by Rob Buckman
"Still doesn't change anything."
"Not a bit?"
"No! Only? ...why did you quit?" Mike sighed.
"I found out what I will not kill. Children who are doing me no harm and a friend."
"Anyone in particular? Or just any friend?"
"I don't have that many that I can afford to kill any of them."
"So who didn't you kill for them?"
"A guy by the name of Pete Rogers. They said he'd gone bad, turned, and was now a liability. Showed me some documents to prove it, but I wouldn't buy. I knew Pete too well to think he would go bad."
"So they killed him anyway right?"
"No. Apparently not. I found out he's now working for the FBI in Washington, doing well I heard."
"So you walked out and they were pissed?" He said with a smile. Thinking what it must have been like. Mike was the sort of guy that didn't give a shit, and probably told them to go pound sand in their collective asses.
"One day soon Son, we are going to get drunk on the special bottle and you and I are going to swap war stories. I've got a few that will turn your gut. Even now, I'm not proud of them. But I did them, and live with them, as must you."
"Ruth know about them?" He asked, looking at her.
"Hell yes!" He said, placing his arm around her shoulder. "I won’t tell you how many nights I've cried on her shoulder son. It would ruin my tough guy image!" He kissed Ruth on the cheek. "How the hell do you think I stayed sane all these years? What you need is a good women and get it out of your system once and for all."
"Maybe you’re right. We'll see." He said with a sigh. "By the way, will you look after this for me?" Mike asked, pulling a leather sack out of his pocket.
"What is it, and how come?" Mike poured the contents out into a bowl. Hearing Charley let out a soft whistle.
"That's about fifteen pounds of gold, worth close to sixty thousand dollars." If anything happens to me, it yours."
Mike!"
"Don't argue about this Charley. I've got no one else, and I'd like you and Ruth to take care of this. It's the deed to the property up on Thunder Mountain. If I don't come back, this goes to my Grandfather. His address is on the papers. If I don't come back, he'll find me, and those responsible." Charley looked at him, a question on his face. But Mike didn't elaborate on his odd statement. The address on the back was the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation. Charley turned away, busying himself with filling coffee cups and cutting another slice of pie, covering his emotions.
"You think there may be a connection?" Mike knew what he meant.
"Yes, I do. It's funny. As I make a big strike, the question of the ownership of the land comes up."
"So you found it then? The glory hole." Mike's grin gave him the answer.
"The location is in with the property papers."
"Son of a...! You think the Ballard woman knows as well?"
"I don't see why not, her father owned the land for years, he could have stumbled on it the same way I did."
"You think it could be worth that much."
"Hell yes! If I were to guess, I'd say that the strike could run into several million."
"Christ! That would explain a lot."
"That it would. Yet it still doesn't ring true.
"How come?"
"Why would someone as rich as Roland Hawkins try to strong arm me. Even with the gold strike, the value of the property is just, to him essentially pocket change."
"Could be he's not as rich as you think?"
"I checked, he is, richer in fact."
"Then why?"
"That's the question I hope to find the answer to this weekend."
They chatted some more for a while, about Nam and other places, but Mike called it to a halt. At Eleven thirty, he drove back up the mountain, the last thirty minutes done in total darkness just in case. This gave a whole new dimension to the word suspense. Thinking back over the last few day over a glass of brandy, he decided to put a pack together to cover several contingencies. It could be just a dinner. Or he was reading too much into what was going on. On the other hand, if he was right. He might need to bug out in a hurry, and need a few items to give him an edge. He remembered the old boy scout motto, 'Be Prepared'. Walking down stairs to the ground floor, he unlocked a back door hidden in the rear of the storage room, entered and locked the door behind him. To the untrained eye, it looked like any other door, from this side you could see that it was made of solid steel. This was set in a steel frame, anchored directly into the rock of the mountain. Within six months of moving in, he'd discovered one of the secrets of the house. It had being built over the entrance of an old mine, or rather part mine part cave. Whoever started mining up here must have had a bit of a shock and a lot of disappointment. The mine tunnel ran strait as an arrow for fifty feet back into the hill through solid rock, abruptly ending in a natural vent from an underground cave system. The tunnel curved down and away, the floor dropping in a series of sloping steps some five hundred yards before ending in a cavern of respectable proportions. The last owner, Kat's father, had added steps down onto the floor of the cavern, plus an ingenious hot water system, using the natural hot spring to heat the house. A recycling system provided under floor heating for the house, and hot water for the showers, bath and kitchen through a heat exchanger.
Mike didn't go down into the cavern, stopping half way down and unlocking another steel door set into the side tunnel. He had taken a lot of trouble installing the doors in the basement, and the side tunnel, and nothing short of explosives or an RPG could get through them. They protected his armory and emergency food supply. The side tunnel was nothing more than a cave, some fifty-foot deep, and running back into the mountain. The miner had probably tried his luck by cutting sideways in the hope of striking a vein, but it had obviously come to nothing. The main cavern was mostly humid and damp, but the addition of a viton seal around the door and an air drier kept the inside of this small cave cool and dry. It providing an excellent place to store supplies, and his assortment of weapons and ammunition. With the addition of a workbench and gun racks, power from the house provided light and electricity for work. The previous owner had already installed light down the tunnel and into the cavern.
