA property is a one hundred sixty acre half-mile square island surrounded by public land.
Both Al and Hunter have estimated that as many as three dozen of the ARA faithful occupy the compound, from kids in their late teens to a woman, with gray hair to her waist whom the locals refer to, jokingly, as Mother Superior.
Margaret 'Maggie' McFadden is in her sixties and, along with a guy named Terrel Hutchens—nickname Terry—seem to be Arnold Rostov's lieutenants. Maggie is hardly my idea of 'mother superior.' As Pax has reported, back when she was a whelp she ran with the Black Panthers and likes her men big, black, and profane. She did two years for possession, Chowchilla Women's Prison, pleading down from intent to sell. She's adorned with lots of ink, most one color prison tats, including devils and skulls. Mother superior she ain't.
Terrel "Terry" Hutchins is also an ex-con. A trained mountain climber who once scaled a four storey building in order to gain entrance to a State Savings and Loan. Hutchins did a nickel in Huntsville. Brooding, heavy browed, barrel chested, now with a slight pot belly but ox strong, he too is covered with lots of ink. The rumor is he's in charge of the muscle at ARA.
Both Maggie and Terry, and many other ARA members, occasionally show up at the little Maxville saloon. Rostov never does. Some of this I've gleaned from Pax's background material, some from Al and Hunter.
Catching up with my reading I determine who the three ARA boys in the bar were: Norvin 'Sixpack' Zimmerman did a five year tour as a Shore Patrolman in the Navy, stationed stateside. He was discharged after being suspected of abusing a prisoner, believed to be an armed guard for ARA; Craig Pasternak, Pasty, almost white hair, sunburns easily, gangly tall but a decent athlete, a highly rated soccer player, now an armed guard for ARA; and last but certainly not least, Charley Many Dogs, Mutt to his buddies, big bellied Crow Indian, ex-cop from Billings and before that the Crow Reservation, who did a year for taking prostitution kickbacks, easily recognized with a jagged scar across his forehead from going through a windshield.
Pax has given me info on eight of the players in ARA, but it seems there're another twenty seven or so I know little about...but he said he'll keep digging, and if I know Pax he'll soon have a Trojan Horse planted in one or all of ARA's computers, and we'll know every email they send and every key stroke.
It seems I'm ready to go to work.
11
Hunter has a Jeep, an older CJ7, so I make a deal with him to throw it into the mix for another fifty bucks a day, with me buying the fuel. He's thrilled and I don't have to break out my Harley to ride the back-country dirt, rock strewn roads. He also has a cabin a mile or so up the Maxville road which heads east into the Flint Range, and I park the van there and he says I can camp on his ground. I carry a small battery charger and can hook it up and plug it into his power and burn my twelve volt lights and chargers. He's got a frost free hydrant I can draw water from, and a shower he says he'll loan me when needed.
Before leaving the van I dig into one of its hide-out compartments, grab a couple of small devices I might need, and pocket them.
The ARA canyon runs east and west and the first thing we do is take the road to their gate. There's not a gate house but there is a tent a hundred feet back in the trees. The white-haired guard, Craig Pasternak if I recall right, wanders out of the tent as we roar up and slide to a stop in front of the locked gate. Before he gets ten feet our way I have Hunter spin it around and haul ass. Hopefully he'll think we're just someone out for a joy ride.
Next we take a forest service road on the north side of the camp. I'm watching my GPS as we move a couple of miles back into the forest, and until I know we're a half-mile beyond the west border of the ARA property. Nowhere on that road did I have a visual of any of the camp buildings. But we have more luck on the south road, which is on a steeper slope, occasionally a sheer rock face. When we're at least three eighths of a mile from the camp, we stop and I break out my 60x Nikon spotting scope, and soon I'm surveying the camp below as if I'm only a hundred feet away.
A main building is about thirty by sixty feet with five smaller buildings scattered around in no particular order. They are each about twenty feet square, probably residential. There's also a barn and small corral fifty yards back up the canyon. All the buildings are chinked log structures, built long before ARA came on the scene, and all appear to have been re-roofed with brown metal. Each has its own stone fire-stack. Only a half-dozen vehicles are scattered around. One's a jeep much like Hunter's, only red where his is brown. Two white extended-length passenger vans probably seat ten or twelve each, and have ARA logos on their sides. The other three are passenger cars, one appearing to be a new Prius.
The camp is served by an electric line and by a propane tank of at least a thousand gallons.
It looks like at least three dogs are there, but as they lope along behind folks moving around, they appear to be pets—the largest being a black lab—not trained guard animals.
After I study the place for a few minutes, while Hunter sits on a log and smokes, he gets up and wanders over. "You got some kind of a hard-on for these folks or what?" I ignore him. "What's up?" he asks again.
"Just a run-away kid who got in with the wrong folks. Her folks want her home."
