by Rob Buckman
"It's not just the age Charley. I had my chance and blew it. See you later." Mike held the door open for Max. Thinking he'd had to come back later and pick up his guns and the knucklebone for Max's girl friend. "Say 'bye’ to Ruth for me. Tell her I'll see her on my way back to pick up my stuff." He said. Pointing a thumb at the gun rack. Charley nodded and gave him a wave, rubbing his jaw in thought as he watched him walk down the street.
The Sheriff's Station was only two blocks down, so he took his time, enjoying the sun and picking up a few items he needed. He also stopped at the post office and checked his mailbox. Inside was a note telling him to pick up a package that was too big for the box. Upon presenting the note, the man behind the desk came back with a package. On handing it over, Mike found it was heavy, and it piqued his interest. He walked over to a quiet corner and opened it, the corner of his wide mouth lifting in a slight smile. In the formed Styrofoam packaging, lay a row of gleaming cartridges, but nothing like any normal hunter would ever see. These were .50 caliber monsters and designed to hunt another type of game. He closed the package, slipping it inside his backpack, deciding to wait until later to read the note. On reaching the Sheriff's station, he opened the door, telling Max to stay outside as he walked in.
"Is the Sheriff in?" he asked the secretary at the front desk, a pert little teenager with freckles, and a pug nose.
"I'm the guy who just called, Mike Grainger." She smiled as she looked up, until she heard his name. The smile slipping a little.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Grainger. I'll tell him you're here?" She said, picking up the phone. Looking surprised to see him, which was odd, considering he'd just called.
"Can I tell him what it's about?"
"No." He said still smiling. Trying to take the bite out of it.
"Oh... I... Just a moment please." He didn't hear much of the conversation, just his name and that he was here. A few moments later, the inner door opened and the Sheriff motioned him in.
"I'm sheriff Napa." He said, introducing himself and offering his hand. "What can I do for you Mr. Grainger?" The Mister sounded a bit strained. Mike ignored the hand.
"Not much, I just stopped by to drop off a few items." He unloaded the items he'd confiscated the night before onto the man's desk.
"What's all this?" A little redness had crept into his face when Mike didn't shake hands. It was nothing personal. Mike rarely shook hands with people. It put him at a disadvantage should trouble start.
"Two yahoos came into my camp last night and tried to rip me off. We had a word or two and they left, but not before I relieved them of this stuff.”
“I think that if you check, your records will show there are one or two people who have complained about the poor hospitality in these hills." Without saying a word, he picked up the phone.
"Judy, would you bring in that robbery report, the one filed last night." Sitting down he placed his feet on the corner of the desk, eyeing Mike over the tip of his cigarette. "Let me get this straight. You say two men came into your camp and tried to rob you. Somehow, you turned the table on these two, and proceeded to relieve them of this property. Is that what you're telling me?" There was coldness to his voice that Mike did not much care for.
"That's what I just got through telling you." There was a coldness in him as well, getting colder by the second. The secretary came in just then, breaking the tension, handed the sheriff a folder. She quickly backed out, closing the door after her.
"I have here a complaint from two men who tell the same story as you. Except that they came into your camp, friendly like to ask the way to town, them being lost and all. You then proceeded to rob them of." He said consulted the file.
"What did I take?" Mike asked. It dawned on him why the secretary and sheriff Napa were acting so odd.
"Five thousand dollars in cash and five thousand in gold, plus other personal belongings," he said, finishing the report, his eyes sliding back up to meet Mike's.
"Where were these two upstanding gentlemen when you found them?"
"Who said anything about finding them." he asked suspiciously.
"I do!" Mike took the set of car keys and tossed them onto the Sheriff's desk.
The Sheriff eyed the keys for a moment, then nodded.
"You're right. A patrol found them walking down the highway at three in the morning, barefoot, scratched, bleeding, and freezing cold, holding their pants and each other up." Mike had to smile.
"You think it's funny." Sheriff Napa snapped, seeing the smile.
"Yes, I do. I didn't think they knew how to hot-wire a car. I was right." He said with a shrug. The Sheriff sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a bang.
