by Rod Collins
BB glared at him. “How about fare thee well? Adieu? Adios? Ciao? Get the hell out of here? Your timing sucks, TJ.”
“Really? I thought it was perfect. Two lonely people find each other.”
Miranda turned back to her hotcakes in time to keep them from burning, and BB grumped at his old friend, “You mind your own business, TJ, or I’m gonna dump you alongside the road someplace.”
Miranda slid two hotcakes on a plate and set the plate on the island. Sarcastically she said, “How do you know I’ve been lonely, your holiness?”
“I can sense such things.”
Silence descended on the kitchen, but Miranda stole a furtive glance at BB and found him staring at her, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
Chapter 50
Bandits
TJ PROTESTED when BB insisted Miranda would drive the rental and follow them to Klamath Falls. BB knew his old friend well enough to understand TJ’s protest was more a matter of form than a matter of substance. Not only was TJ a poor driver, he was an unlicensed driver. When BB said, “You were lucky to get here alive,” TJ sighed, handed the keys to Miranda, and carried his backpack to the Lexus. When he slammed the passenger door, Miranda just grinned.
BB said, “We’ll stop by Bud’s A-frame and borrow some gas for TJ’s car. We can top it off in Bly.”
She eyed the Neon and shook her head. “Don’t drive too fast. I don’t know if I can keep up. And I don’t know where I’m going.”
***
Miranda’s iPhone gave her a good map of the route from Five Corners, a spot a few miles west of Lakeview, to Bly, and on to Klamath Falls, but it gave her no hint of the beautiful, open stands of tall ponderosa pine lining the highway over Quartz Mountain. Gorgeous, she thought.
On the west side of the pass, the vegetation changed slowly from pine timber, to juniper, and then to a grassy open valley. BB spotted a mini-mart on the east end of the tiny town of Bly and pulled into the parking lot. Miranda pulled the Neon up to the pumps.
TJ said, “Gotta go,” and ran inside to find a restroom.
BB stepped out of the Lexus and stretched. Must be something about getting shot at that tires a man, he thought. A tall, lean fellow – just the other side of middle age, wearing a Cabela’s baseball cap and a white apron – looked through the window, then untied the apron to hang it on a peg on the wall behind the counter. He wiped his hands on a white towel and headed for the pump island. The scent of fresh yeast bread followed him through the door. BB sniffed and thought, TJ won’t be able to resist that. I’m not sure I can either.
“Good morning. Fill it up?”
Miranda smiled and nodded. “Regular, please.” She started fishing for a credit card, but BB shook his head. “I got this.” He handed a card to the attendant and said, “Is that fresh bread I’m smelling?”
The man nodded. “Yep. Fresh bread, fresh rolls, fresh donuts, and fresh maple bars every morning.”
BB said, “Out here?” It was question, statement, and near disbelief.
“Yes. Out here,” the man said, a note of irritation in his voice. “A lot of the Forest Service people at the compound around the corner there,” he said, pointing west, “buy our bread. And every truck driver coming or going stops for our donuts and maple bars. Local ranchers buy the rest.”
Miranda said, “I don’t suppose you could spare a half-dozen maple bars?”
He grinned. “I could, and I would. Go on in. I’ll be along as soon as I finish filling your tank.”
Miranda followed BB into the store. She took stock of the sparkling white bakery case filled with bread and pastries, of the neatly stocked shelves of basic foodstuff, a wall of fishing tackle, and a half-dozen paintings by local artists. “What a jewel. I’m so glad we stopped here. Who would’ve thought?”
TJ fished a ten-dollar bill out of his jeans pocket and said, “My treat. I want a couple of those fresh maples bars. How about you?”
The man in the Cabela’s cap pushed through the door and handed BB the gas receipt. “You folks come far?” he asked.
BB grinned and shook his head. “Nope. I live on Dog Lake.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “I heard about you. You’re Sheriff Blair’s friend, aren’t you? Used to be a Portland detective.”
Warily BB said, “One and the same. Why?”
“Well … just … just wondering is all. Any friend of Bud Blair is a friend of mine. You’re famous, you know. People talk about the man who built a big beautiful log house on Dog Lake. Most are jealous. Heck, I could be myself.”
He stuck out his hand. “I’m Morrison Obenchain. Fifth-generation rancher in these parts. Or I was a rancher. My two sons do all that work now, while I goof off with the bakery and store.”
BB shook hands. “Dell BeBe.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister BeBe. Now, who are your friends?”
BB pointed at TJ and said, “The Right Reverend TJ Wildish. He has a church in Portland. This nice lady is Miranda Wright.”