"Why not just walk in?"
"You know some of these guys. You think 'walk in' will get her out of there?"
He chuckles. "They are some kinds of assholes...different kind of bark-chewers than I've seen around. These guys act more like some paramilitary types."
"Then you know why. I want to spend another half hour here, checking things out, then I want to come back after dark. You okay with that?"
He shrugs. "You're paying by the hour."
Just as I'm about to fold up my tripod and put away my spotting scope I see two women stroll out of a cabin and head for the Prius.
I quickly put things up and instruct Hunter, "Looks like a couple of ladies are leaving the compound in a brown Prius. Let's see if we can beat them to the highway and tail along for a while."
"You da man," he says and has the Jeep fired up by the time I get my stuff put away.
He slides around a few curves on the way down, about runs over a whitetail deer, but makes Highway 1 just as the Prius passes, headed south-easterly toward Phillipsburg. As there's little traffic I have him stay a half-mile back. Th
ey're in no hurry, so it's a leisurely drive with a quiet oxbow Flint Creek on our right, meandering through a willow covered flat. It's turned out to be a beautiful late afternoon with a clear sky, no wind, and the smell of pines in the air. There's some kind of hatch on the creek and a few grasshoppers in the air, and the fish are making those little concentric rings on the surface that say "grab your fly rod," and I wish I could take time to do so.
The ladies swing the Prius into a gas station-restaurant-casino with a sign saying Sunshine Station, and I instruct Hunter to follow. They park and go inside and we go to the far side of the building, park, and enter through a restaurant that connects to the bar and casino they've entered.
We take a seat two stools down from the ladies, who turn out to be the illustrious mother superior, Maggie McFadden, tats and all, and a tall blond with perfectly straight hair to the small of her back and a thoroughbred racy body that says athlete, probably a runner. Maggie is dressed in jeans, a wide leather belt with spikes like a dog collar, and a green plaid flannel shirt and hiking boots. The blond has on black Lycra pants that would reveal every dimple in her butt, should she have any, and an un-tucked teal-blue silk blouse with the top buttons open to below ample boobs. It's pretty obvious she has on no bra—by the way they stand up she needs none—and tans sans clothing.
There's a line of poker and keno machines with the stools only feet to their back, so after I get my Jack Daniels from the doe eyed barmaid—who calls Hunter by name—and my change, I head to the machines, thinking I might be able to eavesdrop. The blond eyes me up and down as I slip onto a stool, and I give her a nod.
I can discern nothing from the look, so I ignore her and feed the machine. In moments I see that Hunter has slipped down the bar and is now next to Maggie. They're jawing away and the subject quickly turns to the bar fight at Maxville.
"Hey, Reardon," he calls and I spin on the stool. "This here's Maggie, and that's...what's your name?"
"Inga," the blond says.
"And that's Inga. They wanna meet the guy who cold-conked Mutt."
"Mutt?" I ask.
"The big ol' Indian boy you put down."
I laugh, then add, "I wasn't alone."
"What do you mean?" Hunter asks. I didn't see noboby over that'a'way."
"It was me and my buddy, Hickory."
"Hickory?" Maggie asks, and looks confused.
"I don't know—" Hunter begins.
"Hickory stick. I used a pool cue on him."
Hunter laughs, but Maggie gives me a frown.
"I knew it," she says. "He doesn't go down. We never heard of him being knocked down. Chicken shit to my way of thinking."
"Think whatever you want, sweetheart," I say, "however I'm still alive and a guy might not be he got hit by that buffalo."
This time she smiles. "Buy us a drink, we'll call it even, and won't tell Mutt you poleaxed him."
I don't want to act over eager, so I put them off a little. "I got a five in this machine. Soon as it's ten or a goose-egg, I'll join up."
I go ahead and bet four quarters a hand, lose four times in a row, and climb up on the stool on the other side of the blond. "Set 'em up," I say to the barmaid, draining what's left of my Jack.
"So, Inga, is it?" I ask her.
She bats her big green eyes and gives me a smile that might be a promise, but then quells it with, "Inga it is, but don't get any ideas, big boy. I'm committed."
"Oh, yeah, anybody I know?"
"Doubt it."
"Try me."
"You know Arne?"
I play dumb, even though I know exactly who she's talking about. Arnold 'Arne' Rostov, the stud-duck of ARA.
"You're right, I don't know him, so I wouldn't be crossing a friend when you and I slip out of here and find some hay to roll in."
12
Inga laughs, and I like the sound of it. "You don't waste any time, do you?"
"Never saw the need, particularly when it comes to affairs of the heart."
This makes her laugh even harder. "Of the heart? I'd guess more like of the hard."
That makes me laugh, so I add, "A hard man is good to find."
"Got one, thanks."
I shrug. "Can't blame a fella for trying. I'll be around."