"Let me tell you, son. It's not funny at all. Those two could have been killed up there and you would have been the one responsible. If they had, the charge would have been murder. As it is, it's going to be armed robbery." To his surprise, Mike hadn't moved or shown any sign that he even heard. He stood there looking out of the window.
"Before you do anything stupid, there are a few details you should know, and a couple of questions you should ask yourself."
"What for instance?!" the Sheriff snapped.
"You asked me how I could get the drop on two men. If you look out of this window towards your front door you'll see the answer." The Sheriff got up and walked over, pulling the blinds apart to see.
"So? You've got a dog," seeing Max lying down by the door.
"That's not a dog Sheriff. It's a timber wolf, in fact two of them. His girl friend's back at camp." He was betting the sheriff wouldn't know the difference between a half breed and pure breed wolf. He didn't.
"So?" This time he didn't sound so sure.
"Would you like to take the chance and face two full grown wolves? What do you think your they’d be?"
"How do you know they would have attacked on your command?"
"What would your dog do if someone attacked you?" he asked eyeing the photograph of the Sheriff and a German shepherd.
He didn't answer. "What else am I supposed to know, and what question should I be asking myself?" he asked, sarcastically.
Picking up the wallets, Mike threw them on the desk beside the keys one by one. "What were these two upstanding gentlemen doing with all these wallets?" Quickly the Sheriff scanned each before dropping them back on the desk. Five of them belonged to men, in the names of Johnson, Everet, Wilson, Brown, and Dagget. The two others belonged to women by the name of James and Kennedy.
"Is there anything else?" the Sheriff asked, an unhappy look on his face. This was not working out the way he thought it would.
"Just assorted cameras, lenses, watches, rings, credit cards, and one pair of ladies panties." He raised an eyebrow as he held them up. "Maybe one of them prefers ladies' lingerie?" The Sheriff looked thoughtful for a moment.
"You could have stolen all of this and brought it in to cover your tracks."
"I could have. I could have shot both of them and dropped their bodies down an old mine shaft as well, or called you and claimed self defense."
"Their disappearance would have been noticed and reported."
"So? There have been a few other people reported missing. Did you ever find any of them?" The Sheriff looked uncomfortable and shook his head.
"No."
"I would suggest you find those two and question them some more. You’ll find they are connected to one or two more robberies and rapes over the past couple of years."
"How did you know about...?" He stopped.
"There's not much goes on around here that people don't find out about sooner or later." Mike could see that upset the Sheriff. "Unless you suspect me of these crimes as well?"
"That's a possibility."
"Then you're reaching." He said softly. "DNA tracing would let me out on the rapes, plus eyewitness reports on the robberies would clear me on that. It kind of difficult to mistake me for one of those yahoos." Mike didn't bother trying to hide his irritation. It would be hard for anyone to mista
ke Mike for either of the two men in his camp last night, being six foot three and built like a linebacker.
Not only had the Sheriff blown it where Mike was concerned, but he now had the additional suspicion that he might have let two murderers go free. This guy knew just a little too much and it made the Sheriff feel uncomfortable. The comment about DNA didn't sit too well, he'd only recently read up on it himself.
"Is there anything else Sheriff?" Mike asked, walking towards the door.
"Yes!" he banged the desk with his fist. "Why the hell didn't you bring them in?"
"I'm not the law. You are. Why didn't you hold them and check their stories? Besides that, I don't give a damn what you people do to each other. If people are stupid enough to go up into those mountains thinking it's Disneyland, that's their look out, not mine. You're the Sheriff so start doing your job!" Mike could feel the cold spot getting colder. When it reached zero he'd rip this idiot's head off and stick it up his ass and to hell with the consequence.
"Don't start telling me how to do my job, son. You're in enough trouble as it is. Don't piss me off any more." Sheriff Napa could feel the situation getting away from him. He couldn't believe it when a supposed armed robbery suspect just walked into the station. Now it looked as if he'd really screwed up.
"Trouble! What trouble? If you think you can make these robberies stick, you're dumber than you look." That sent the Sheriff's blood pressure through the roof.
"Watch your mouth, son, or I'll fall on you like a ton of bricks!"
