He stumbled back several steps until he could retreat no further. Another short cabinet was blocking his withdrawal. He placed his hands behind him, not wanting to turn his eyes from Jana and yet needing to know what the obstacle was. His hand felt a familiar form on the cabinet, his fingers gripping the handle.
Just then, Jana launched herself at Peter. With nowhere for him to run, she was going to end the fight.
Peter swung his arm forward, outstretched, covering a wide arc. Within his grasp was a compact camp shovel. She didn’t see it soon enough to halt her forward momentum. So she did the next best thing and bent her legs, trying to slide under the swinging implement.
It was a mistake.
The edge of the steel shovel sliced into her neck. Although not sharpened or designed as a cutting implement, the utilitarian tool still cut deep into Jana’s tissues, severing arteries and veins, along with tendons and muscles. Her head fell limp to the side and massive amounts of blood gushed from the wound.
She dropped to her knees, one hand on the ugly wound, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood, the other helping to hold her balance. With insufficient oxygen to her brain, she passed out, and a moment later was dead.
Peter dropped the shovel. He looked at the motionless body lying before him and couldn’t recall what she looked like before he had bruised and bloodied her face. Later, the face would return—haunting his nights and terrorizing his sleep.
But now, he had to get away. He was in enough trouble already. But where? Where could he go where he wouldn’t endanger others and yet he would not be captured by the police? It had to be someplace where he could defend himself, where he would have the upper hand. Then it came to him.
Returning to the cabinet that housed the topographic maps, Peter opened a drawer. He quickly worked his way until he found the quadrant he was seeking. It was a map of the Three Sisters Wilderness, just west of Bend. He ran to the checkout counter—everyone had fled the store by now—and used a pen to mark an X on the map.
Then, he placed the map on Jana’s body. He only had a minute to get what he would require—an expedition hunting pack, a box of freeze-dried meals, a water filter and several plastic bottles, and a backpack cooking kit. He shoved everything inside the pack and grabbed the first sleeping bag he laid hands on—rolled tight and stuffed inside a nylon bag—as he made his way for the door. Before he left, he slipped on a down parka. He would need it where he was going.
From the fringe of the crowd a man with a flesh-colored butterfly bandage at the edge of his scalp and another bandage across his nose spoke into his phone. “Yeah, we have a problem here—a big problem.”
Chapter 16
Bend, Oregon
April 20
Outside the Pinnacle store, a crowd was gathering. Sirens could be heard in the distance, the shrill sound growing in intensity—emergency vehicles no doubt summoned by many of the witnesses to the hand-to-hand combat.
“There are people inside who need help,” Peter shouted to the onlookers, causing a dozen faces to inch closer to the windows, driven by morbid fascination. With the hunting pack slung over a shoulder and the sleeping bag clutched to his side, he pushed through the crowd, quickly putting the store behind him. He followed a zigzag path through the shopping complex and soon arrived at the stairs to his home on the floors above EJ Enterprises.
The sirens were much louder now, and then they silenced, indicating the emergency vehicles had arrived. There would be at least one ambulance and a couple police cruisers, Peter reasoned. More would be summoned once the first responders took stock of the carnage inside.
Taking the steps two at a time, his knee protesting every movement, he entered and was greeted by Diesel. He leaned over and rubbed his companion’s head and ears. “We have to go,” he said. Diesel looked at him and tilted his head, his amber-colored eyes suggesting understanding at a basic level.
Peter dropped the sleeping bag in the entry and went directly to the secret door in the bookcase and opened it. He bypassed the antique weapons for the gun safe. Where he was going would require substantial firepower if his worst fears were realized.
He spun the dial on the large safe—left, right, left, right—finally turning the lever handle. The heavy door swung open silently on greased hinges. Peter grabbed a worn pigskin bag from the floor of the safe and filled it with the ammunition he would need—shotgun shells, rifle and pistol cartridges. Next he retrieved a semiautomatic Colt .45 Government model. After placing the pistol inside the pack, he added the pigskin ammunition bag and a belt holster. Lastly, he included his Leica binoculars and spotting scope, and a set of third generation night-vision goggles. The optics alone would cost several thousand dollars to replace, which is why he kept them in this secret space.
