by Rod Collins
BB took a deep breath and frowned. “I was afraid of that. And for some more bad news, I included a photo of your A-frame as a landmark. Never crossed my mind any bad guys would ever see that email.”
Bud shook his head. “Never mind that. What’s done is done, and it might work to our advantage. Now then, I have an idea.”
BB shook his head skeptically, then growled, “You always wind up in a shootout.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
BB stared, eyes boring into Bud’s, then finally nodded. “All right, but I think we need to find safe harbor for TJ, and this ain’t it.”
“Agreed, so here is what I think we should do…”
Chapter 16
Warning Bells
PORTLAND’S FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF) leader, Joseph Smith, said, “Enter,” to a knock on the polished mahogany door that carried a brass plaque which read “Deputy Special Agent in Charge for Anti-Terrorism.” He looked up from the file he was reading as Agents Wilcox and Brandt pushed through the door.
They each thought the lean-faced Smith was a politically driven asshole, and a martinet who liked to sit in a plush captain’s chair behind his desk, with his back to a west-facing window, while his agents stood on a strip of carpet in front of the desk to make reports. It made it hard to see his face or to read his reactions, and was taken by the agents to be an attempt to intimidate them.
Consequently, Brandt and Wilcox avoided Smith as much as possible, but when days like this came along, and they could not avoid him, they always quickly plopped into chairs before sharing their reports. They knew it was childish, but they enjoyed irritating their boss.
Wilcox, who had been in line to head the Portland JTTF, never voiced his private opinion that ass kissing worked well in the J. Edgar Hoover building.
Agent Brandt said, “Mister Falls is in the safe house. Gutsy little bastard, but someone took a shot at him. Scared him, I think.”
“Does he have family?”
“A mother. He sent her to stay with an uncle. Said the uncle keeps a loaded shotgun behind the closet door.”
Smith opened a file, turned it around, and pushed it across his big, uncluttered mahogany desk. “A neighbor took pictures of these guys coming out of Reverend Wildish’s living quarters. She said they were carrying what looked to her like a PC. And Dutch says Dell BeBe emailed the reverend pictures of his house and directions to find it. That means they probably know where the Reverend T. J. Wildish is hiding.”
Wilcox muttered a quiet “shit” and got out of his chair. He spread the photos on the desk and tapped the second one with his index finger. “I know this guy. He’s on our watch list. Hangs out in a big white house up in the West Hills.”
“You’re sure?” Smith asked.
“Dead certain.”
Brandt got out of his chair and walked to the desk. “Yep,” he said after looking at the photos. “His name is Muhammad Ali, just like our old boxer friend Cassius Clay. I like this. It should be enough for a warrant to search that place. And we could arrest him and his buddies for theft.”
Smith nodded and said, “I have a warrant for a wiretap and close surveillance. And our watchers are already in place. We are also listening to their cell phone calls.”
Wilcox shrugged. Stake out wasn’t high on his list of fun things to do. But he had to admit to a twinge of jealousy that Smitty was ahead of him … and doing a good job (so far).
Brandt asked, “Do we know how to get in touch with the reverend?”
Smith nodded. “Miranda is with him as we speak.”
“You’re kidding,” Wilcox said. “Not Motormouth Miranda?”
Special Agent Joseph Smith tried to suppress a smile and failed. “I never heard her called that before.”
Wilcox shrugged and said, “I’ll give her credit for being a good analyst, and I decided some time back she thinks by talking out loud. But it can be a little irritating at times.”
“So, where is she?” Brandt asked.
***
High atop West Hills, a nervous Cletus Falls, seated in a stuffy, windowless interview room – actually a remodeled broom closet – avoided giving direct answers to Agent Winslow Butler’s questions. There’s something wrong with this guy, he thought.
When Agent Butler asked him if he knew who Reggie hung out with, Cletus stood up and lied. “Look, Mister Butler. I work the streets, and I don’t poke into the social life of my snitches.
“Sit down,” an impatient Butler demanded. “How do you expect us to help you if we can’t tie Reggie back to the bad guys?”
“No, Agent Butler, I’m going to my room. I’m tired. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep ever since Reggie was killed. I’m going to rest awhile and wait for Sara before I answer any more questions.”
Butler glared at him for a bit, then shrugged. “Okay, Mister Falls. I’m just trying to help. We’ll talk later.”