“I heard about the shootout on Dog Lake.” Obenchain said, his blue eyes concerned. He looked at her left hand. “You didn’t get shot, did you?”
Miranda pursed her lips and then shook her head. Obenchain let it pass.
“Word is,” Obenchain said, “Sheriff Blair and his deputies caught three or four bad guys. Bikers, I’m told.” He waited, but no one confirmed or denied.
Finally, Miranda said, “How do you know all this?”
Obenchain laughed, took his hat off and rubbed his nearly bald head. “I don’t know how it works. Not even after all these years of living out here. We just call it the ‘sagebrush telegraph.’ And sometimes it brings us word before anything actually happens.”
A muddy pickup pulled into the pumps opposite the Neon, and Obenchain said, “My nephew, bumming gas again. He can damned well pump his own. Now, about those maple bars.”
Maple bars in hand, a bag of extras for TJ, they said their thanks and headed for the vehicles. “Nice meeting you folks,” Obenchain said. “Come again.”
That’s when the roar of multiple motorcycle engines caught BB’s attention. Around a slight dog-leg that marked the main street through the little town came two dozen bikers on Harley motorcycles. A second group of motorcycles followed a few seconds later. BB counted their numbers as well as he could. Fifty or so.
They watched until the bikes were out of sight. “Did you see that?” Miranda said. “At least five bikes carried saddle scabbards with rifles.”
“I counted six,” BB said, reaching for his cell phone.
“Their leather vests said The Romans,” TJ said. “Looks like they’re heading for Lakeview.”
When Bud answered the call, BB said, “I’m in Bly. We’re headed for Klamath Falls and stopped to gas up. Some very nasty looking people from The Romans gang just rode through this little burg, headed your direction. I counted about fifty bikes and at least six rifles in the mix. You best line up some help.”
“Come to get their friends out of jail, I guess.”
“How much backup do you have?”
“Three from the city. The five of us. A State Trooper. And I think BLM has a new Ranger … their version of a cop. And three reserves. I think they’re too green to use on this. I might also get some help from the prison.”
“Add me in the mix.”
“No. You get TJ to a safe place, and I’ll get my shotgun out.”
“Luck.”
“You too, BB. Hey, I know. Let’s fix that canoe of yours and drown some worms on the lake … soon.”
When he looked around, BB saw Morrison Obenchain standing in the doorway with a semi-automatic shotgun in his hands. “Outlaws,” was all he said before turning back into the store.
BB shook his head. “I’m not sure Mister Obenchain makes me feel a whole lot better.”
Miranda nodded. “I know.”
He took a deep breath. “You take TJ to Klamath Falls. I’m going back.”
“You’re
just a civilian!”
“No. I’m a sworn Lake County deputy sheriff, and I’m damned if I’m going to let Bud keep me out of the fight.”
He grabbed TJ’s daypack from the SUV and tossed it through the Neon’s open window. He dug through the business cards in his wallet until he found the one with Sergeant Booker’s phone number. He handed it to Miranda and said, “Call this guy. He’ll take care of TJ. Then you get on a plane and head home. I’ll be up as soon as…”
She gave him a hug and whispered, “Don’t you get shot. Understood?”
BB hugged her back and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
TJ stuck out his hand and said, “Go with God.”
BB burned rubber getting out of the parking lot and pushed the Lexus hard, topping the Quartz Mountain pass at nearly one hundred miles per hour, anger running hot through his mind. And then he slowed to a more reasonable sixty five when he thought about the possibility of hitting a mule deer. It wasn’t until the highway dipped into Drews Valley that he saw the rolling army of bikers.
He debated running a few of them down, just give them a little bump, but settled instead for accelerating and passing the long line of bikes. His reward was a forest of single digit salutes.
See you in town.
Chapter 51
Booker
AT 0930, MIRANDA DROVE into the Klamath Falls Safeway parking lot. She pulled Bud’s business card from her vest and turned it over. On the back, he had written the phone number for Sergeant Booker, a senior member of the Klamath Falls Police Department. She keyed in the number and hit the send button.
After the first ring, Miranda heard a baritone voice say, “This is Booker. What can I do for you?”
“This is Special Agent Miranda Wright, Sheriff Blair’s friend. I’m with Reverend Wildish. Where can we meet you?”
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“Yes, but TJ’s always hungry.”
Booker chuckled and said, “Let me give you directions to Applebee’s.”
“How will we know you?”
Booker laughed and said, “Look for the only black police officer there.”