Every soldier has his favorite weapon. One he might have used or only heard about, or seen from a distance, Mike had his. Picking it up, he sat down and stripped it, going through his mandatory cleaning process before using it. Even though he'd cleaned and oiled it the last time, it was used. The British L70 'Individual Weapon', as it was called, was his favorite all round arm. This one chambered for the original 7.62 mm, high velocity ammunition. Not the wimpy .223 round the Brit's were forced to use. That was nothing more than the .223 Armalite round. This rifle was configured in what was known as a 'Bullpup design' making for a more compact weapon. By using this method the weapon was only thirty inches in length, but one that in many ways was more comfortable to shoot. Especially in tight corners.
With the magazine located behind the trigger grip, it permitted the internal components to be more compact and the rifle balanced better. It in no way sacrificed anything in accuracy by appearing short. With the addition of a standard 4x 'SUSAT' or 'Trilux' telescopic sight, with its internal image intensifier for low light shooting, it was possible to drive nails in at five hundred yards, and kill at a thousand in the hands of a good marksman. He cleaned and oiled each part with care before re-assembling the weapon, then loading and snapping a thirty round magazine into the well, cocking and flicking the safety on. The safety also functioned as the selector and could be set to single shot, full auto or three round bursts. The weapon was able to churn out a respectable 750 rounds per minute on rock and roll. That done he loaded thirty more magazines, placing them into a carrying pouch. Next, he dropped an assortment of destructive items into another pouch, from candle length sticks of 303A plastic explosive, to thunder flashes, similar to the ones used by the SAS. Opening a flat tin, he examined the items inside. These lo
oked like thin hockey pucks, a nasty little gadget developed by the company. Depending on which ones you used, white, red, or black. They could either flip a man five feet into the air when he stepped on it. Or blow both his legs off. They were excellent for perimeter security at night, simple pressure from a man's hand or knee, if he was crawling through the bush as that was all that was needed to set it off. Opening this ammo safe he looked through the assortment. Several boxes went into his bag for both his hand weapons and the rifle. With a pensive look, he picked up and examined a black plastic magazine, with yellow tape around it.
This was filled with the rounds a friend had sent him some time ago. The cryptic note told him to use it sparingly, and it might be useful against hard targets. The specification for the ammo inside the magazines caused his eyebrows to climb. To date he hadn't had a reason to try these munitions, maybe now was the time. He dropped one of the magazines into his pouch, plus silencers and Laser target sights. Two pair of starlight glasses went into the bag, as did a first aid kit and food concentrate and one canteen of water. Detonators and timers for the explosives he set aside. These he would carry separate from the rest, in his jacket pocket. 'Never, never mix the two, no matter what, until you’re ready to use it', the words of his explosives training instructor sounded like a mantra in his head. He smiled. That was that except for knives, of which he always carried three. The first a custom version of the 'Rambo III' knife. The second a clip on boot, the third a Bali Song butterfly sideways on his belt. That done he locked up and carried his gear upstairs, everything getting the once over from Max's nose. That nose could find a black cat in a coalmine at midnight, and finding his gear in the dark would be a snap with Max around. He carefully picked two sets of clothing from his wardrobe, one for the dinner, and one for the dance afterward, if the party went as he suspected it would. His tux hadn't been used for five years, and then only once but was still clean, covered in the same plastic dry-cleaning bag.
From a footlocker in the bottom he pulled out his combat gear, checking each item. Everything except the boots were a nondescript dark gray, the boots being black canvas with thin traction soles and titanium inserts. Dark gray blended in better than black, both day and night. The jacket did have one unusual feature. It was reversible, dark gray one side, forest cammo on the other, ideal for a variety of work in many types of terrain, or weather. Unless it got down to below freezing. Now he was ready for the party to begin.
CHAPTER NINE:
Sheriff Napa prowled around the clearing for the tenth time, looking as if he’d just bit into something sour. Again, he looked for anything that would indicate Mike Grainger had ever been here. His two deputies poked and prodded, following the same routine, with the same results. The county coroner meanwhile sat on a tree stump looking bored and wishing he had brought his fishing rod. So far, none of them had found any sign of a camp, or the body that was supposed to be here. This clearing had been a campsite at one time that much was obvious by the blacked ring of rocks. Yet an examination of the earth beneath the ashes showed no residual heat from a fire. Which you would expect if it had been used in the past day or so. There was nothing, the earth was stone cold and from its appearance and the condition of the ashes no fire had burned here for at least three or four months. It was looking even more doubtful that this was even the right campsite. Being a suspicious man by nature, Sheriff Napa examined the campsite once more, this time very slowly. He stopped now and then to check out small items, moving a rock here and there to see if there was anything underneath.
What he didn't know, and would never find out was, that he walked over the site of Mike's campfire five time, never suspecting it was there. The fire he examined was the one Mike had left undisturbed when he moved in. His early training and later experience dictated he start another in a different location. Leaving the other undisturbed. What pissed the sheriff off the most was the fact that the dogs wouldn't come near the camp. The handler had to drag the animals the last hundred yards, and they whined and pulled on their leashes, not wanting to go near the place. The ME said it was the wolf smell that did it. Grainger hadn't been lying about having a wolf for a pet, he'd just forgotten to tell the dog handler.