After slinging the heavy pack on his shoulders, Peter finished his task by removing the Remington riot gun and one of his hunting rifles—a scoped Weatherby in .340 caliber. It was a powerful round with heavy bullets, favored for hunting bear and other dangerous game.
Peter hastily gathered up everything, closed the safe, then secured the secret bookcase panel before he called Diesel to his side. Lastly, he grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from a kitchen cabinet on his way out. No point locking the door. The police will be here soon anyway, he thought. Once they interview witnesses at the store and review the video from the security cameras, they’ll come here for me.
Ignoring the pain in his knee and general aches all over his body, he quickly climbed into his red Hummer H3 truck, having placed his possessions in the back. Diesel rode shotgun as was his preference. Trying to avoid drawing attention, Peter put the truck in gear and slowly backed out of his reserved parking spot in front of EJ Enterprises just as the receptionist came running out the door. She was shouting something incomprehensible. Peter made eye contact, shook his head, and drove away, leaving his receptionist wondering what was happening.
Within minutes, the red Hummer exited Bend, pointed west on the Cascade Lakes highway. Soon, Peter would be in spotty cell coverage, and he had one important call to make before he lost a signal.
“Jim, the situation here has deteriorated.” Peter explained what had happened in short, almost cryptic, sentences, but it was enough for Commander Nicolaou to follow. He listened carefully, holding his questions until Peter was done.
“You understand that the police are going to perceive you as a violent criminal who has assaulted an FBI agent and is the prime suspect in the murder of one or more civilians. Whoever contacts you first—local police or FBI—will be predisposed to shoot first and sort it out later.”
“That’s why I’m not hanging around,” Peter said. “I’ll be in touch when and if it’s safe to contact you. Don’t try to reach me—you won’t be able to.”
“Where are you going? They’ll find you—you can’t hide.”
“Don’t worry. Where I’m heading law enforcement won’t find me unless I want them to.”
“Listen Peter. This isn’t a good idea. Surely you recognize that the woman who attacked you today and Agent Barnes are almost certainly connected. Whoever these people are, they obviously have some heavyweight resources. And they won’t hesitate to kill again.”
“I know. I’ve thought this through.”
Jim had heard the same raw determination in Peter’s tone before, when the stakes were equally high. “They’ll hunt you down… but you already know that.”
“I’m counting on it. Only they’ll be on my turf, under conditions of my choosing.”
“You won’t have any backup. You’ll be alone.”
Peter glanced to the side. Diesel was sitting at attention, watching the trees pass by.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got all the backup I need.” Just then the line went dead as Peter’s cell signal was lost. He was 20 minutes out of Bend and gaining elevation quickly.
The first responders were shaken by what they found inside Pinnacle. The paramedics quickly determined they had on
e survivor, a security guard, and rushed him to St. Charles hospital in serious condition with a suspected skull fracture. After the forensics team extensively photographed the crime scene and collected evidence from the bodies, the deceased—two men and one woman—were bagged and transported to the morgue for autopsy. Detectives were still combing through the scene well into the evening.
“Four homicides in less than two weeks. That isn’t a coincidence,” Detective Nakano commented to her partner. With a population of almost 90,000 and primarily known as a paradise for recreation, murder and manslaughter were rare—maybe one a year on average.
“Other than Peter Savage, what are the points of commonality between the Emma Jones murder and the three victims at Pinnacle?”
Niki Nakano shook her head. “Nothing.”
“There’s got to be more”, Colson said. “We just haven’t found it.”
“What do you make of the topo map on the deceased woman?”
“It’s gotta be a message.”
“Like in X marks the spot? But why? It doesn’t make sense that he would flee and then point us exactly to where he’s going.”
