by L. J. Martin
We'll both have our handheld Motorola radios and he'll leave his in transmit mode in his shirt pocket while talking to the guard, if any, and I'm sure there will be. I'll be able to hear what's going on. We also have cell phones.
We normally wouldn't do this in daylight, but I'm sure most—maybe all—are out of the camp.
The last thing I do before we part is call Hunter again. "What's up?"
"They went on past the lake, heading toward Anaconda."
"You managing to stay out of sight?"
"I'm staying way back. Hard to miss a half dozen vehicles."
"You call me if they turn around and head back this way. I'm paying a visit to their camp."
"Will do."
I'm pleased the Harley has a good muffler as I have to gun it a couple of times on the steep mountain road, then up a slope to hide her in a thick copse of lodgepole pine. I have a small backpack full of gear, and slip and slide my way down the mountainside, then stop short as I come upon a half dozen half-inch thick black rubber irrigation lines.
Strange. Out of place on a mountainside. I follow them uphill a ways and discover they are being fed by a small spring, then turn and follow them back down past the place I discovered them, still three hundred yards from and above the camp.
It doesn't take long before I come upon a five foot by fifty foot graded flat spot, and a hundred full grown and budding marijuana plants, being watered by one of the lines. I follow on to a second, and presume the other three lines lead to more patches.
But Pax should be nearing the gate, so I hustle down closer to the camp until I reach a spot where I can see the gate through the trees. And I'm just in time, as he's wandering up, doing a good imitation of a lost hiker. From a small wall-tent gatehouse fifty feet back from the locked gate, a tall, gangly, white haired guy hustles out, carrying an AR15 loosely in a hand hanging at his side. He stops five feet back from the gate, and I fit an earpiece in and turn up the volume.
"This is private property," I hear a voice challenge.
19
"Sorry, am I trespassing?" Pax asks, and even from four hundred yards, through my binocs, I can see the silly grin on his face.
"As soon as you got off the highway you were trespassing," the guy snaps.
"Sorry, again. My map must be wrong. It says this is Forest Service on this side of your gate."
"You can't believe them fucking maps," the guy growls, and lies.
The wide vehicle gate is wrought iron, with six-inch gaps, and Pax shoves his hand through to shake. I watch long enough to laugh as I hear him introduce himself, "I'm Ferral Nightengale. Nice to meet you."
I'd like to stay and be entertained, but I have to move in order to cross an open area while the gate guy is busy looking the other way. And I do, hauling ass until I'm up beside the main log building, out of sight of the gate. I find an unlocked side door, peek in to see there's no one in the large meeting area, then hustle to a podium in front of a dozen tables and fit a transmitting device under a lip of the slanted oak top and a matchbox size video camera in a potted fern on a fern stand in a corner where it can cover most the room. It'll only transmit a hundred yards or so, but it's motion and noise activated and will set idle for days until it senses someone nearby. Hunter has Rostov's cabin delineated—the last one, and the largest one, among the buildings. I haul ass for it at the back of the property.
There are only a couple of vehicles on the property, except for a bike—a Honda rice-burner VFR800 V-Tec—parked in a small covered carport on the side of his pad. Could he be home?
There's one way to find out, and I bang on the door. And hear noise inside. Uh oh!
"Hold on," a voice calls out…a feminine voice.
The door swings aside and, even under the circumstances, I have to smile. Inga Sorrensen, with lots of smooth tan flesh showing over and under tight short-shorts and a bikini top.
Her emerald green eyes widen. "How did you get in?"
"I was hiking, and dropped down the mountain from over there," I point up the opposite mountainside from where the Harley is hidden.
"That's a pile," she says. "You just happened to wander up to my door while my boyfriend is away?" Her smile is a little devilish, and I like it. I can't help but let my eyes wander up and down her beach-brown, very luscious body from crimson painted toenails to red plastic hair clip.
"God helps those who help themselves," I say, and give her my most devilish smile in return. "So, am I invited in?"