No, we won’t, Cletus thought. I’m calling Sara when I get to my room. This guy is just plain spooky.
Chapter 17
To Work
NANCY SIXKILLER BUILT a reputation for never making a mistake when she first worked as the coordinator of the Lake County Emergency Services Center. She was composed in stressful situations, knew where all the resources were, and always got it right.
Most dispatches were routine, but on some occasions, they were life-threatening situations that called for a cool head and clear judgment. If a dispatcher sent an officer or an ambulance to the wrong address, or without adequate information, people could get hurt or a rescue could go wrong.
Nancy Sixkiller did not make mistakes, unless you called her busted marriage to “old what’s his name” a mistake, but that wasn’t exactly job-related.
She was happy to be back and grateful the county had rehired her, but she was anxious – nearly desperate – to repair the damage she had done to her relationship with Bud.
One of three phones on her desk rang, and she picked up. “This is Nancy Sixkiller.”
Bud quickly said, “This is Bud. I’m afraid tonight won’t work. I think you’d better stay in town.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s kind of complicated, and I don’t have time to explain it right now.”
“What about Molly?”
“I’ll have to do that alone, I’m afraid.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “Can we set another time?”
She heard Bud take a deep breath and then say, “I wish I could, but I’m going to be busy for the next few days. I just don’t know right now. Gotta Go.”
***
Bud slipped the phone into his shirt pocket and shook his head. He took a deep breath and walked to the railing of BB’s deck … staring out across the lake, cursing the timing of TJ’s problems.
Dell BeBe walked over and lightly punched Bud’s shoulder. “Efficient is what I’d call that. Not a single hint of better times ahead.”
“Don’t go there, BB. I know you don’t like Nancy, and even though I’m still mad at her, it doesn’t mean I don’t damn well love her. You do know the difference between not liking what someone does and loving them anyway?”
“I don’t dislike her, Honky. I just don’t like the way she treated you. You’d be better off with someone like Amanda Spears.”
“Amanda Spears is happy to be an NCIS agent. She’s career-oriented.” But he remembered the faint hint of Amanda’s perfume and her warm breath when she whispered into his ear “one-twenty” while he was giving the dispatch center estimated passenger weights for a helicopter ride to Fort Rock.
***
Nancy listened to dead air, then set the receiver back in its cradle. “Well,” she whispered, “that didn’t go well. I wonder if it will ever go well again.”
Silently, she grieved over the broken engagement and hoped he would give her a second chance. I’ll learn to live with it if he doesn’t, but I don’t want anyone else.
She called H
enry Barnes, aka the Colonel, and waited until he answered the phone. “Could you relieve me in about thirty minutes? I have something I need to do. I’ll be gone all afternoon.”
***
Bud studied his friend, Dell BeBe, and then asked, “What are you going to do with TJ?”
“Do?”
“Yeah. Do.”
“Well, I’ll have to find a new place to hide him for a while, but unless we do something about the assholes who want him dead, he’ll never be safe. So, I’m going back to Portland to figure out who’s after him. Until I do that I won’t know exactly how to deal with it.”
“You’re retired. You don’t have any official status.”
“Maybe Dutch will swear me in. Or maybe you’ll deputize me.”
“That’s thin, BB.”
BB frowned, rubbed the salt and pepper stubble on his chin, and nodded. “I know, but I’m not going to let this go.”
“Okay. I have friends in the Klamath Falls Police Department. I’ll see if they can find a hidey-hole for TJ … temporarily.” Bud took a deep breath, “Agent Wright can take him over there in the rental car, then catch a flight back to Portland from the Klamath Falls airport.”
BB shook his head. “Okay, as a first step. What comes next?”
“Well, we bait the trap again. I’ll gather my officers and we’ll wait for the bad guys to show up – take ‘em alive if possible – and see if we can identify the stud duck.”
BB’s cell phone chimed and he answered. “This is BB.”
Bud waited until BB nodded and said, “All right. Thanks, Dutch.” He hung up, and eyebrows raised, shook his head.
“And?”
“Dutch says the FBI is watching a high muck-amuck in the Muslim community: wire taps, cell phone communication, on-site surveillance. He thinks they’ll send someone here to try and kill TJ. But he says he thinks the FBI will know who and when.
