by Trevor Scott
“Can’t control this shit,” the Bull said. “Feel like a God damn slobbering bulldog.” The former colonel narrowed his gaze at Ben. “You got something heavy on your mind.”
Ben explained what was going on with the former military members from the Compound, and the FBI raid of Marlon’s house.
“Not everything is hunky dory in your part of the woods, Ben.”
He had a feeling there was more to this case than a simple missing person. “What do you know about it?”
The Bull tried to smile but it came out looking like the man had gas. “I could never pull shit on you, Ben. Think about everything you know.”
“Why don’t you just save me some time and tell me?”
“It works better if it comes from you.”
Ben considered everything that had happened over the past week or so, and he was beginning to wonder about a few things. He ran through everything that was going on, from the mysterious burning of bovines to the murder of a former Army soldier, and then up to the shootings and the raid on both the Compound and Marlon Telford’s home.
“Is the man a pervert?” the Bull asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“And the former military men are just picking mushrooms and truffles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then the FBI seems to be out of line,” his former boss concluded. “Tell me about the dead soldier.”
Ben explained as much as he knew about that case, which wasn’t that much. “You told me you were stationed in Central America during that time. And that you were helping the Salvadoran government with arms and tactics.”
“Mostly arms,” the Bull said. “We sure as hell didn’t authorize them to form Death Squads. But you have to understand the times, Ben. We were fighting Communists on multiple fronts. We couldn’t let them get a foothold in that region. Not that close to America.”
“So you think that angle might be a dead end?”
“You’re not investigating that murder are you?”
“No, of course not. But an old friend is.”
The Bull contemplated that, his eyes seeming to rise to the ceiling. “He might be on the right track. But it could just be some random act of violence. Or a drug deal gone wrong.”
“I don’t think it was drugs,” Ben said. “They looked into that.”
“As I always told you. . .”
“When logical is not probable, look for the improbable.”
“You got that shit right.”
Ben nodded agreement. “When do they let you out of here?”
“A couple more weeks. Physical Torture wants to get my left side back more before they set me free.”
“All right. If you need anything, let me know.”
“How? Did you get a phone?”
“Just a temporary burner,” Ben said. “But cell service is spotty at my place. However, I do have internet now. I’m still using my old email. You got that, right?”
“Roger that.”
Ben left his old commander and wandered back toward his car, feeling a great deal of angst after seeing this formerly vital man turned into half a man. The problem with seeing friends grow old is the inevitability of one’s own mortality. And Ben didn’t like it one bit.
29
Ben drove south to his home in the Cantina Valley. First he stopped off to see his neighbor Jim Erickson, who had taken care of his animals in Ben’s absence.
But Ben didn’t get to Jim’s house, since the man was out in a field alongside the road to Ben’s house. Parking his Chevelle behind Jim’s tractor, Ben climbed the barbed wire fence and stepped out through a small herd of cattle until he reached his neighbor, who was stooping down and looking at a pile of black, burnt flesh.
“Another one?” Ben asked, as he crouched down for a better view.
“Afraid so, Ben. Must have been late last night. But this one was a prize heifer. She won best in class last summer at the state fair. A damn tragedy.”
“Have you heard anything from Oregon State?” Ben asked.
Jim nodded his head. “Just yesterday.” He started to rise and almost fell, but Ben caught the older gentleman.
“Are you all right?” Ben asked.
“Yeah. Just got up too fast.”
“What did the folks at OSU say?”
“They said there was some validity to an external source of the flames,” Jim said. “But there were also some kind of probe marks and signs that the flames actually started inside the cattle.”
“Shit. That’s some major cruelty, Jim. Bastards better not let me catch them.”
“Same here, Ben. There’ll be a special place in hell for those bastards.”
The two of them stood in silence, with Ben trying his best to understand what was going on with these cattle. It made no sense.
“Do you have any enemies that I don’t know about?” Ben asked.
Jim shrugged. “The EPA has been trying to get me to let my north forty revert to wetlands. But, as you know, my family has grazed cattle there since the eighteen hundreds.”
“Right. And this part of Oregon has more wetland than dry land. You know about my water fight with those assholes.”
“I know. How they say that you can’t collect your own water from your roof and store it for summer? That’s just smart use, Ben.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. That lawyer friend thinks she will get the IRS off my back, and then she’ll go after the EPA. But she’s a little preoccupied right now trying to get her brother out of FBI custody.”
“What’s this I hear about Marlon Telford and child pornography?” Jim asked.
“It’s bullshit. Don’t pass that rumor on, Jim. The FBI has some major problems right now. They’re overreaching with the boys at the Compound and Marlon.”
They both heard the truck driving down their road before they saw it. They turned to see the shiny black vehicle jacked up high with massive tires pull up behind Ben’s car.
“Who the hell’s that?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know.”
Ben and Jim wandered toward the road and helped each other over the barbed wire fence. As they came up on the truck, the driver’s window powered down and a man in a western-style suit with a bolo tie smiled through his perfectly-trimmed thin beard.
