The Dark Trail

by J. C. Fields

  “I’m aware of that. But there’s something about Monk’s early school records that doesn’t correspond with his later success as a mathematician.”

  “As a rule, success in college corresponds to good performance in elementary school, but not always. What are you getting at?”

  “It’s like the early Monk and the college-age Monk were two separate individuals.”

  Kruger stopped sipping his coffee and blinked as he studied the contents of the cup. “Are you going where I think you’re going?”

  “Probably. The eight-year gap concerns me.”

  “And that’s why you mentioned Alexei Kozlov. You think Dorian Monk was a Russian?”

  “I think it’s a possibility.”

  Kruger was silent for several moments. “Ted Kaczynski was born to parents of Polish decent. His mother believes his antisocial behavior grew out of a long hospital stay when he was very young. Hospital stays for young children during that era were brutal on their psyche. You’ve mentioned several times the eight-year gap in Monk’s childhood.”

  JR nodded.

  “Are you suggesting something happened during those eight years?”

  Another nod.

  “Then we’d better determine what that something was.”

  Chapter 25

  Lander, Wyoming

  Mark’s Western Wear maintained the distinction as the top western supply store in Wyoming due to tourists visiting various dude ranches located in the surrounding county. If you wanted a custom pair of cowboy boots or cowboy hat, it was the place to go. For a town like Lander, the county seat, it served as a place for locals to buy their clothes. The store also sponsored numerous professional circuit rodeo riders. For those inclined to the sport, most Saturdays would find one of these rugged individuals signing autographs or putting on demonstrations for the kids.

  The proprietor was a congenial man in his mid-fifties, prone to telling tall tales to anyone who would listen and then laugh with gusto. He possessed an oval face, thick dark brown hair displaying an ever-increasing number of gray strands and thick bushy eyebrows that danced as he communicated his stories. His chocolate-colored eyes peered through rimless glasses and rested on a long slender nose. His normal uniform, during business hours, featured clothing from his store’s weekly circular.

  Though he was known to his friends and customers as Kevin Marks, the name on his birth certificate appeared as Kreso Markovic, a name more fitting his Eastern Slavic ancestry. With his westernized name and cowboy-influenced wardrobe, he fit the description of a typical American entrepreneur not a flame-throwing leader of the Sovereign Citizen Movement. The reality was he held a profound suspicion of any form of government, especially the one in Washington, DC. Because of this distrust, he secretly plotted to undermine the confidence ordinary people held in their so-called-leaders in Washington.

  The store opened at 10 a.m. every day except Sunday, when it opened at noon to allow the good people of Lander to attend church services. His morning duties included welcoming customers as he roamed the aisles of his store. At precisely 11:30, Marks was assisting an elderly customer pick-out a pair of jeans for her grandson’s birthday when he noticed the short, stocky middle-aged man walk past him carrying three pairs of jeans to a particular fitting room.

  “Ms. Carlson, I have a conference call in a few minutes. I’ll get Linda to assist you further.”

  “Thank you, Kevin. I would appreciate it.”

  With one of his assistants heading to Ms. Carlson’s location, Marks entered his office and locked the door. He immediately went to a bookshelf standing against the wall separating his office from the showroom floor and released a latch hidden behind the books on the third shelf. The unit swung open like a door and the short, stocky man entered his office.

  The man, whose broad shoulders tapered to a thin waist, giving him the appearance of a Y, frowned as he entered the room. “Where the hell did you find that cowboy from Montana?”

  Marks folded his arms. “Montana, why do you ask?”

  “Because he was incredibly stupid and didn’t check to see if Monk was being watched. His other dumbass move was trying to take Monk out in broad daylight. Now Monk’s disappeared, the cowboy’s dead and the FBI’s swarming all over Monk’s apartment.”

  “Monk’s no longer a problem.”

  The shorter man blinked several times. “What do you mean Monk’s no longer a problem? He’s been acting squirrely ever since he showed up at his cabin two-and-a-half months ago.”

  Marks walked over to a Mr. Coffee unit he kept in his office and poured himself a cup. “We don’t have to worry about Professor Monk anymore.”

  The shorter man folded his arms. “Really. Since when?”

  “Since an associate of ours followed him to his cabin.”

  “Interesting.”

  “There’s also a gaggle of federal agents at the place right now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Fremont County Sheriff told me. He also told me they don’t have a clue what happened.”

  “Good. Can they trace the cowboy back to us?”

  With a shake of his head, Marks smiled. “I don’t see how.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay. What’s next?”

  “I think we need to find out how the FBI became interested in Monk. He did it for five years without raising suspicions. Then all of a sudden he draws all of this attention.”

  “Maybe he got careless.”

  “Maybe.” He looked at the stocky man. “But I doubt it. Monk may have been weird, but he was meticulous in his planning.”

  “I’m told there were four FBI agents at the apartment.”

