by Rod Collins
Denver put his polished glasses back on and pulled a .357 magnum revolver from under the counter. He slammed it on the bar and said, “They will damned well regret it, if they do.”
***
Bud’s efforts to contact the Assistant U.S. Attorney’s office met with the same success as the rest of Oregon. Calls to Portland were simply not getting through. His cell screen read “No Service” and his landline picked up nothing but a busy signal.
He used the radio in his county pickup to call Deputy Roger Hildebrand, who was driving back to Christmas Valley. “Roger, I’m wondering if any of the Portland refugees will make it this far. What do you think?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think it’s a problem for us. Bend is more likely to have problems. I think our best bet is sit tight. If Deschutes County asks for help, Larae and I could run up there. Although I don’t know how much difference two officers might make.”
“Okay. We’ll just settle for worrying about our own people for now.”
Roger nodded into his microphone and said, “On it. County Two, out”
Chapter 77
Go Forth and Prosper
By the time it took them to bring Basma to the FBI headquarters building, perhaps twenty-five minutes, Brandt and Wright noticed a heavy increase in traffic and cars driving well in excess of posted speed limits.
“It’s starting, isn’t it? The panic, I mean,” Miranda said.
“Yeah. Thanks to Basma when she let the cat out of the bag to her neighbors.”
Basma said, “I did not mean to create panic. I just wanted my neighbors to stay safe.”
“I think that was the plan all along, Basma,” Miranda said. “They counted on your kindness and your compassion to start a panic. And it’s working. It’s a cunning ruse – nothing but a scam – yet it’s terrorism nonetheless.”
“Do you think my husband will be arrested?”
Miranda nodded. “Yes,” Miranda snapped, “and I hope he goes to jail forever.”
Basma began to sob, all composure destroyed by sorrow for her husband.
***
They ushered Basma into a holding cell, took her handcuffs off, and offered her a bottle of imported spring water.
Miranda pulled a notebook from her handbag and pointed to the small table. “Sit here, Basma. I’m going to give you a pen, and I want you to start writing everything you remember: questions you were asked, information you gave your husband, any names he might have mentioned … anything that will help us put an end to this. Okay?”
A tall, clean-cut college intern entered the room and Miranda said, “Kenny here will sit with you until we get back.”
***
Smith’s secretary was working the phones and taking notes when they entered the outer office. Smith’s door was open and she pointed them in. A large TV hanging on a sidewall was tuned to a local TV station, volume muted. The scenes looked like something out of a movie – people running to catch already overcrowded busses, drivers honking horns and bumping cars in front of them. It’s a disaster movie, Brandt thought. Only worse. It’s real.
Miranda shook her head. “Ridiculous. Just don’t drink the water. What in the world is accomplished by running away?”
Brandt said, “It’s the primitive impulse. Fight or flight.”
Smith’s chair was swiveled to look out the window overlooking Marine Drive and the Columbia River. They heard him bark, “Can’t you make it happen any quicker?” Then, a sigh. “Okay. But we need to know if the water is actually poisoned or not. People … a lot of people … are in a panic. Some poor fool just ran his car off Marine drive into the Columbia. Get those tests done. Right now!”
He turned his chair around and put the phone back in the cradle. “I think we’re all going to be insane before this is over.”
Smith surveyed the two, “How did it go?”
Brandt said, “Basma is cooperating. We’ve an intern watching her in the holding cell, and she’s busy writing down everything she remembers.
“Good. Agent Wright, you will interrogate her. You, Agent Brandt, are going to Alaska. Find Butler and bring him back.”
“Arrest him?”
Smith nodded, “If he won’t cooperate.”
Brandt said, “Look, Agent Smith, I hear Al-Alwani is getting a sweetheart deal to testify. But he’s the one we need Butler’s testimony against. What’s in it for Butler?”
“You sound like his attorney, Agent Brandt.”
“I know we wouldn’t have broken up Al-Alwani’s slave trade – or found this other person and the plot to poison the water – without Butler’s initiative.”
“Is that what you call it? Initiative? Taking bribe money is initiative?”
“Okay. But he had a change of heart. And he gave us critical information and help. I think the very least we can offer is witness protection.”
Dutch Vanderlin eased into the room in time to hear Brandt’s insistence to do something for Butler. “I think so too,” he said. They turned in time to see him smile.
“Go forth and prosper, Douglas. Find Winslow Butler, offer him witness protection … but get him back to testify to the grand jury as to what he knows about Al-Alwani’s operation.