“Morning gentlemen,” the man in the truck said, a slight Slavic accent escaping.
Ben looked in and saw a man wearing a black leather jacket staring back at him from the front passenger side. This guy had a bald head, but it was shaved that way, since Ben could tell he had a shadow of stubble coming in. The man in the leather jacket looked like he could bench three hundred pounds with one arm.
“What can I do for you?” Jim asked.
“Nothing. We just stopped to make sure you were all right,” the driver said.
The man had an accent that wasn’t readily distinguishable among the Slavic range, but Ben guessed it was anywhere from Eastern European to Russian. Which wasn’t a stretch for Oregon, since many of the more recent immigrants were from Russia and the Ukraine.
“We’re fine,” Ben said. “We were just checking on our beef barbeque.”
The driver glanced out to the field and showed some understanding. “I see.”
“Are you lost?” Ben asked.
“No.”
Ben waved his hand up toward the road ahead. “I ask because this road only leads one way, into a dead end just ahead at my gate.”
“You are Ben Adler?”
“Guilty.” Ben glanced at the passenger a little closer and saw that the man was carrying a handgun under his right arm. So that made the man a southpaw. He unzipped his own jacket to make it easier to draw his handgun from his right hip. He also noticed that Jim had his hand resting on his Colt .45, which he always carried openly while on his ranch. What did this man want with him?
The driver finally said, “I understand you might be having a little trouble with the EPA.”
“Was that a que
stion?” Ben asked.
“An observation. Is it true?”
“The EPA is known around here as Extreme Pricks and Assholes,” Ben said.
Jim Erickson laughed under his breath.
The man in the fake western outfit smiled. “I understand. But those assholes can pack some heavy fines.” The driver hesitated and then glanced at Jim. “I understand you might also be having a problem with them.”
“I don’t worry about unconstitutional organizations,” Jim said. “They come and go over time. My family has owned this land for more than a hundred years—far before a bunch of hippies dreamed up the EPA.”
The driver reached inside his jacket and came out with two business cards. He reached his hand out, expecting Ben and Jim to take one. Jim took them and handed one to Ben. The card simply had the man’s name, Vlad Grankin. Under that it read ‘Entrepreneur.’ Then there was a Portland area cell phone number. Nothing else. The strange thing about the card was how thick it was. It was made from some kind of plastic composite. A bit ostentatious for Ben’s taste.
“Entrepreneur covers a lot of bases,” Ben said.
“That is correct, Mister Adler,” Grankin said. “The list of my business interests is much too long and diverse to fit on a normal business card.”
“Why are you giving us your card?” Ben asked.
Now the Russian or Ukrainian held back a smirk. “I like you. You get right to the point.”
“Unlike some people,” Ben said.
“All right. You got me. I would like to make your problems go away.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “Just back up a little and make a U-turn.”
The thick-skulled man in the passenger side gave a combination of a grunt and a growl. But the driver smiled and stifled a laugh, his right hand reaching out to the man next to him.
“I would like to make a offer for your properties,” Grankin said. “I will pay better than the normal market dictates.”
Now Ben laughed. “This is my retirement property.”
“I’ll be buried on this land like my ancestors,” Jim chimed in.
The man in the fake western outfit nodded his head and said, “Think about it. I’ll have my people draw up offers to both of you. You will be able to move anywhere you like.”
“I like it here,” Ben said.
“That’s right,” Jim agreed.
“This kind of money could change your life,” the Russian or Ukrainian said.
Then, when Ben or Jim didn’t have anything more to say, the driver started his truck and pulled a U-turn before slowly driving away.
Jim looked at the strange business card and said, “Douche bag. Who the hell does he think he is?”
“Vlad Grankin, entrepreneur,” Ben said. “Whatever the hell that is.” He considered throwing the man’s card, but decided to hang on to it to do a background check on him.
“You’re considering it,” Jim said. “Makes sense. You’ve got nothing holding you here.”
Ben thought about his own parents, who had really built his place to what it is today, although he had perfected the solar grid and the cistern system. Still, his parents had died in that house within a one month period. He was sure they would have never sold out.
“Is this the first you’ve heard from this Grankin dude?” Ben asked.
“I believe so. But I have been getting a lot of flyers from real estate agents.”
“It’s possible those people were hired by this entrepreneur,” Ben asserted.
Now Ben’s mind reeled as to motive. He didn’t believe in coincidences. This man didn’t just show up out of nowhere. Vlad Grankin had a strategy, and Ben intended to find out what the man was up to in this valley.
“You need help with your heifer?” Ben asked.
“No. I think we have everything we need to know about her. I say we leave her right there and let the critters pick over her. Which reminds me. . .”
When his neighbor let that hang in the air, Ben said, “Of what?”
“You had a gray cat, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when I went by your place this morning to milk the cows and pick the eggs, I found a bunch of fur and not much more. Probably a damn coyote. Those bastards are getting out of hand.”