“Yeah, I agree. But just in case, the Deschutes County Sheriff Department will check it out in the morning. Too dangerous to start the search at night.”
Nakano understood. Besides, by morning they would know more. “Any word from the Feds yet on Agent Barnes?” she asked.
“No, not yet.” Just then Colson’s phone rang. She recognized the area code as Portland. “Speak of the Devil, maybe this is them now.”
While Colson was on the phone, Detective Nakano returned to her pad of paper and the matrix she was constructing. A visual thinker, she preferred to use circles and arrows to indicate relationships between seemingly disconnected sets of facts. And there were a lot of discrepancies to sort through. Not the least of which, the eyewitnesses couldn’t even agree on whether the deceased woman was an innocent victim or assailant. No one actually saw who killed the two men, although two witnesses did see Peter Savage strike the woman with the camp shovel. That would be easy enough to corroborate with fingerprints from the handle. She hoped they’d learn more when the security guard recovered enough to be questioned—assuming he did pull through.
She was chewing on her pen when Colson finished her call.
“Well, that was interesting. Agent Andrew Shooks—he’s with the cyber-crimes division out of the FBI office in Portland—says Barnes works in his unit. He’s requested access to everything—all the evidence related to this investigation and the Jones murder.”
Nakano looked up from her diagram. “Why? The Feds don’t have any jurisdiction here.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. There is the matter of unauthorized access to secret government files, allegedly by Mr. Savage. And even he admits he assaulted a federal agent.”
“Not exactly. He claims that Barnes is a fake and not a federal agent.”
“Regardless,” Colson continued, “I doubt the Chief will want to get into a pissing match over this. But you want to know what’s really weird?”
Her partner gave her the do-I-really-have-to-answer-that look. “Okay,” Colson said. “It’s Agent Barnes.”
“What about him?”
“Well, Shooks sounded surprised when I asked how the agent was doing.”
“Maybe Savage is right and Barnes is an imposter.”
“You can’t be serious. Anyway, he said we’ll be getting an arrest warrant for Peter Savage within the hour.”
Nakano raised her eyebrow. “Really? How come Saint Charles hospital has no record of anyone by the name of Barnes being treated in the last 24 hours? In fact, they haven’t treated anyone identifying themselves as an FBI agent during the past six months.”
Colson shrugged. “Agent Shooks says Barnes is doing well but will need several days to fully recover. That would be consistent with what Mr. Savage described for his injuries.”
“Where is Barnes now? We should interview him.”
“Good question,” Colson answered with a frown. “Shooks wouldn’t say and added that Barnes had been thoroughly questioned by the Bureau. Maybe the Chief can get a copy of his statement.”
“Why wouldn’t Barnes take himself to the emergency room to get checked out? Without a proper medical examination soon after the alleged incident, there’s no evidence an assault actually occurred.”
“Except we have the statement from Peter Savage. And Agent Shooks has a written statement from Barnes that he was, indeed, assaulted last night, with injuries serious enough to keep him from work.”
“This just gets stranger all the time,” Nakano said.
“You got that right. I’ll make sure the evidence techs get a copy of what we’ve got so far scanned and emailed up to Portland. In the meantime, we have local, state, and federal law enforcement searching for Peter Savage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the ten-most-wanted list by morning.”
Chapter 17
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 21
Paralleling the Pacific Ocean and forming the eastern boundary of the Willamette Valley are the Cascade Mountains. The volcanic mountain chain stretches from Northern California, through Oregon, Washington, and into British Columbia where it merges with the Rockies. With five peaks in Oregon higher than 10,000 feet, the Cascades provide an effective rain barrier resulting in the western third of the state being noteworthy for its precipitation, while the eastern portion is classified as high desert. The mountains are a sportsman’s paradise with ample opportunity for hiking, backpacking, fishing, hunting—and hiding.