"Well Sheriff, what do we do now?" The Coroner asked, eyeing a deep pool he'd like to get a fishing line into.
"I have no idea. If Grainger has been here, I can't find any evidence of it anywhere." He answered, taking his hat off and slapping it against his leg, in frustration.
"I don't know about you sheriff, but I'm heading back down. If you do find the body, call me on the radio and I'll come back up, but no cadaver. No crime."
"I suppose you're right." He said with a shake of his head. "Let's pack it up boys and head home," he called.
They waved back, heading out of the clearing. Sheriff Napa followed, looked back one more time, unable to get rid of the nagging suspicion that he had missed something. He felt in his bones that Grainger had been here. This was his campsite. Yet there was just nothing to hang his suspicion on, not one damn thing. It also brought into question the source of his information. How had his anonymous caller been so sure that there would be a body here? Or that Mike Grainger had killed him. Come to that, if Grainger had killed him, would he be stupid enough to do it in his own campsite, or leave the body there. He didn't think so. Besides anything else, he didn't take Grainger for a fool, arrogant maybe, stupid, no. This whole story about Mike Grainger harassing survey people was starting to smell fishy. Something about this whole deal didn't ring true. What, he couldn’t say. One way or another he was going to get to the bottom of it. Now he faced the long hike back down the mountain with nothing to show for it. Roland Hawkins secretary, Edward had been very specific when he called. Insisting that Grainger had killed a member of their survey party. He'd also indicated where this had taken place, but he'd found nothing. To pass the time on the walk back, he constructed a possible scenario in his mind. He could almost see Mike Grainger killing the man and disposing of the body. Then packing up and moving out, removing all traces of his present. If that was the case, where was the body? Down an old mineshaft? If so, it would be almost impossible to find. He hated the idea of having to search every old mine shaft and cave in a five-mile radius of this camp. For one, he didn't have the manpower, and two, he didn't have the time, not with winter coming on.
"Maybe something will turn up." He muttered to himself.
The answer to all his questions came that afternoon when a forest ranger called in to say he'd found a body up on the old logging trail. This time they were able to drive all the way to the site, and not have to spend two hours hiking up a mountain. By mid afternoon, the same group stood at the edge of the turnout while the coroner did his preliminary examination of the body.
"Well?" He asked as the coroner walked up.
"Well what?" The ME asked with a raised eyebrow.
"The body was dumped here right?"
"No." he said, shaking his head, "not as far as I can tell at the moment." He could see the look of disappointment on the sheriff’s face.
"No. What do you mean no!"
"No, it wasn't dumped here." He was almost enjoying himself as he bated the man.
"You’re kidding me?" The sheriff's face darkened, as his blood pressure went up.
"Look sheriff. I know you've got a hornet in your hat about this guy Grainger, and would just love to hang it on him. But it not going to hold water. I've got blood under the body that's soaked into the ground. I've got blood pooled in the lower part of the body; and other than a few animal marks, and tracks, this body hasn't been disturbed since he was killed. Or at least as far as I can tell right now."
"But..." The coroner waved his hand in the direction of the body.
"No buts’. I'll give you a complete report after I've had a chance to do a work up. If you want to go and haul this guy Grainger in on suspicion, that's your affair. But I can tell you right now you've got a problem."
"You can say that aga
in."
"The body wasn't found anywhere near where his camp is supposed to be. Also, there is no indication that the body has been moved. There is no weapon and no sign saying 'Grainger did it' scrawled in the dirt. So you just go ahead and haul him in, and hope he doesn't hit you with a law suit for unlawful arrest."
Sheriff Napa looked a bit peeved. This wasn't working out like he thought. Roland Hawkins’ man had been so sure about his facts, yet none of the evidence matched, so what the hell was going on? Roland Hawkins was asking the same question and getting the same answers.
* * * * * *
"We don't know what happened. There was no campsite and no corpse. In fact the body was found some three miles away, at the exact location he was killed." Edward could see the thunder clouds building up on his boss's face. It was only a matter of time before he exploded.
"Damn the man! He's a lot smarter than I gave him credit for. He has neatly turned the tables on us, which is something I do not like at all." Roland Hawkins thought about it for a few moments before turning back to Edward.
Edward reacted by commenting "I doubt whether there is any way of salvaging the situation to our advantage without arousing suspicion sir. If we pursue it any further we might be asked how we know so much."
"I think you're right Edward." Roland Hawkins reluctantly agreed. "It wouldn't do to have suspicion pointed in our direction. Not at this juncture. If asked, just say we only suspected Grainger might have killed him."
"Yes, sir. I might add that Mr. Grainger did accept our invitation to dinner this weekend." Edward added, hoping it would divert some of Roland Hawkins anger away from him.
"You don't say! You think he will come?" Edward thought it was a stupid question, but said nothing. How would he know if Mike Grainger would come to the party?
"I have no way of being certain, but feel that by the way he answered when invited, he might just come."