"That's the third time you've called me 'son'. I'm not your son, thank god and don't threaten me. You want to try me, go ahead and I'll whip the socks off you, in or out of court, but don't hide behind that badge. Too many good men have worn it for you to start getting it dirty." The sheriff looked at him, for the first time seeing him in a new light. There was something about this man that said he could do exactly what he said, and no amount of martial arts' training would do him any good. Getting a grip on himself, he calmed down.
"I'm not talking about these robberies. You've proved your point for the moment, I'm sorry to say. I'm going to talk to those two men again, if I can locate them. After that, if I still think it's you, I'll come up there and get you." Mike had to chuckle. The man had to be putting him on, but the look on his face said he wasn't.
"For the record, you go ahead and check. If you come up to get me, you'd better have a hell of a lot more evidence than the word of those two to back it up." The sheriff nodded.
"That's not the only trouble you're in." Mike shrugged; the whole conversation was getting boring. Sheriff Napa could see that he wasn't getting through to him.
"There is also the question about the death of the previous owners of the land you bought. I had two people tell me recently that they thought it might not be an accident. There is also the question of you shooting at the survey parties." Mike shook his head.
"What did you say?" He'd heard it, but the sheriff might as well have spoken Swahili for all the understanding Mike got out of it.
"I don't know what planet you're on, or what you're smoking! But I suggest you get back down to earth and pay attention." At last Mike moved. He walked over and leaned on the desk, lowering himself to within an inch of the man's face. His voice was as cold as frost.
"You've been flapping your jaw for half an hour, and I have yet to hear anything but stupidity from you. If you have anything on me, anything at all, arrest me and take me into a court. If not, shut up. Don't threaten me. Don't talk down to me, and don't ever treat me like some dumb, redneck drunk you've picked up on a Saturday night. You do, and I'll cloud up and rain all over you, legally, and personally. You got that sheriff!" For a moment, his eyes flashed fire.
With twenty years on the force, one place or another, he’d heard all the threats. From junkies and pushers to killers and con men, both political and criminal, and he wasn't easily intimidated. But it was a stone cold certainty that this man meant every word he said and then some. He sat there, open-mouthed, watching Mike walk out of his office, unable to think or do anything for a moment to stop him.
"Judy. Get me a line to Washington. FBI headquarters." He yelled. Two hours later the answer to his question came over the fax, page after page pouring out.
Whoever Mike Grainger was the FBI had one hell of a file on him. He spent another hour reading and re-reading the file, ending up even less happy than when he'd started. The man had a security clearance beyond anything he'd ever seen, and had worked for the FBI as a consultant. His work included anti-terrorist briefings on known terrorist organizations and counter measures. He also held a PhD in law, which didn't make the sheriff any happier. It confirmed his threat about whipping him in court. Mike Grainger also had minor degrees in history and political science, lending credence to his expertise on terrorism. What bothered him most was the lack of information on why Mike Grainger was living up on a mountain. Or how a PhD could get the knowledge to do it? Bookworms don't have wolves for pets, or handle themselves the way this guy did. He was too confident, too sure of himself, and having been a soldier himself, he recognized another when he saw one. This man had been to war, yet nothing in this file said a word to indicate he had, and that was something to ponder. Just who was Mr. Michael Grainger? Where had he come from, and what had he done?
CHAPTER TWO:
Stepping from the limo, Roland Hawkins paused briefly to look disdainfully at the moving mass of humanity before him. Rush hour foot traffic moved by, all intent on reaching their respective destinations on time. Few, if any looked at the sole occupant of the limo. To most people, it did nothing more than hold up traffic and prevent people from getting to work on time. Roland Hawkins III, of the New Hampshire Hawkins, was oblivious to the needs of the working class people around him. Never having entered their world, he had no concept of holding a job, or the need to get to work on time. He was also oblivious to the appearance of the eight men who poured from two identical limos, fore and aft of his. Forming a loose cordon around him, they created a space, so he could walk across the pavement to the lobby of the building unmolested. The bodyguards forged a path so he could walk unhurriedly to the private elevator, ignoring the veiled looks and muttered comments thrown their way. They merely opened their coats slightly to give the unhappy person a quick look at the MAC 10 hung inside. They didn't give a shit about the looks, or the comments. Few, if any of the rush hour people had the balls or the nerve to challenge the hard faced men. They were well paid to do what they did, and enjoyed the illusion of power.