  “Yes, all of them will be dealt with in time, but I want to know which agent started suspecting Monk.”

  “What do you want done about him?”

  “Tell everyone to stay low and quiet until this all blows over. Then we’ll deal with the FBI agent. Remember, patience is a virtue. A virtue that has served us well so far.”

  A smile appeared on the man who was shaped like a Y as he headed back to the hidden door. After it closed, Marks locked it and returned to his desk. He sat and turned to a large flat screen monitor that displayed nine views from various security cameras dispersed around the sales floor. The top right image showed the visitor taking a pair of jeans to one of the cash registers at the front.

  Yes, it was time to find out how the FBI had learned of Monk and his activities. Using his cell phone, he dialed a number.

  When the call was answered, he said, “We need to talk.”

  ***

  Sheriff Roger Blake watched as Marks approached his table. He was sitting in a small cafe across from the sheriff’s office in downtown Landers.

  When the western wear shop owner sat, Blake said, “How long is this going to take, Kevin? I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”

  “Need I remind you of who was your largest donor in the last election, Sheriff?”

  “You remind me of it constantly. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Spare me the attitude, Roger.” He paused. “We may have a slight problem.”

  Blake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Concerning?”

  “The FBI’s sudden interest in Dorian Monk.”

  “You’ve never been a law enforcement officer, have you?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to be.”

  “Then you don’t understand what happens when a fellow officer falls in the line of duty.”

  “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  Ignoring the comment, Blake continued, “Monk made a mistake shooting the Deputy Director of the FBI. A huge mistake.”

  “He was a black man in a position of authority. We both know that isn’t good for this country.”

  “No, it isn’t. But killing the man brought the entire resources of the FBI into the picture. Before that, your group’s activities weren’t even on the radar
.”

  “Should I remind you that you too are part of the group, Roger? Besides, Monk’s not a problem anymore.”

  “That’s the part you don’t get, do you? I’m going to have more FBI agents snooping around now that Monk is dead. They’ll want to know who killed him and why. You should have just let him stay in the woods, out of sight, out of mind.”

  “That wasn’t possible.”

  Blake shut his eyes and shook his head. “Why did he go to Laramie?”

  “We don’t know. Monk seldom mentioned his plans to me.”

  “I suggest you find out, because I have a Special Agent in Charge from Denver on the way to oversee the investigation.”

  Marks was quiet for several moments. “When?”

  “Later today. He’s taking over. I also suspect he will bring in agents we don’t know.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the two agents assigned to this county were suddenly transferred to the east coast two days ago.”

  “What about the ones in Laramie?”

  “Also transferred.”

  “So, we don’t have any eyes and ears left?”

  “Correct.”

  “What are you doing about that, Sheriff?”

  Blake chuckled. “For now, nothing. I’m going to sit back and let them investigate. If Monk did as he was told, it will be a dead end.”

  “Monk seldom did as he was told.”

  “Then you are correct, you may have a problem.”

  “I believe you mean we have a problem.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Who was the FBI agent who found Monk?”

  “He wasn’t with the FBI. He was with Homeland Security.”

  One of Marks’ eyebrows rose. “He wasn’t an FBI agent?”

  “No. Like I said, his badge indicated he was with Homeland Security.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “First name?”

  “Don or John, something like that.”

  “You’re supposed to remember those types of details, Sheriff.”

  “I just heard him referred to as agent. I saw his ID once and was surprised it said Homeland Security. He put it away before I could see his name.”

  “You’re no help.”

  “One more issue you need to know about.”

  “What?”

  “The FBI hauled at least thirty bank storage boxes out of Monk’s cabin.”

  Marks grew quiet, then said, “Did you get a look at them?”

  “No. I asked but was told it was evidence in a Federal crime. When I protested, I was told to file a complaint.”

  “Did they say what was in the boxes?”

  “Only that they were Monk’s class notes.”

  “We need to know what was in those boxes.”

  “Good luck with that. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get ready for this new FBI SAC that’s coming to town.” The sheriff stood and walked out of the little shop.

  Marks sipped the coffee he’d purchased before sitting down. The news about Homeland Security, while surprising, offered an opportunity to get ahead of this possible crisis. He left the cafe for his Ford pickup to make a phone call.

  Chapter 26

  Springfield, MO

  The team once again commandeered JR’s conference room on the second floor. The files beneath the false bottom of the banker’s box Gibbs had found were spread over the large table. Four additional boxes with false bottoms were discovered and transported from the remote cabin to this room. While Monk’s avocation of mathematics was a structured discipline, his filing system could best be described as chaotic and haphazard.

  Ninety percent of the files were class notes and mathematical proofs. Those files were transferred to the FBI forensic lab at Quantico, Virginia. The remaining ten percent were now being sorted and categorized by Kruger. As someone who would never delegate a task he wouldn’t do himself, he carefully read each piece of paper. He suspected somewhere in this stack of random papers might be a clue as to why Alan Seltzer had been gunned down in cold blood.