“The Coast Guard found his boat. It’s anchored a short distance south of Ketchikan. A helicopter is warming up on our rooftop helipad as I speak. It will take you to Sea-Tac where you’ll be joined by your old partner, Agent Wilcox. You will then be flown to Whidbey Island Naval Air Station, then on to Ketchikan. Bring Butler back. Now, get moving.”
Brandt nodded and said, “Yes sir. On it.”
Chapter 78
Stone-Cold
AT PRECISELY 12:01 A.M., the combined forces of the eight-person Salem Tactical Team and the ten-person FBI SWAT team moved into position a block south of the Stone-Cold Tavern.
Four members of the team proceeded on foot to the sidewalk of a side street leading from the tavern to what Officer Wallace called ‘the bunkhouse.’ They waited impatiently behind a dilapidated six-foot wooden fence and were rewarded by two bikers stumbling home from the bar.
The arrest was efficient and quiet. While two officers hustled the inebriated bikers around the corner to a waiting paddy wagon, the other two made a third arrest. This pattern lasted for another forty-five minutes and netted a grand total of fourteen bikers.
Two officers watched the front door of the bunkhouse, and two watched the back door. They were armed with 12-gauge shotguns loaded with buckshot.
Sloppy Joe and Wally entered the tavern at 1:05 a.m. Shooter, all six feet-four-inches of him, was sitting at a back table, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray made from a cylinder head cut off from a Harley engine. Wally waved and said, “I don’t know what’s going on, Shooter, but there isn’t anybody guarding the bikes.”
Shooter said, “Those bastards had better be there or I’ll cut ‘em.” He pushed the table out of the way and stormed outside. He was met by six officers, one of whom poked the barrel of his pistol in Shooter’s ear and told him to keep quiet. Shooter complied. One officer tore a strip of duct tape from a silver roll and slapped it over his mouth. Another officer pulled his arms behind his back and snapped handcuffs in place. They hustled him to a second paddy wagon a half-block down the street. A deviated septum and a racing heart made it difficult for Shooter to breathe. No one cared.
Inside, Sloppy Joe and Wally ordered a beer, did a head count and came up with nineteen conscious bikers … plus two passed out in a corner. Wally walked to the back exit and popped the door open. He keyed his whisper mic and said, “The number is nineteen, plus two. We’ll handle the bartender. Go.”
Sloppy Joe held the bartender at gunpoint, while the Salem tactical team poured into the tavern from the back entrance. The FBI SWAT team, minus a watcher left outside, poured through the front door and fanned out along the wall. All were shouting, “Go! Go!” Team leaders were shouting, “Hands up! Hands in the air!”
The stoned and inebriated biker
s were too befuddled to react. All, that is, but one … the one who was in the bathroom and wasn’t included in the head count. He pulled a peashooter .25 caliber pistol from a holster hiding in the small of his back and ran out the back exit into the waiting arms of the Salem tactical team watcher.
The biker triggered a wild shot that was rewarded by the sound of breaking window glass in a store next door. The officer immediately returned fire, hitting the biker three times in the upper body with .9 mm slugs. It would be ruled a good shoot, and the biker would soon be shipped home in a coffin.
All in all, it was a classic operation that worked smoothly and efficiently right up to the pistol shots. The gunfire woke some of the bikers in the bunkhouse, where two idiots stoned on meth rushed out the front door, guns drawn. It was like something out of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid … with about the same result.
When they reacted to an order to drop their weapons by shooting at the officers, they were treated to several rounds of 12-gauge buckshot. The rest of the gang inside the building surrendered without fuss. None were interested in committing suicide by cop.
Chapter 79
Consequences
BUD, BB, DEPUTY BEATRICE TUSK, and Deputy Lonnie Beltram spent the remainder of the afternoon staring at the wall-mounted TV in the small conference room, sipping stale coffee from white mugs and watched the chaos in Portland.
BB shook his head. “Nuts is what it is. Look at all that water. You have the Columbia River, the Sandy River, the Clackamas, and the Willamette. No way have they been poisoned. Put a few drops of bleach in a gallon of water and get on with life.”
Bud nodded, sighed, and put his mug on the table. “I’m sure someone will think of it … eventually.”
BB said, “A registered letter brought me a federal grand jury summons? Did you get one, too?”
Bud nodded. “Yep. Supposed to be there day after tomorrow, but that’s not going to happen.”
