Shoreline

by Carolyn Baugh

  “Yes,” he said. “We were right. Baker is the face of this operation. In the inner circle there are multiple posts by this Geyer guy.”

  “Geyer, the phantom landowner. The one who doesn’t exist otherwise?”

  “Exactly,” said Chid. “For example…” He leaned over the phone and carefully swiped into the app again, then read aloud:

  The federal oppressors think they can stop us, further sullying their hands with our pure blood. They do not know that the movement has taken on a life of its own. The spirit of rebellion has spread. The call to action has been heeded. There is no stopping, there is no end in sight. Continue, brothers and sisters, with the agreed upon plan of action.

  Fourteen Acts: the beginning of a global revolution.

  Chid continued, “Baker also posts, clearly deferring to Geyer and his plans to prevent white genocide.”

  “Diversity is white genocide,” murmured Nora, recalling the slogan.

  “There’s a real inconsistency in tone, in vocabulary…” Chid was saying.

  “Is this Geyer the missing piece then?” Ford was saying, looking up from his screen.

  Chid nodded. “I think so. It just hasn’t made sense, you know?”

  Nora was nodding, even as she cringed from another near miss Ben made. “I never felt like Gabriel Baker was quite right. Maybe for the brawn, but not the brain.”

  “Well, finding a phantom villain doesn’t help us any more than having an unqualified villain,” Ben pointed out, skirting a cluster of three motorcyclists. All four agents peered at them, Ben almost running into the curb as he did so. Two men and a wiry woman all sat at ease on large black Harleys. They were thin, deeply tanned, and all pushing seventy. It seemed strange that they were up riding about so early, and so Nora continued to peer at them, craning her neck even after they’d passed.

  “Too old?” Nora asked.

  Ford noted, “And no weaponry. No saddlebags for rifles.”

  “Right.” Nora ceased peering out of the windows. “So. Geyer?”

  “Well, unless I’m mistaken, it’s just one more indication that we have a Wagner fan on our hands,” said Chid.

  “He’s a character from one of the operas?”

  Chid shook his head. “It was the name of Wagner’s stepfather. Richard himself went by the surname of Geyer until his teens.”

  “Christ. Who’s got time for this much esoterica?” Ben demanded.

  “Clearly whoever’s running this revolution, man,” Chid responded rather testily.

  “So how do we find him?” Nora asked.

  Chid was silent, shaking his head. “He may well be out at the compound, surrounded by helicopters and hostage negotiators.”

  Nora considered the boat that had taken her to the compound. “Or on his way to Canada?”

  “Maybe,” Chid admitted.

  “Or … back up the tunnel and now just walking around the city. Do you think that tunnel was really for the Underground Railroad?”

  Chid frowned and began tapping the keyboard. “Nope.”

  “Why else would you need a tunnel under the city if you don’t have a subway?” asked Nora.

  Chid looked up. “Tell me the cross streets again, where that house was with the tunnel?”

  “Peach and Twenty-first,” Nora answered.

  Thoughtfully, Chid tilted his head, scrolling down the screen. “You said there were tracks?”

  “Small tracks, not big enough for a train or anything,” Nora supplied.

  He nodded. “Prohibition,” he said at last.

  Even Ford broke his pursuit of Jane Doe’s phone directory to look over at him questioningly. “Prohibition?” he asked.

  “There’s an old brewery at State and Twenty-first,” he said. “Used to produce Eisernes Kreuz Beer. Iron Cross. Popular—I will give the populace the benefit of the doubt and assume they did not know the significance of the Iron Cross for fascist Germany.”

  Nora nodded knowingly. “That’s Pete’s thing. Artisan beer. He’s all about unique local flavor. Fascism—not so much.”

  “Well, they no longer produce it here at all. That label was acquired by Anheuser Busch.”

  “But you said Prohibition,” prodded Ford.

  “Back in the day, the Eisernes Kreuz folks didn’t agree with the government’s decision to help Americans curb their alcohol habit. So they continued to produce the beer clandestinely, and ship it out through the bay to like-minded consumers,” Chid said.