“So, when the bad guys make a move, he’ll helicopter a SWAT team down here to work with and for you. Miranda will be your FBI liaison. Dutch is calling it ‘Operation Midnight.”’
Bud shook his head. “Operation Midnight. Yippee.”
“Don’t look a gift horse…”
Bud interrupted, “I know, and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. FBI SWAT teams are really, really good. But Operation Midnight?”
Chapter 18
One Blind Mole
CLETUS THUMBED IN Sara’s number, but stopped short of hitting send. He killed the call, pulled Special Agent Wilcox’s business card from his sweatshirt pocket, and stared at it, trying to think clearly.
What do I tell him? That Butler’s creepy? That won’t work. You got nothing, Cletus, nothing. But I know I’m right. Butler asks all the wrong questions. Gotta be on the take. I’d bet my life on it.
He took a deep breath and said in a whisper, “And I am betting my life on it either way. The question is who to trust.”
He walked into the bathroom, turned the shower on, turned the water in the sink on, and flushed the toilet to muffle his call – just in case Butler had the room bugged. And, why wouldn’t he?
And then Cletus changed his mind … again, but he left the shower running. He turned the TV on, brought the volume up to normal listening range and then as quietly as he could, slipped out the door of the suite and down the hallway. Butler can’t watch and listen at the same time. I hope.
At the top of the stairs he stopped to listen for movement, and hearing none, walked as softly as he could down the stairs and toward the side entrance. The stairs were solid oak. No pop or creak of old wood gave him away. Cletus scooted across the landing, ducked through the side door, and walked around the corner of the big mansion. From there, he jogged across the big lawn and into the trees.
When he was satisfied he was out of sight, he pulled the gray hood of the sweat shirt up over his head and looked back at the big house through a screen of ground hugging fir limbs. Nothing. No sign of Butler. Cletus thumbed in Special Agent Wilcox’s cell number and waited for him to pick up.
He heard, “Wilcox,” and then said, “This be Cletus. I need to boogie out of here, man! Maybe you can come get me?”
Wilcox asked, “What’s going on?”
“I know it’s thin, but your man Butler asks all the wrong questions. Wants to know stuff that could get the reverend killed and maybe some other dudes too. Wants to know where I hid the reverend, and things like who Reggie hung with. I told him I didn’t know. Not my job to keep track of my sources.
“So, he leans over me and tries to scare me, but I still don’t say anything. Then he gives up and tries to make it okay. Says he’s just trying to help. And I’m thinking, ‘No you’re not.”’
“But you trust me and Brandt?”
Cletus hesitated before speaking. “Yes.”
“I guess why you do doesn’t matter. Where are you right now?”
“I be in the trees on the north side of the big house.”
“Okay,” Wilcox said, “here’s the deal. Keep going north. You know where north is?”
“I got a good sense of direction,” Cletus said, with a bit of huff in his voice.
“Okay, then. Go north until you hit a tall cyclone fence. Don’t worry about it. It isn’t electrified – just tall. Climb the fence and walk down the outside of it about two hundred yards. For you city dudes, that’s about two football fields. You’ll find a trail that goes left and slightly downhill. That takes you into Forest Park. Follow the trail for maybe half a mile … maybe a bit more. That will take you to a parking lot with a restroom and picnic tables. Stay there. Brandt and I will pick you up. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.”
“So, you believe me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Shit.”
“Didn’t say I don’t believe you either, Cletus. Best I can do. Now, do you think Butler knows you’re gone?”
“No. I turned the TV on and snuck out. Don’t think he saw me.”
“Well, then,” Wilcox said, “you best get the hell over the fence and head for the parking area.”
***
Wilcox walked down the hall a short distance to Brandt’s office and stuck his head in the door. “Hey, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I’ll explain after we get moving.”
Brandt slipped his dark blazer off the back of his chair and slid his arms in the sleeves as he hurried after the longer-legged Wilcox. They’d worked as partners for over three years, which meant countless hours together and a degree of trust that defied explanation. It just was.
Wilcox hit the basement button in the elevator and waited for the doors to close before saying, “Seems Butler spooked our little friend, Cletus, who just took off through the timber. We’ll pick him up in Forest Park.”
“What did Butler do?”
“Cletus said he asked the wrong questions, tried to get Cletus to tell him who the dead snitch, Reggie, hung with. Where he had hidden the reverend. Stuff like that. Cletus said Butler just asked the wrong questions.”
