I ordered a two-buck plate of fries with brown gravy, and it was heaven on earth. Mashing the fries didn’t take away from them in the slightest and I ate every bite. I contemplated another round of fries, but the food didn’t settle as well as I hoped it would. I didn’t understand the dynamics, but when you haven’t eaten anything but yogurt for a couple weeks and scarf up a truckload of greasy foods it wreaks havoc on your digestion. Throughout the evening, I paid the price for my indiscretion. Kuhl found it inconvenient too. By necessity, we made frequent pit stops and, although he disagreed, in my opinion the meal was still worth it.
As we traveled north, I napped. A couple hundred miles into the trip, Kuhl took the Interstate Highway westward. We kept our eyes peeled for a motel that kept its light on for us. Interstates throughout the Midwest were populated with motels, and it didn’t take long to find one suitable for our needs. We pulled in and bedded down for the night.
The next day our trek took us deep into America’s breadbasket. The lackluster landscape coupled with an endless flat horizon soon bored me. If we chewed the fat, time would pass less noticeably. “Do you ever think about your military time on the special forces teams?”
“That was then,” Kuhl answered. His words hung on their abruptness. Maybe he thought it was none of my business or it brought back bad memories he’d rather leave buried. Regardless of my motive for conversation, my question was sincere.
What I knew about Kuhl I’d seen firsthand. My Palatini pal, Seymour Bludd, had laid out a string of hearsay on Kuhl prior to meeting him in New York. What I wanted from Kuhl was his history related firsthand. “From your clandestine skills, your military training must’ve been intense?”
“We trained non-stop.”
When it came to his past, talking with Kuhl was like pulling teeth. You had to yank on it. Sure, our kind of work made for isolation and loneliness, but when we’re on a project together, it paid dividends to be social. I found myself less at ease around Palatini that didn’t offer their experiences. “Well, at least you made the training pay off. How else would you have picked up the skills to get on the diplomatic security teams? The civilian market makes a lot of moolah.”
“I was never civilian; it was the government. One day I was a commando; the next day I was a non-military security operator. It was the same thing, except the government could deny military boots on the ground in hostile territory with our organization.”
“I can only imagine how fascinating it must’ve been. I spent my life at a foundry pouring aluminum oxide into smelting pots and heating the dry ore to a thick and soupy molten metal. Other than losing my fear of hell from the heat, I didn’t learn anything valuable.”
Kuhl continued quietly behind the steering wheel. His lack of response gave the impression he had other things on his mind. Perhaps he was waiting for another trivial question, but his occasional glance out the driver’s side window told me he wasn’t interested in the conversation. I had no intention of carrying on talking to myself. I’d let it go.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Kuhl said. “I’ve known many warriors over the years. What they had in common was not their skill sets. The very best military operators of my day were my instructors. Absolute legends—and I had the opportunity to learn at their feet. What made them the best was what I was determined to learn.”
“It would’ve been helpful to have had some training.”
“You’ve trained your entire life for today. You’ve nurtured your natural skills to be at the pinnacle of success on a mission. Skills you can’t learn from a book. You have made yourself a weapon against evil, and possibly the toughest fighter on the field to beat.”
“I sure don’t feel that way.”
“It’s not about what you feel. It’s about applying what you know to what you do with devotion to the mission in mind.”
Kuhl flipped up the center console and pulled out a cigar box. With his hand outstretched to me, he lifted the lid with his thumb. “You want one?”
“Not me.”
Kuhl sat the box on top the console, slipped out a cigarillo and let the lid close. He wedged the little cigar between his teeth on the left side nearest the window. I’ve never found smoking pleasant, but for the sake of camaraderie I’d overlook my pet peeve. Smoking was unhealthy, and that was a sufficient reason for people not to indulge. But, my reason differed. Smoke destroyed the sense of taste and smell. Both of which I used in stalking my prey.