The barmaid has set the drinks down, so I pick mine up, toast her, and go back to my machine, but hear Maggie snarl "That's a real asshole. I'm gonna tell Arne about him."
"We don't need any more crap with the locals, besides, he's kinda cute," I hear Inga say, and she raises her voice a little so Hunter can hear. "Don't need trouble, do we, Manovitch?"
"None of us needs trouble," he says.
"I'm still telling Arne," Maggie grouses, "and he'll wanna beat some hide off this asshole."
I draw two more hands, then yell to Hunter, "Let's beat a trail."
He downs his drink, yells to the barmaid "See ya, Pet," and we head out. But I glance back as I push though the bar door in front, not the side door we came in, and she's lookin' back to see if I'm lookin' back to see and I am. She winks at me, I tip my hat, and we head out. Hunter gives me a curious look as I dig in my pocket, then bend and put a magnectic tracking device under the front bumper of the jeep. Then we're down the road and park where we can watch the Prius.
They couldn't have had more than one more drink when they exit and drive to Phillipburg's only grocery store, spend a half hour inside, and return with a half dozen bags and boxes full of groceries.
We hang back and follow until they make the turn into the ARA compound, then head for Maxville's Vet's bar for a burger and a beer. By nine-thirty, when the sun drops over the mountain, I head back to Hunter's place, park back in the trees, and unload my Harley so it's out of the way, and read some more of Pax's material before I turn off the light.
I've given up on visiting the ARA compound quite yet, as I'm still learning about the place and the folks there—and one of my reasons was to place some tracking devices in the cars, and I'm already one down.
Just as I'm about to hit the cot, a text comes through from Pax.
"What do you know about The Rocky Mountain Lab, Hamilton, Montana? Seems they study infectious disease and use lots of animals."
13
I immediately text him back, "Why do you ask?"
And almost as quickly receive "Pauly Rook, an ARA fanatic is a former employee, dismissed. Several ARA members have turned in applications there. Something is going on. Lab is a Nat. Institute Allergy and Infectious Disease facility. Some really BAD bugs there."
I reply "The Flot Phickens."
And get back "This one's no joke, pard. Watch these a-holes. I'm sending info."
And reply "Will do."
Interesting. Yes, I understand they use animals in their research, and that ARA would be concerned. But there's more to this ARA bullshit than appears on the surface. The more I study who's involved, and their backgrounds, the more I doubt a sincere concern with animals. Some of them, I'm sure, are sincere, but the top tier has another agenda and I'm going to discover what it is. Along, of course, with doing the job I've been retained to do.
The van has a tiny sink, an icebox, and a Porta-Potty. I also keep a propane camp stove and a few cans and packages of grub just in case there's no good old country cooking nearby. So I'm up with the sun, fire up the campstove, make myself some cowboy coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal. As I keep a military cut, my hair takes little or no care, but I brush my snags and use a washcloth and a pot of water heated on my campstove for a spit bath and am halfway through it when my iPhone vibrates and I see there's a text message from Pax.
"I'm in two ARA computers—one's Rostov's personal and one seems an office type, used by lots of others. I'm getting blisters on my butt perched in front of mine. Sol can keep things rolling here. How about I come up?"
So I text back. "I haven't located the girl yet. Let's see how it goes. If we have to storm the ramparts I'll yell for help."
And he replies. "You sure you're not
fly fishing?"
That makes me laugh. And I text back. "Not yet. Bring your rod if you come."
Sol is another computer genius and longtime employee of Pax's, a short dumpy kid with a brainpan the size of Texas.
"Guess what," he replies.
"Surprise me."
"Following the money. ARA has accounts at Wells Fargo in Missoula. Rostov has accounts in the Bahamas. Each time J. Remington has paid fifty grand to ARA, forty of it goes into Rostov's personal Bahama account."
That makes me smile. I wonder if J. J. knows where her money's going.
Pax is my best buddy. He and I served in Desert Storm together, both warrant officers, where he took an AK47 round through the thigh while saving my butt after a close RPG strike had me wandering around like a ten-martini drunk. He got out honorably, I got out with a general discharge as I took umbrage at some Haji men stoning a couple of young girls. That didn't fly with me, but the lead did, and a half dozen of them went to their seventy virgin reward.
At six feet tall and two hundred twenty five hard pounds, Pax is just a couple of inches shorter than me and the same weight, and even with one leg now an inch and a half shorter than the other, he's hell on wheels and I'd rue the day we scrapped. He's also one of the finest marksmen to ever come down the pike, having competed in The Wimbledon Cup, the Marine Sniper School competition's 1,000 yard invitational, both while in the Corps and as an invitee thereafter. He never won, but he placed highly, and I don't want any of those guys drawing a bead on me even if I'm a mile away. Normal armed forces fire about fifteen thousand rounds for every kill…Marine snipers fire one point two rounds for every fatality.