  Ford winked at Nora. “Sometimes the government just makes bad decisions.…”

  Nora tried in vain to formulate a defense of such relativism that wouldn’t render her existence as a law enforcement agent moot. Unable to do so, she stared at the landscape. They had left the city well behind. The car’s GPS showed they were a quarter mile from the farm, and the distance was being swallowed fast.

  They all saw the cloud of dust hovering over the farm’s gravel driveway.

  They had not intercepted the Patriots.

  * * *

  Nora was immediately calling Mike Szymanowski—“Bikers at the farm, Mike—we need immediate backup!”

  The bikers had already descended and Nora watched in horror as they started walking and taking aim with the rifles in their hands. A handful of workers began to scatter at the sight, several of them running toward a large green barn set well back from Route 5.

  Ben, fingers clenched on the wheel, accelerated into the turn, the car skidding over the gravel.

  “Megaphone them—tell them to desist!” called Ford, pocketing the iPhone and then tucking his laptop into the seat pocket in front of him; Chid followed suit. Each pulled out his gun.

  “There’s no megaphone, man—” Nora shouted.

  Ford had already rolled down his window. “Federal agents!”

  Nora whirled despite herself, impressed with the volume he mustered.

  Two of the bikers leapt back onto their motorcycles, gunning the engines.

  “You three, out, now, after the shooters—I’ll follow the bikes!” shouted Ben.

  Nora, Ford, and Chid leapt from the car in a clatter of slamming doors and began racing across the wide gravel driveway. They followed the two men and one woman who, as they walked, peered through the sights of their rifles. Nora watched the woman advance, her long braid trailing down her back and swinging slowly as she walked. The men both wore black leather vests over T-shirts. Each of the three seemed to be utterly oblivious to the agents pursuing them.

  Nora’s breath was coming hard and fast. She saw the man in point position of the trio taking aim at a slight woman in frayed blue jeans and a worn Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt. The woman, her face flushed with fear, was running, and the barrel of the rifle seemed to follow her movements.

  “Put the rifle down!” Nora cried, just as Derek Ford yelled again for all three to stop: “Federal Agents! Put your hands in the air!”

  But these words just seemed to enhance the man’s focus. He did not look backwards, only paused in his striding. Nora saw him take careful aim.

  “I’ve got the leader,” Chid said, his voice tense. All three agents were jogging in a brisk parallel formation and closing in carefully on the Patriots.

  Chid depressed the trigger of his Glock, aiming for the man’s right shoulder. He fired twice in rapid succession and watched in satisfaction as the rifle fell to the ground, followed by the man himself.

  Sirens announced two squad cars, but there was no time even to turn to look. The other two in the group had not stopped advancing on the barn and the scattering workers. Derek glanced over at Nora. “The more we shoot, the fewer we have to interrogate,” he said.

  Nora nodded. Without further conversation, Derek and Nora launched themselves at the bikers. In a running slide, Nora careened into the woman’s legs, knocking them out from under her. The crack of the rifle she was holding resounded above the commotion as both women began flailing on the ground.

  The woman’s face contorted in fury. She la
unched a punch at Nora, who averted her already bruised cheek and slammed the woman’s wrist to the ground. Nora maneuvered both her knees on top of the woman’s thighs and then slammed the other wrist to the ground; she was pinned, sprawled beneath her, but arching her back as she writhed, struggling.

  “Rather indelicate position there,” Chid said, appearing with handcuffs and grinning at her. “But effective.”

  “No one said it had to be pretty,” Nora said.

  She looked over to where Derek, now aided by one of the cops who’d arrived on the scene, had flipped the large man he’d subdued onto his belly in the dirt. They exchanged a look and an exhalation. Derek surrendered his charge to the cop, then rose, dusting himself off.

  “Ben?” she asked Chid.

  “In pursuit,” he answered, and, as Derek joined them, they all looked together over the wide expanse of fields beyond the barn. Even the woman Nora pinned swiveled her neck to look.