I waited for Kuhl to light up. It was odd that I hadn’t picked up on the cigar scent or the odor of smoke. Most smokers carry the evidential scent and pallor. Usually, personal vices were the first things discovered. I gave him credit. He’d done an excellent job of masking the smell. He hadn’t smoked when we were on the last project together, but we were separated a great deal of the time. He never lit up when he was around me.
“Still,” I said, “I would’ve liked to have been in black ops.”
“You can have it,” Kuhl replied abruptly. His nose curled up into a snarl, “I’ll tell you what you would have been part of—nothing. We trained every day. When a mission came up, they were quick to send us into harm’s way. None of us asked for recognition. Why would we? We were shadow warriors. All we wanted was support for our mission. We wanted to get in and back out, successful, and with all our people accounted for. But politicians had their own agendas.”
With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand holding his chin, I saw he’d plunged deep into his memories and had gone a long way into his past.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is—we lost operators and no one cared. That’s why I say politicians have no business in military affairs. Political appointees, who had never carried a weapon in a battle or stood their ground in the face of an enemy, had no business handling security for our country. They’re liars and backstabbers. They play political games with our missions and ultimately our lives. We were nothing more than pawns at their mercy. I hold them personally responsible for our failed missions and lost brothers. That’s what I learned in black ops. Maybe you would have fared better.”
It wasn’t long before I forgot about the mundane drive, and miles rolled by without notice. Our conversation turned to Palatini operations and the current venture we’d undertaken. Kuhl and I found we had working chemistry.
We knocked off for the night at another nondescript motel. In the morning, we launched out early with a plan to eat breakfast on the road. We pressed forward with every attempt to put as many miles behind us as possible. Soon, the terrain showed signs of change. As we entered the Rocky Mountain foothills, the drive turned more to my liking. One more night on the road and we’d be in Oregon.
We traveled through mountain passes and across high plains until we reached the home stretch along the Columbia River. I’d had the question on the back burner since we started our trip, and it was time to find the answer. “Last couple days, you and I roomed together.”
Kuhl laughed, “You find that odd?”
“Maybe. I was led to believe you never stay with other Palatini. Why the exception to the rule?”
“No exceptions made, brother. It’s dangerous to lump our assets altogether. In Springfield, you and Anna were in one motel, so I chose another. On the Mob project in New York, you and Seymour had a place together. I stayed in another. I call it mission first. Other than for brief meetings to shape our projects, I don’t think it’s wise to lump all the assets together. That goes for traveling as well. We don’t all use the same plane or vehicle. Something happens—it can be as simple as an accident or natural disaster. It doesn’t have to be a 40-Mike-Mike that claims our lives. The point being, our mission would die too. If Palatini assets remain separated a majority of the time, we have a contingency element to continue our project. Remember what happened in Toronto?
“Mobsters grabbed Anna.”
“More than that, you carried the project forward. If you two had been together, the whole project might have been term
inated. By my actions, I limit the possibility.”
“Good. When we arrive in Portland, you can stay at my place.”
“Maybe I don’t want to stay with you, you’re no prize to sleep with you know. You make horrible noises when you snore.”
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll have separate bedrooms.” We laughed.
Nine-thirty in the evening, Kuhl pulled his rig to a stop in front of my 1972 Brookwood mobile home. First order of business was to call Anna.
“We’re here safe.”
“Let’s meet tomorrow at ten for breakfast. I have more details to pass on.”
I’d placed one last call before we disembarked from the van. My residence in the suburbs of southeast Portland had been maintained by a neighbor lady named Shelly. I’d sent money orders monthly for my lot rent and utilities, and paid extra to have the place looking ‘lived in’ and the yard freshly watered and mowed. Nothing said ‘security’ like a well-maintained place. Shelly answered, and I let her know my plans to leave again soon. She remained agreeable to the terms that we’d previously established, and I called it a day.
The porch light was lit as usual. When I approached the storm door, I noticed a small business card wedged into the frame. Imprinted on the front of the card was the name Brandon A. Ware, Private Investigator.