The phone on a side desk rang, and Bud reached over to pick it up. “Bud.”
Karen Highsmith said, “You have a call from Sergeant Booker in Klamath Falls.”
“Okay. Put him through.”
Booker said, “Sheriff?”
“In the flesh. How are you, Sergeant Booker?”
“Fussed. Are you watching that mess in Portland?”
Bud nodded, “Yes. We are glued to the TV. BB and I both worked there for several years, so it feels personal.”
“I never worked there, and it still feels personal. If Dell BeBe is with you, I’d like to put TJ on the phone. He’s been worried about his friend.”
“Hold on.” He handed the phone to BB and left the room to make more coffee.
Karen saw him coming down the hall and gave him an urgent motion to hurry. She put her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone and said, “I’m getting lots of calls wanting to know what we’ve heard from Portland. I’m on the line with Carol Connor right now. She wants to know what she can put in her newspaper.”
Bud took a deep breath and reached for the phone. “Hello, Carol. I can’t tell you much more than what you are seeing on TV. Police channels are telling us that, so far, no one checked by doctors in Portland has shown any sign of poison. Not one.”
Carol said, “Wow! A hoax?”
“Darned if I know.”
“What do I tell our readers?”
“Well … I guess you can say there has been mass panic in response to rumors someone poisoned the Portland water system. That much is true; there has been mass panic. The rumors about poison in the water have not been confirmed. And I guess you could say the mass exodus from Portland has completely blocked transportation for now.”
“Sheriff, how will this affect us?”
“Well, I’d say without normal delivery service, the shelves in our stores will be empty in about twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and our service stations will run through their supply of fuel in a couple of days. And I have no idea how long the whiskey and wine will last. I’d urge people to ration their supplies and get on with life.”
“Thanks. And may I suggest that you to talk to KQIK radio? I won’t get the next edition of the paper out until tomorrow morning. We plan to pull an all-nighter. Nothing like radio for immediate information.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. We have plans in place for other emergencies, but not this one. Thanks, Carol. I’ll get on it.”
He walked hurriedly to his office, looked up the number for Lakeview’s only radio station, and dialed. When the station owner answered, Bud said, “This is Sheriff Bud Blair. I think we need to get something on the air about this mess in Portland.”
“Yes. We were just talking about that. Can you come to the station?”
“I’d rather do this over the phone.”
Within five minutes, the station was broadcasting their emergency signal followed by a standby bulletin. Bud’s voice urged calm, prudence, and self-imposed rationing. The bulletin was broadcast every fifteen minutes for the remainder of the day.
Bud walked back to the conference room. “Are your rigs gassed up? We might not get any fuel shipments for a while.”
Lonnie and Bea both nodded. “Mine is full,” Bea said. “Mine, too,” Lonnie echoed.
“Well, mine isn’t. I better go tend to that.”
Bea stood up and held out her hand, “Keys, please. I’ll go do it.”
There was no panic in Lake County, but within minutes of the first broadcast, Martin Conley, Lakeview’s druggist, was on the air telling people medical supplies were sufficient to meet demand for the next two weeks.
Bea was gone for over forty-five minutes. “Had to get in line for gas. Everyone is filling up.”
Bud nodded and said, “Thanks. Now, besides sitting here watching TV, what else should we be doing?”
Bea laughed and said, “I should be shopping. There’s not a thing to eat at my house.”
Bud grinned. “Well, if it comes down to it, I have a whole freezer full of frozen dinners. We just might have to share.”
“Or,” BB said, “we could all run down to Reno.”
Bud shook his head. “Nope. I have a date tonight.”
Chapter 80
Dog Lake
BY LATE EVENING, phone calls to the sheriff’s office had tapered off, and the necessary meetings with local officials were over and done with. Bud figured it was safe to head for Dog Lake. He ran a mental check list of essentials he kept at the cabin, decided he was good to go, and called BB for a ride out to his house north of town.
When BB pulled up against the curb in front of the sheriff’s office … driving a new dark-red Ford F-150, Bud grinned broadly. He slid onto the passenger seat and said, “I never thought I’d see the big city detective, Dell BeBe, driving anything like this.”
BB kidded back, “I thought I’d see what driving a pickup would be like. Just until my Lexus gets repaired.”
“What happened?”
“During the ruckus with the bikers, somebody sideswiped my car. Had to take it to the beauty shop.”
“And lease a pickup?”
BB nodded.