"He'll kill you, and probably me, if he finds you here."
"God, or your boyfriend? Doesn't matter…there are just some things worth dying for," I say, and go ahead and shove my way inside. "So, when's the luckiest guy in Montana due back?"
She laughs, and walks over to a cabinet and gets two glasses and a bottle of Wild Turkey. "Late. Everyone went to dinner over in Anaconda. There's a great steakhouse there if you haven't been. I presume you drink?"
"Only good whiskey, like Turkey."
She pours three fingers in each glass, pads across the floor in bare feet, and hands me one. I drop the backpack off, hanging in one hand at my side. "Here's to new friends," she toasts.
"With benefits, I hope. And to boyfriends foolish enough to leave a beautiful woman…already half-undressed…home alone."
She smiles again, and takes a hard slug on the booze.
I drink too.
She takes a step closer. "He's mad at me because I said I'm leaving."
"Well, hell, let's give him a reason to be really pissed off." And I lean down and nibble a pouty lip, as she leans her head back, offering me both lips which I take in a kiss that keeps getting deeper, and hotter, until I've backed her to an interior door that I presume is a bedroom.
The bikini top is tied in a bow behind her neck, and I drop the backpack to the bedroom floor as I continue to kiss her, and untie the top and back away just far enough so it falls exposing a pair of flawlessly tanned perfect 36 d's with pebble hard nipples begging to be suckled, and as I push her down on the bed and nibble my way down her throat and over her shoulder to a hard nipple…someone bangs on the door.
My growing erection turns to worm as I leap up.
She's past me like a streak, tying the bikini as she goes. I close the door behind her, open my backpack, stick a transmitter under the drawer of a bedside table, and head for a rear door.
I'm gone, headed for the hillside and the cover of the brush, rocks, and trees. As soon as I gain fifty feet up—finding it hard to climb with blue balls—I find the cover of a rock pile and watch to see the white-haired guard staring up my way, then walking away from the front door of Rostov's cabin.
It's all I can do not to head back down, but my initial job is done, and the job I was taking on will have to wait…goddamn the piss poor luck.
I hit the vibrate button on the little radio, and only one word comes back, and it's whispered, "Go."
"You clear," I ask Pax.
"Clear, back at the van and firing it up. How'd it go?"
I laugh. "You won't believe it. See you back at the cabin…or better yet, stop at the Vet's Hall on the way by and I'll treat you to a beer."
"Ten four," he replies, and I climb on up to the Harley, fire it up, and head for Maxwell's only bar.
He beats me there by a few minutes, and is already charming Al right out of her socks. The bar is vacant except for the two of them. She's giggling like an eighth grader when I join him at the bar. "A beer," I ask, "if you can break away from this charming conversation?" She walks to the end to draw one from the tapper and I turn to Pax. "That's a buddy's woman, buddy," I chastise him.
"A better buddy than me?" he asks.
"Maybe a better shot," I suggest.
"Doubt the hell out of that," he says, with a chuckle.
"Me too, but leave her alone anyhow."
"Since when is it against the law to charm the natives?"
"It's not, but he's turning out to be a pretty good guy. Ex-Army, but we won't ho
ld it against him. So, speaking of better shot, when are we gonna sight in the SASS?"
"Probably not after six beers. Are the hamburgers any good here?"
"Fat and sassy, a little like charming Al."
"Good, then I'll have one, or two, after we have a few beers."
We're half way through the first one when the door opens and floods the place with light. I glance over and recognize the silhouette in the doorway, cowboy hat square on his head.
"Sheriff Petersen," I call out. "How about that beer I owe you?"
He wanders on in, hangs his hat on a rack near the door, then climbs up to the bar next to Pax and extends his hand. "I'm Mark Petersen."
Pax shakes with him. "Sheriff, I believe Mike called you."
"He called me right." Then he eyes me. "You got a minute to step outside. I need a serious chat with you?"
20
I stand, and motion to the sheriff, "How about we take that table over on the other side of the pool table?"