Diesel stretched, pushing his four legs against his master, waking him in the process. The morning air was cold, and frost covered the scattered bunch grass dispersed among the mix of pumice gravel and sand. Peter pushed up his brimmed hat exposing his eyes to a brilliant orange sunrise. He stretched, and Diesel groaned. “Me too,” he said.
After leaving Bend, Peter drove the Hummer H3 pickup truck past Mount Bachelor to the turnoff for Todd Lake. Scattered patches of snow still frequented the forest floor—it would not be completely melted for another two months. But the road was open and Peter got about a mile off the highway before encountering the locked gate blocking the old gravel Forest Service road.
He knew this area well—knew that beyond the gate he could travel north, away from people. He was at ease in the wilderness, and he had the essentials needed to survive—rather comfortably, he thought. Water from melting snow was plentiful. He had food, and if needed he was perfectly capable of taking large or small game. But with the freeze-dried meals, that wouldn’t be necessary unless he needed to stay in the high country for more than two or three weeks.
Here, on the eastern slope of Broken Top peak, at the edge of the Three Sisters Wilderness, he would hide out and let them come for him. Here, the terrain was his ally. He would set up hides well up the slope. The trees were thin, and with many open meadows, Peter would see his adversaries coming long before they knew where he was.
The backcountry was still considered closed to vehicles, and with only patchy snowfields, the cross-country skiers and snowshoers would be done for the season. It was unlikely any innocents would wander into the area.
Peter drove around the Forest Service gate and continued north, eventually pulling off the road and parking on a spur. He strapped the .45 caliber handgun to his waist and placed some last-minute items from the truck inside the pack—first aid kit, rope, knife, lighter, and a blanket. With Diesel by his side, he shouldered the pack and long guns before heading west on foot. After an hour of walking and with the last gray light from a faded sunset, he’d set up shelter beneath a dense fir tree. There, with Diesel resting his head on Peter’s lap, he had fallen asleep.
With the beginning of a new day, Peter had work to do. He figured he had at least the morning to prepare, perhaps longer. The red Hummer H3, parked next to the road, would be found quickly. From there, trackers would follow his trail.
> “Come on, Diesel.” Peter was eying a rocky outcropping that rose about 30 feet above the meadow. “That point of land is our new home.” It was angled to the northeast and had a reasonable covering of trees. From that vantage point, he could watch the entire length of the meadow, looking over their back trail.
Peter’s knee felt better after popping several ibuprofens, but it was still sore and stiff. He estimated it was sprained and had wrapped an elastic bandage around it for added support. It helped, but only a little. His abdomen was also healing. The bruised muscles ached only when he took a deep breath.
After crossing the long meadow, they climbed the steep scree slope to the point, the only access avenue unless one was willing to climb the rock cliff face. Peter estimated that it would take a determined adversary at least two minutes to rush up the scree from the base, more than enough time to escape off the back of the point and retreat farther up the gentle slope.
The terrain was marked by a series of parallel drainages that funneled snow runoff to the east. At higher elevations from his current position, these gullies were separated by steep ridgelines. The drainages provided cover to disappear and relocate, while the ridges offered excellent hides to ambush any pursuers.
East, toward the road, the terrain was more densely wooded while the creeks, flowing slower at the lower elevation, meandered through innumerable grassy meadows, separated by pockets of fir trees.
Directly to the west was Broken Top, and extending north from the aptly-named extinct volcanic peak was a formidable natural barrier—the towering rock cliff known as Tam McArthur Rim. Peter had no intention of trying to drop over the Rim, but he could continue north and eventually work around the drop-off to access points deeper in the Three Sisters Wilderness. Within this vast tract of land, he could remain hidden for weeks, possibly months.
Although Peter would have preferred to be outfitted with his camo hunting clothing, the waterproof parka he’d pulled off the rack at Pinnacle was heavily insulated with down filling, and it came with a pair of medium-weight gloves tethered to the zipper—a package deal. Plus, he had luckily grabbed one in a slate-gray color, affording a decent degree of camouflage.
Hunting Savage Page 11