“Ooh, you have a cop on your tail,” Kuhl said.
“He’s only a PI. Nothing to worry about.”
I remembered Ware as an old-fashioned, hard-nosed detective for the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Department. That was before he retired. I had respect for his work as a homicide detective and was happy to see him depart the force a year ago. Written on the back of his card was a message, “Give me a call.” I wondered what he wanted, but I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.
By ten the next morning, we found the joint in West Linn where Anna wanted to meet. As neighborhood restaurants went, it was dinky. We’d driven past the place twice before we spotted it squeezed between a couple of specialty stores in a strip mall.
Kuhl and I were a couple of peas in the same pod in many ways. If a meeting began at ten, we wanted to be there fifteen minutes early. To arrive at ten was late. Although late by our standards, we were first to arrive. I stepped inside and with my eyes swept the width of the room. The counter ran the length of the right side, and six pub tables lined the left side. The kitchen extended across the back, open to the restaurant via a serving counter where waitresses picked up orders. The only other people in the place were a teenage girl behind the front counter and an old man sitting at a table. Both were employees.
Kuhl led the way to the back table, and we positioned ourselves with our backs to the corner walls. The old man put a bead on me like I was trouble, so I stared back. In some way, perhaps he’d recognized me. Not so much by name or face, but a connection in spirit. What followed was a prompting. It was Destiny, and she didn’t like him either. There was an evil about the old man. I didn’t know the specifics, but I was sure if I delved into his past, I’d discover his filth. It’s always been the case. Destiny, my companion and spirit guide, had never led me astray. The old man mumbled something under his breath as he slipped into the kitchen. Maybe his foul spirit had prompted him likewise.
Anna arrived a quarter past the hour. The girl behind the counter put away her cell phone and politely took our order. The old man tossed a couple of glances at me from the kitchen. I didn’t trust the situation. Whatever had crawled up his backside wasn’t coming out on my plate. I called out, “Hey” to the waitress. She returned to the table wearing a smile.
“Can you cancel my portion of that order and get me something else?” I asked.
“No problem. What would you like?”
She had a good attitude, and her tone was pleasant. It wasn’t her fault she had to work with the old scumbag. So I said, “Sure, bring me one of those bagels with cream cheese off the counter.”
I watched the waitress enter the kitchen and scratch something off the only order the cook had in front of him. The old man said something foul that he shouldn’t have said to the young lady and wrinkled his face in disgust. Anna heard it too. She patted the top of my hand and said, “Chill, there’s not enough time in a day to right every wrong you see.”
“It’s more than that,” I said. “This guy is no good. I can feel it.” Anna exchanged a glance with Kuhl that said “weird” more than “doubt,” then proceeded with the meeting.
“We’ll leave for Alaska tomorrow. Are we all in agreement this is what needs to happen?”
“Probably a good thing,” I said, as I tossed Ware’s PI business card on the table. Anna examined it for a moment and said, “Tomorrow then?”
Kuhl nodded, and I shrugged. We’d been off the road less than twenty-four hours. It wasn’t going to be easy to roll out again. However, it would buy more time for my body to mend.
“I’ve rented a motorhome with a tow dolly for the trip,” Anna said.
“I’ll need my van,” replied Kuhl. “I can sleep in it too.”
“Good,” Anna said. “We’ll tow Walter’s car.”
I nodded.
Anna slipped an envelope across the table to me. When I’d opened it, there was a crispy, new driver’s license inside. Walter Eloy Goe had an additional piece of legitimate looking documentation. I looked it over closely noting the photograph was the same picture as on my phony passport.
“That looks pretty good for fake ID,” I said.
“It’s not a fake.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are in the Oregon State system. Nothing false about it.”
“The passport and all the paperwork was bogus.”
“At the time, the documents were falsified to obtain legitimate documentation. The real you vanished—only Walter exists.”