"Suits me," he says, then yells at Al. "Coffee please, Al," and heads over while Pax eyes us both curiously.
We sit across from each other but he waits for Al to put his coffee in front of him, and leave, before he begins. "You put Harley to work for you—"
"Harley? My bike?"
"Hunter's real name is Harley. And Al tells me you've been spying on this ARA bunch. That doesn't sound like fly fishing to me."
I have to laugh. "No, sir, not fishing for fish. I'm fishing for a missing person. Her folks hired me to find her, and bring her home if she's willing to come."
His jaw hardens. "I ought to throw you in the can for bullshitting."
"Bullshitting is no crime."
"It is if I say it is. I want you to stay away from that place, until I tell you otherwise."
"Because?"
"Because it ain't any of your business, that's what because it is."
"You've got some kind of op going on."
"I've had an interest in those crazies for a long time, but this thing over in Hamilton has picked up the steam."
"So," I say, a little coyly, "you think these were the guys who hit that fur farm and killed that kid?"
"Ravalli County Sheriff has his suspicions. There are three other groups in Montana who are animal nuts, and capable of being that crazy, but I'd put ARA right on top the list. So do me a big favor and stay out of the way. There's more to this than you know, or that I can tell you."
I stare out the window for a moment, then turn back to him. "Sheriff, you proved yourself to be a good ol' boy the other night when you didn't throw us all in the tank, so I'm gonna throw in with you. You give me a week and I'll hand you these guys…at least the bad part of these guys…on a platter with enough evidence to put them away for a good long while."
It's his turn to study me for a moment. "I'm making no deal with you, Reardon, as you're not a lawman…but I will tell you we don't have a case yet. In fact nowhere near a case yet. It'll be longer than a week before we do unless something untoward happens." He stares out the window for a moment, then turns back to me. "I know some of your background…some bad, more good. But you be real careful who you might be shooting at, even in self-defense. I'd hate to have you take down one of the good guys and have to go away to Deer Lodge for an extended visit…like life."
I eye him for a moment, then ask, "You've got a undercover guy in there, don't you?"
"Just be real careful. I gotta go…by the way, what's this guy, Pax…what's his last name?"
"Weatherwax, and run him all you want. He's Mr. Clean."
"You keep yourself clean."
"Yes, sir," I say as he heads for the hat rack.
Then he turns to Pax. "Hey, Weatherwax, keep your dog on a leash."
"I don't have a do—" Pax begins, then gets it. "He isn't mine, Sheriff, but you're right, he's the original junkyard dog. Nice meeting you."
"And I hope it stays nice," Petersen says as he settles the Stetson on his head, then pushes out the door.
We sip our way through two more Moose Drools as we split two games of eight ball, and just as it's getting good and dark outside, my phone vibrates.
"They're on their way back. They just passed Georgetown Lake and unless they stop in Phillipsburg will be there in thirty minutes."
"Good work, Hunter. Stop at the Vet's hall. I'm buying and you can fill us in."
"Us? Your buddy get in?"
"He did. See you in thirty…unless they stop again."
We get through one more beer and Pax has me down by two balls and him shooting for the eight. The two old cowboys who were in the bar the first day I walked in are at the bar, otherwise the place is empty.
This time when the door swings wide, it's the dim bar light spilling out, not sunshine spilling in, but the view is just fine. Inga Sorrensen wanders in, this time in those tight Lycra pants, high heels, and a gold blouse that shows enough nipple outline to make my mouth water. She spots me immediately and heads over. "You buying there, fast Eddy?"
I'd forgotten to tell Pax about the fact I'd tangled tongues with a beautiful blond while planting my bugs, and was well on my way to planting my caterpillar…or maybe I didn't want to put him onto the fact there was a beautiful blond.
"Wild Turkey, I presume?" I ask.
Pax is eyeballing her from blond hair, slightly spiked tonight, to high heels, and immediately extends a hand. "Hi, I'm Pax, and you're?"