  Nora saw that her Chevy was bumping over the field, pursuing the other biker, a tall, thin man who was bent over his handlebars. Nora gave him credit for being able to control the bike on such uneven terrain; the furrows in the earth were deep and the bike seemed to be aloft rather more than its wheels were connecting with the ground. Their trajectory was bringing them back toward the barn. Perhaps the motorcyclist hoped to regain the pavement and flee on Route 5.

  Seeing this, Derek Ford took off running toward them.

  Nora, still immobilizing her squirming, cursing catch, watched carefully as Derek ran at an impressive speed toward Ben and the biker. As he ran, he raised his gun.

  It was only a moment before she heard the crack of his Glock. He waited a long moment and then sent off two more bullets in rapid succession. The third bullet met its mark and suddenly the bike began to spin uncontrollably.

  Its rider tumbled onto the ground and the bike, still spinning, at last came to rest, pinioning him beneath it.

  Nora allowed the officers on the scene to take the now-handcuffed woman. She and Chid jogged over to Derek. “Hey, Speedy,” she said. “Nice shot.”

  Derek shrugged, accepting an understated pat on the back from Chid and then leaning slightly against him as he caught his breath.

  Nora grinned at them. “I’m going to go catch up with Ben.”

  She picked her way across the field toward her car. Ben had emerged from the driver’s seat and gone to stand over the biker, his gun pointed at him.

  The biker was alive. Nora, gun drawn, gave Ben a nod and then got as close as she could, so close that she could feel the heat still rising from the prone motorcycle.

  She peered more closely. She was relatively certain that the weight of the motorcycle had already broken one or two of his ribs. But she made no move to alleviate the pressure. She stood over him, pointing the gun, staring at him.

  The man looked up at Nora and Ben. His hard eyes were focused and clear. Nora looked at him curiously. “Did you really intend to kill all these people?”

  The man only smirked at them. “I don’t gotta tell you nothin’,” he spewed, his contempt for them swimming in his eyes.

  Ben said, “No, you certainly don’t.”

  Nora spied a tattoo on the man’s neck below his left ear. It was a circle with a squat cross dissecting it. She remembered it as a white power symbol.

  Ben and Nora holstered their weapons and then heaved the bike off of the man.

  As soon as the bike hit the ground, both of them leapt on him, flipping him over, and cinching his thick wrists together. Ben cuffed him, patted him down, extracting his iPhone, and they rolled him onto his back again.

  “Wallet? I.D.?” asked Nora.

  Ben shook his head. “Neither.”

  Nora bent over the man, eyes flashing. “What’s next? What are you planning next?”

  “I have the right to remain silent,” he answered with narrowed eyes.

  She could tell he was hurting but did not want to admit it. She walked the opposite direction, trying to calm herself. She laced her fingers behind her head. Nearer the barn, Szymanowski’s car had a gathering of officers about it. He and his partner had apparently stopped the other biker.

  She watched, transfixed for a moment, then leaned against the passenger door of her car.

  Ben crossed over to her. “You okay?”

  She shrugged. “If okay means I’m glad we headed off a massacre, then yes.”

  “You hurt?”

  Nora considered. “Grateful for long sleeves or all that gravel would have messed me up. But I’m fine.”

  Ben regarded her carefully, seeming to need visible proof she was indeed fine. “It’s been awhile since we made an arrest together, huh?”

  Nora’s memory stretched back to a Philadelphia crack house and sprinting after Rita Ross and … she couldn’t remember the other name. “It’s prettier here,” she said.

  Ben looked around at the wide expanses of strawberry plants and the blue lake beyond them. “That it is,” he confirmed. Several more squad cars were barreling along Route 5, scrambling belatedly into the parking lot.

  Nora watched them come. She clutched at Ben’s forearm, slick with sweat, the sandy hair matted against the skin. She looked over at the man sprawled on the lawn. He wasn’t even attempting to come to a sitting position. “Ben, I’m starting to worry about how this is making me feel. I am so angry at that man there. I was really sorry Derek didn’t kill him. I’ve never wanted to kill someone out of anger. Since this whole thing started, it’s awakened something really ugly in me.”