That Roland Hawkins owned the skyscraper was obvious, a direct testament to his power and wealth. That he needed a bodyguard was a testament to the number of enemies he'd made doing it. Walking from the elevator, he crossed the reception area of his penthouse office, pondering deeply the knotty problem of employee relations. He didn't bother to acknowledge the greeting of the receptionist, nor that of the other menial help who inhabited his office. He directed his attention solely to the problem, and what to do about it. The question was more than just a matter of corporate policy, or the most cost effective and trouble free method of terminating a less than efficient employee. There was also the question of personal satisfaction, and that it be done in such a way so as not to disrupt present operations. Many corporations face the same problem when key individuals or upper level management proves less than efficient or detrimental to business. Not that Roland Hawkins gave a second thought to the niceties, or the formalities of the labor relations act. He didn't. His only concern was himself, money, and power. Money because of the people he could buy and use, and power because of the people he could control and use that his money couldn't buy. On the outside, to the public, he was suave, handsome, and well dressed. Looking every inch the perfect model of a rich, successful business tycoon. He was sophisticated and well groomed, polite, and well mannered to a fault. He loved classical music, the arts, and was always seen in the right places with all the right people. He'd also developed a taste f
or old malt whiskey and young girls. At five-eight inches tall, he was neither short nor tall, yet his trim frame made him look taller. His dominating presence soon made people forget any lack of inches. His hawk like features and brooding eyes enhanced the overall impression of power. Many business opponents came away from meetings with the uneasy impression they'd been picked over by a vulture. No one suspected the other side of his personality, the side he kept carefully hidden from the world.
This side hid a twisted megalomaniac with a touch of sadomasochism. Who never forgot an insult no matter how trivial. He didn't have an ounce of compassion or mercy for any one, and hated losing a business deal. He would wreak revenge on the unlucky soul, to the point where more than one had committed suicide. He was driven by an uncontrollable urge to amass a fortune by any means at his command that nothing on earth could destroy, including the government. To this day, he still shuddered at the memory of poverty in his youth. The family having lost its fortune in the stock market crash of '32 when his beloved grandfather was driven to suicide. This he blamed entirely on the government. Thereafter he felt neither remorse nor guilt when he cheated it on a grand scale—or sold its secrets to foreign powers. By any standard, his family had never been poor, having scraped and saved enough to send him to all the right schools. Harvard, Yale, and Stanford being only three of the universities he'd attended, receiving degrees in Law, business, history, and economics. He'd also picked up sundry educational degrees in the bars and back alleyways of New York, Amsterdam, and London. It was here that he developed a taste for the seamier, less legal side of life, a side he enjoyed where there were no rules, and he could do as he wished, feeling no pangs of guilt over the people he ruined, or companies he destroyed through blackmail, extortion, and murder.
His earlier contemplation of the labor relations problem was starting to make him angry, a cold dark anger that ate at his soul like acid. It went without saying the person would be terminated. The only question remaining was when? First, he’d pay the price for permitting the situation to get out of hand and failing to follow orders as he should have. The question he toyed with was the method and timing of the termination. Should it be messy as a warning to others, or unobtrusive, causing the least amount of anxiety within the company? In the end, he opted for the quiet and unobtrusive. He’d invested too much time and money already on the venture for anything to impair its completion at this stage. However, before the unfortunate person departed to fertilize a forest in Oregon, or the bottom of some swamp in Louisiana. He'd pay dearly for causing the problem. Yet it was small comfort. Roland Hawkins knew the man's impending death wasn't enough to satisfy his needs for revenge, as he'd be unable to take a personal interest in the proceedings. He decided his latest girlfriend needed a lesson in discipline this evening. It would provide a release for his mounting frustrations, and gave him the perfect excuse to beat her again—not that he needed one. He liked to inflict pain on people. It would simply add spice to the evening's entertainment. The decision made, he pressing a button on his desk to summon his secretary, calm and happy at last. The man entered, soft footing his way across the deep pile carpet.