"I'm thirsty, Paxman. Hasn't your buddy told you about me?" She gives me a dubious look.
"Not a word, the stingy bastard. But I'm all ears and have lots of time for you to tell me about you."
"Looks like you're in the middle of a game."
"I concede. Sometimes you gotta lose a little to win big," he says, and escorts her to the same table the sheriff and I had exited.
I come back from the bar with two more beers and a double Wild Turkey neat. And Pax and the blond are already eye-to-eye as if they've been sweethearts for the last ten years.
I barely get seated when she advises. "I think they're coming back here on the way to the camp. I'd suggest you pick 'em up and lay 'em down getting out of here."
"Not likely," I say, and she smiles a little sadly, and shakes her head as if I'd lost my mind. So she returns her attention to Pax.
And I'm glad it's Pax, locking eyes with her, as the door again pushes open and is filled with a very big, very well-muscled Arne Rostov. He's got on a Gold's Gym tee shirt that's about to split at the seams, golden chest hair spouting over the neck rim, and Levis tight enough to count the hairs on his balls. His gaze snaps to where the three of us are tabled up, and he strides our way in Army issue combat boots, his whole crew in tandem. Before he even speaks, thirty ARA members have crowded into the bar behind.
Hell, only twenty-five of them are male, and only a half-dozen look to be bad-ass ex-Military. Hardly any problem at all—of course half or more of them are most likely carrying. It's a good thing Pax and I both still hold our pool cues and have a wall at our back. Of course, we, too, each have a Glock in the small of our backs, hidden under un-tucked shirts.
Rostov's eyes remind me of a cougar's. He glowers at me and I get the feeling when he looks at a woman it's as if he's already brutally raping her, and when at a man he's already castrating him if he seems the least of a threat, and if not, he's eviscerating him and has his heart in his hand and is ripping chunks out of it with his teeth while making the guttural sounds of a feeding carnivore. How can he appear as if there's blood dripping from the corners of his mouth when all that's really there is a smirk?
I can feel the muscles beginning to bunch in my thighs, hips, and shoulders.
Jane Jasper Remington is among only five women in the group, but she's staring at me…and I get the impression, a little wistfully. That's a new one. Maybe her attitude is changing?
Inga stands and, wisely, moves away from us toward the bar. She's carrying her drink. She glances back and then over at Rostov. I sense there's a chil
l rattling her backbone. She takes a stool, downs three or four fingers of booze, and orders another Wild Turkey as if the place was not just about to explode.
Rostov moves over by her, says something under his breath, and she shakes her head rather adamantly. Then he moves our way, fists clinched at his side. Bad body language, under the circumstance. Both Pax and I rise, and I casually put a foot up on the chair. But now my every muscle is taut and casual moves are a total sham.
He stops over two arm lengths away and looks us both up and down, a sneer curling one side of his lip.
I'm not surprised when the big Indian, Charley Many Dogs, moves up an arm's length behind Rostov, then is joined by Hutchins, the mountain climber, and by spike-hair scraggily-bearded John Sainz, nickname Saint, who I suspect might not be as bad a dude as the other three, as I think he has pure motivation...a true love of animals. But who knows?
There are still balls on the pool table, so I return Rostov's sneer. "If you guys wanna play, put your quarter up. You can have winners."
There are times in life when discretion is by far the better part of valor…and as a very large, very well cut, Arne Rostov—former Army Ranger who looks to have about two percent body fat—stands glaring at Pax and me with two dozen compatriots backing him up, this seems among the top of the list of times.
21
Before he can speak, tattooed Maggie McFadden sidles up behind him and barks over his shoulder. "That's the prick was giving us a bad time at the Sunshine Station."
Rostov cocks an ear toward her, but doesn't take his eyes off me. Then the white haired guy—Pasternak I think—who was guarding the gate when we were there walks in the door. Rostov, being the good boss he certainly must be—not—must have sent a relief to the gate guard who wasn't able to join them for supper.