***
When TJ and Miranda walked into the restaurant, a smiling hostess said, “Right this way” and, menus in hand, led them to a back-corner booth where Sergeant Booker was sipping coffee and working the crossword puzzle in the Herald and News.
Miranda noted his choice of booths. Back to the wall, clear view of the street and the parking lot. My kind of guy.
“Sergeant,” the hostess said, “your guests are here.”
Booker slid out of the booth and stood up. He was tall, nearly six-one, his broad shoulders straining a blue KFPD police jacket. A neatly trimmed salt and pepper moustache finished the statement that he was a cop. Booker was known to tell his trainees, “You’re a police officer, first and foremost. No reason to hide it. And no sense in flaunting it. Just be who you are … a proud officer of the law.”
He frowned, glancing first at Miranda and then at TJ, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Miranda held out her hand and said, “I’m FBI Special Agent Miranda Wright, and this is Reverend TJ Wildish.”
Booker shook hands with each of them. “Benjamin Booker. Have a seat.”
The hostess put the stack of menus on the table, asking “Coffee?” They all nodded.
TJ said, “I’d like a little cream with mine. And a short stack.”
Booker pointed to the bench seat on his side of booth. “Reverend, why don’t you sit here.”
While they waited for their coffee, Booker looked at his crossword puzzle and said, “Eleven down. I need a six-letter word for a sea hawk.”
Without hesitation Miranda said, “Osprey. We saw a pair of those on Dog Lake yesterday. Beautiful birds.”
Booker filled in the boxes, set his pen on the newspaper, and looked up, brown eyes serious. “Okay, now I need several words for why the FBI needs me to hide the reverend.”
Miranda nodded, forehead furrowed, and looked around the restaurant.
“We can talk here,” advised Booker, “as long as we don’t talk too loudly.”
She gathered her thoughts and then slowly and deliberately briefed Sergeant Booker…
“Last year, Detective Dell BeBe gave the FBI some photos showing weapons cached in the basement of a Northeast Portland mosque. The man who took the pictures sold them to one of Detective BeBe’s snitches. BB brought them to our SAC, Dutch Vanderlin. We took them to a judge and asked for a search warrant. The judge said the FBI needed a name before the court could issue a warrant.”
Booker interrupted her and looked at TJ. “How did you wind up in this?”
TJ blinked a few times, then said, “BB knows I’m a member of the Portland Ministerial Council, so when he told me what was going on, I asked around to see what I could find. I have friends who left the Christian faith and converted to Islam. But we still talk.
“Anyway, one of the council members gave me a note. It had the name of a prominent imam. That’s all. Just a name. I gave the name to BB, and he took it from there.”
Booker frowned. “You didn’t think that was dangerous?”
“Of course,” TJ said, sitting as tall as he could. With a touch of pride in his voice he added, “But I grew up in a tough neighborhood … and back then, I didn’t have Christ on my side. I knew I would be protected this time.”
Booker nodded and smiled. “As so it came to pass.”
True to her nature, Miranda interrupted. “To continue, the judge issued a warrant. We conducted simultaneous raids on a mosque in Portland and on another in Seattle. The FBI recovered a considerable number of military-style weapons, tons of ammunition, grenade launchers, explosives, detonators, street maps, building plans, and so forth … all a clear indication of terrorist activity, or at least terrorist intent.
“We made about thirty arrests. I need to tell you, we were all very happy. And I was convinced we had cut the head off the Muslim terrorist snakes in the Pacific Northwest. But a few days ago, word trickled in off the streets that some very bad people knew Reverend Wildish was the link to the Portland FBI.
“Someone killed the man who supplied the imam’s name. It looked very much like a revenge killing – torture followed by execution.
“When we found out, Reverend Wildish left Portland to hide at Detective BeBe’s place, I was sent to debrief him. We thought he might be safe with BB, but the bad guys stole Reverend TJ’s computer. On it were pictures of Dell BeBe’s house and directions to Dog Lake. They hired members of The Romans biker gang to kill us. That’s why Sheriff Blair suggested you.”
Booker waited until the smiling waitress left a carafe and two cups on the table. He dabbed at his salt and pepper moustache with a napkin, wadded the paper up, and dropped it in his plate. He pointed to Miranda. “How did you hurt your hand?”
“We had a shootout with three bikers – from a club here in Klamath Falls, I should add. We were on Dog Lake doing some fishing, when they started shooting at us. One shot blew up my cedar paddle and drove a big splinter through my hand. Sheriff Blair and his deputies arrested three bikers, members of The Romans gang. I guess they thought it was okay to kill Detective BeBe and me as well. Collateral damage.”