“That was my mother’s cat,” Ben said. “Truthfully, both of them were.”
“You should get a big dog,” Jim said. “Like my German Sheppard.”
“I’ve got the geese and the ducks. The coyotes don’t mess with them.”
“They could take a duck.”
“Yeah, but the geese scare them away. And they also alert me to anything in my yard.”
“What about mountain lions? I’ve seen tracks.”
Ben had seen them more frequently also. But he was less interested in dealing with natural critters than trying to discover what was happening in his valley.
Thanking Jim Erickson one more time for taking care of his place, Ben got into his car and drove to his house.
30
Ben did a few things around the hobby farm before nightfall, and then settled in for the evening, the rain picking up again, like a giant pissing on a flat rock. He was suddenly thankful for setting up his computer system, since he had gotten a number of emails and instant messages from Maggi. Somehow, the FBI had been able to keep the men from the Compound in the detention facility without bail. Attorney Della Bluesky was livid, which would keep her focused on this case exclusively.
Meanwhile, there was no word on Marlon Telford’s computers. Ben guessed the FBI wouldn’t find anything. Even if Marlon was a pervert, he would have been smart enough to hide his pornography on a hidden storage device. That had bothered Ben also, while he watched the FBI swoop through Marlon’s house like a firestorm, but they had not really done a thorough search of his house. Ben would have gone through every drawer, every nook and cranny, to find any possible storage device, including the one around Marlon’s neck. But the FBI simply came in and grabbed the obvious computers out in the open. Then he remembered the warrant the FBI had handed to Marlon. It was very specific. The judge must have known the FBI was fishing and only allowed the search to include Marlon’s computers.
As Ben went back and forth with Maggi, he noticed the business card he had gotten from that urban cowboy out on the road by Jim Erickson’s place.
‘Do you know anything about Vlad Grankin?’ Ben asked by messenger.
He waited for an answer while he typed in the man’s name on his computer. A large number of articles returned, along with a bunch of photos. Most of these pics were of Grankin at charity functions with local and state business and government functionaries.
‘The Russian businessman?’ Maggi typed back. ‘Only rumors.’
Ben read through the articles as he typed back to Maggi. ‘Anything would be helpful.’
‘Why do you ask?’
He briefly told her about his meeting with the man earlier in the day out on his road. How Grankin had offered to buy his property.
‘Do you want to sell?’ she asked.
That was a hard one to answer. When his parents died he had retired shortly after and simply took over their hobby farm. He had been ready to move on from the military, and especially from the horrors of war.
‘I don’t know,’ Ben typed. ‘Not sure. What are the rumors?’
‘Mostly how he got his money. Some say he’s involved with the Russian Mafia. But I don’t believe it.’
‘Why not?’
‘He sits on our hospital board, so I’ve had some contact with him. We should talk.’
‘How? I have no cell service here.’
‘You could drive down the road.’
‘All right,’ Ben said. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Awesome.’
Ben closed his laptop and put on his rain jacket and his tall rubber boots. He looked at the Russian’s business card before shoving it into his pocket. Then he went out to his truck and started it, waiting for it to warm and th
e defrost to clear his windshield.
Finally, he drove down his driveway, stopping at his gate. He needed to put in an electric swing gate, he thought. Especially on days like this, with relentless rain. He got out and opened his gate. Then he went back to his truck and drove through, deciding to leave his gate open.
He went past his neighbor’s place looking for cell service. By the time he got out front of Marlon’s place, which sat up on a hill slightly, he finally got a couple of bars. He pulled over and made the call with his disposable cell phone.
Maggi picked up after the first ring. “That was quick,” she said.
“Words you never want coming out of a woman’s mouth.”
She giggled and then said, “Okay. About Vlad Grankin. I don’t know that much. Only what some of the others on the hospital board have said about the man. He made most of his money in real estate during the booms and busts over the past couple of decades. I’ve heard he bought properties, mostly commercial, in the Portland area during various downturns in the market. Then he collects money on those properties until the market rises. He only sells if he needs cash infusion. But from what I’ve heard, that doesn’t happen often. The man is worth billions.”
“That sounds like normal business practices,” Ben assured her.
“True. But the controversy comes from how he got the initial money to purchase properties. He emigrated to America as an adult, after the fall of the Soviet Union. They say his parents had been some kind of high-ranking Soviet officials, though. But they lost everything during the transition.”
“So, of course, people assume he got his money through shady deals or through organized crime.”
“You’ve met the man,” she said. “What do you think?”
“He had a pissed off body guard type with him.”
“Bald head?”
“Yep. You know him?”
“No. I don’t think that man can speak. He comes to our board meetings and sits in a corner with his back to the wall, his eyes like lasers on anyone who disagrees with his boss. He’s a scary dude.”
“Well, the Russian is sending a proposal to me for my property,” Ben said. “I have no idea what he’s up to. If he got my land and Jim’s place, he’d have about a quarter of our valley. Marlon owns the largest chunk.”