  She looked at him imploringly, as though hoping he had a quick cure to offer. He only shook his head. “Nora, this is probably not the worst thing you’re ever going to see with this job, amazingly enough. That you are worried about its effects on you is a million points in your favor. If you weren’t worried about it … then you should worry,” he said. He stretched his arm out and draped it across her shoulders. She allowed herself to rest against him for a few moments.

  From where they stood it seemed that a representative from Porter Farms was deep in conversation with Chid and Ford. There was a lot of gesturing going on. Another wave of relief washed over Nora as she imagined how this morning could have ended. She felt so much gratitude to Jane Doe for having lent them her thumb.

  Then her gaze fell on Mike Szymanowski’s squad car.

  “I should check in with Mike,” she said.

  “Yes. Thank him. I could never have chased them both down. They immediately diverged so I just picked this guy.” He nodded toward the biker who panted amidst mangled strawberry plants. “Tell him I said thanks.”

  Nora kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I will. I’m glad you’re safe,” she said.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” he answered, with a crooked smile that made her wish they could take a few moments longer.

  She walked toward Szymanowski’s squad car. “Mike!” she called.

  Mike Szymanowski raised his head. She saw him steel himself for another confrontation with her.

  “Hey. Good work,” she said.

  “I hit her with the car,” he said. “Not. Actually. Good. Work.”

  Mike’s partner walked over. His face was flushed from the pursuit; his chest heaved slightly. He looked at Nora rather defensively, as though perhaps expecting her to chastise them for running over a suspect. The embroidery on his chest spelled out Hegel.

  “Thanks for your help on this,” she said to both of them. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” she added.

  Mike Szymanowski gave her a rather leery stare, and then nodded. “Yeah, you too,” he said. “We’re not gonna be able to book them until we get them some medical care, though. I called EMS.”

  She nodded to them. “We’re waiting, we understand,” Nora said.

  Two police officers were walking alongside the woman with the braid; each held one of her arms. Her face was no less fierce or determined, it seemed to Nora, who took a long moment to stare at her. A long gash had ope
ned on the woman’s forehead and was dripping blood down the left side of her face. Nora realized she herself had probably caused it while subduing the woman on the gravel driveway.

  Chid motioned to her and she joined the small group by the barn. Derek Ford was deep in conversation with a worker, and Nora was surprised to hear him speaking fluent Spanish as he jotted things into his notebook. She tilted her head, watching him, impressed, and almost forgot that Chid was trying to introduce her.

  “Frank Porter,” Chid was saying, gesturing to the tall man next to him. He had a shock of thick gray hair and sun-scorched features. Deep wrinkles traveled along his cheeks and creased about his eyes. He wore faded jeans and heavy boots. Chid finished the introduction: “Special Agent Khalil.”

  Frank Porter extended his hand. Nora found the hand was lifetime-of-farming rough but also warm and strong. She felt steadied.

  Porter said, “Seems like y’all prevented a crisis today. We’re grateful. My people here are grateful.”

  By people she assumed he meant the group of migrant workers milling around the barn. Her eyes found the woman in the Steelers T-shirt. Their gazes locked for a long moment. Nora cursed herself for having been so dismissive of Spanish class in high school. She wanted to ask the woman about conditions on the farm and about her journey to Erie—of all places. What had made her leave her home.… And were her children waiting for her to return.…

  She found she didn’t really know what to say to Frank Porter. She could only muster a tired smile. “We’re happy to have been able to help.” She looked at Chid and again at Derek. “I’m worried about Act Two,” she said under her breath to Chid.

  He nodded. “I’ll extract Derek.”

  Nora felt desperate for a place to sit down and found herself leaning on the nearest squad car. Chid and Ford soon joined her, the latter holding Jane Doe’s phone aloft.

  Nora looked at the phone in concern. “It’s still open, working, after all the commotion?”

  He nodded. “It’s going to need to charge soon. But it’s working.”