It was a tough pill to swallow and I faced an odd sense of loneliness. My true identity shelved for a new one. I preferred being Walter, if I hadn’t, I would’ve spent more time outside my façade. Anna’s actions changed who I was forever. Anna had recognized my desire to live as Walter and connected the dots so I could be Walter.
Walter existed for a particular purpose. She hadn’t taken into consideration I’d avoided being tracked by police and government systems by being Walter, who didn’t exist. Everything about him was false, and I’d spent time and energy to make him that way. Now, I was back in the system. The business cards I’d handed out that weren’t traceable now had a real person attached to the name.
Anna continued, “With your passport and driver’s license you can open bank accounts, transfer money from your old accounts, and conduct legal transactions under your new identity. With these, you can phase the old you completely out—the old you has vanished without a trace.”
I didn’t like the surprise, but I’d made a commitment to play better with others.
“How are we going to handle our weapons to cross the border?” I asked.
“I can take them,” Kuhl said. “I have a false top in the van. It will hold a few rifles and handguns.”
Kuhl was a true black bag operator. He wasn’t going to part with his gadgets or bomb building supplies.
“What about the explosives?” I asked.
“I’ll take the necessities. Everything else stays at your place.”
When we closed the meeting, Anna left first while Kuhl and I stood by the diner door to watch. The young waitress came from behind the counter to bus the table when I caught her attention. Speaking in a soft tone, “Listen, you know the guy you’re working with pretty well?”
“No, I’ve only worked a few shifts with him.”
“A word of advice, if he offers you candy, a ride in his car or wants to show you anything—walk away fast,”
“Do you know him?”
“Let’s just say I know him well enough.” Kuhl motioned it was time to go and headed out the door. I looked back at the waitress as I left, “Keep yourself safe.”
We hustled through th
e rest of the day to complete our preparations. Anna had reserved a motorhome for the trip. When she arrived with the coach, I was impressed she handled the thirty-foot rig like a pro.
“Nice, is it new?”
“2001,” She said. “Is that new enough for you?”
“You know I only travel in first class accommodations.”
She uttered a sound resembling “huh,” but delivered it with a sardonic “yeah, right.”
Kuhl stayed busy prepping his van while Anna and I worked on making the RV comfortable for the trip. The last item loaded was my new Walther P99. I was naked without my handgun. But we weren’t defenseless in the motorhome. Anna had her tactical knives, and I had my Kabar.
Kuhl took off the next morning at eight sharp. Our departure time was staged for ten. The two-hour lag time was one of Kuhl’s security measures. Anna drove while I rode shotgun as we pulled out onto Interstate 5 heading north. We’d planned to rendezvous with Kuhl at three points along our route. Otherwise, it was Anna and me, traveling at our own pace. We crossed into British Columbia at Sumas and cleared customs without a hitch. A couple of hours later we passed through Hell’s Gate and then continued north along the scenic Frasier River.
Watching Anna at the wheel left me in a daze at times as I dreamed of what might have been and might yet come to be. As her curve-hugging skirt rode up the taught muscles of her thighs, it was difficult to keep my eyes on the road and my mind on the mission—I didn’t even try. The mission was still primary, but I had the strange sensation that we’d just embarked on a tryst and thinking about the potential outcome drove any other rational thought from my mind.
Chapter 12
“Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?”
—Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho“
Mid-summer on the Alaska-Canadian Highway was a dream some people waited a lifetime to experience. Harsh landscapes of volcanic pinnacles, steep slopes, and vastly forested hillsides reminded me of my roots in Oregon’s Mount Hood territory. Our route through the Canadian Rockies brought back those feelings I once enjoyed. Few roads and fewer inhabitants had pushed into the impenetrable wild of this country. Mile after mile, sprawling tree covered mountains, barren upper slopes occasionally crowned with glacier horns, and mighty rivers with their tributaries gorged the canyons and made up this vast wilderness. Perhaps no other twenty-five hundred-mile road trip equaled such spectacular grandeur in North America.
Blood Appeal: Vigilante--A Species of Common Law Page 17