  JR entered the room and watched his friend skim a page and place it in a stack to his right. “How long do you think this is going to take?”

  Looking up, Kruger shrugged. “Not sure. I let everyone else go home. Too much overtime. Since I’m not on the FBI’s clock anymore,” he smiled, “I get to do it. Besides, this way I don’t have anyone breathing over my shoulder expecting me to hurry.”

  “Are you finding anything useful?”

  With a slight nod, Kruger skimmed another page. As he laid it on a stack in the center of the table, he pointed to a pile next to it. “Those are bank records. Currently, they aren’t in any chronological or financial institute order, so it’s hard to confirm what I’m suspecting. The guy has way too much cash for someone who was a part-time college professor. I’ve noticed he receives a large deposit of cash at random times during the year. Once I get the pages in chronological order, they might give us a better idea of where the money came from.”

  “Can I look?”

  “Help yourself.”

  JR remained quiet as he glanced through the stack of papers. He picked out several and then returned the remaining ones to their place on the table. With the pages in hand, he returned to his cubicle and started typing away on the keyboard.

  Kruger ignored his friend as he concentrated on his own task.

  Ten minutes later, JR appeared in the conference room door again. “Take a break. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Kruger removed his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. “What’d you find?”

  JR pointed to the middle of the three monitors. “That may be the source of Monk’s cash.”

  Putting his reading glasses back on, Kruger leaned over and stared at the screen. He straightened and turned toward his friend. “How about that.”

  ***

  Stephanie Kruger sat on the corner of their bed as she watched her husband pack an overnight bag. “How long do you think you’ll be gone this time?”

  “One night, no more.”

  “Good.”

  The corner of his lip rose in a half smile. “This will be my last official trip to FBI headquarters. Dorian Monk’s death changed everything. I’ll turn everything we found over to the bureau and they can figure it out.”

  “Can you do that, Sean?”

  He folded a pair of jeans and concentrated on fitting them into the bag. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he nodded. “I won’t miss the travel.”

  “Mia told me Sandy and Jimmie are thinking about quitting.”

  Kruger nodded. “More than thinking about it, they are. However, there is a reason. They’ve decided to form a business and become private defense contractors.”

  She frowned. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. They asked me to join them.”

  The frown intensified. “Are you?”

  “At this point…” He hesitated and gave her a grim smile. “Probably not.”

  “Probably not?”

  He stopped packing and looked at her. “I’m done, Steph. The government says I’m too old to carry a gun and do the job. I have to accept that. Besides, I’m looking forward to being a full-time husband and father.”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “No, you’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you, Sean Kruger. You will not be happy staying at home while the world collapses around us. You are too young to simply retire and fade into the background.”

  He straightened and stared at her but remained quiet.

  She continued, “You need to find something to do. If you retire, it will kill you, literally. Not at first, but eventually. I didn’t marry you for that to happen. You need to be around to walk Kristin down the aisle on her wedding day. So, find something useful to do.”

  A small smile creased his lips as he returned to his packing.

>   ***

  Sitting at the departure gate for his flight to Washington, DC, Kruger cupped his chin in his hand, an elbow on the arm rest of the seat. This was one of the many aspects of traveling he would not miss, waiting for a flight whose current status showed delayed on the departure board. As the minutes ticked down, the possibility of missing his connecting flight in Chicago loomed.

  How many hours of his life, over the course of his career, had been wasted sitting in an airport waiting on a flight? If he knew the truth, he was sure his depression would intensify.

  He reached into his sport coat pocket and retrieved his cell phone. The number he dialed was answered on the third ring.

  “Let me guess, your flight’s delayed.”

  “How’d you guess, Joseph?”

  “Have you left yet?”

  “No, that’s why I’m calling. It appears I will miss my connecting flight in Chicago.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if the plane left now, I’d have fifteen minutes to make my connection at O’Hare. We both know that won’t happen. Plus, as this airport is fond of saying, the equipment hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “No plane?”

  “Nope.”

  Kruger heard a chuckle and then, “Let me make a call.”

  Fifteen minutes later his phone vibrated. Looking at the Caller ID, he smiled and answered.

  Joseph said, “How fast can you get over to the private aviation FBO?”

  “About thirty minutes, why?”

  “There’s a pilot there who owns a HA-420 HondaJet. He’s currently in a meeting, but can get you to Washington, DC by afternoon.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Stewart Barnett.”

  “I’m heading his way.”

  ***

  As they shook hands, Kruger studied the young pilot. He wore a Nike ballcap over close-cropped dark brown hair and his three-day-old beard showed no signs of gray. With a slender build and cocky attitude he radiated self-confidence. The faded blue jeans, scuffed brown loafers, and untucked white oxford shirt with rolled-up sleeves reminded Kruger of several fighter pilots he had known over the years. “Nice to meet you, Stewart.”