Past Perfect

by Richard Stockford

  The radio was quiet for a moment, and then an unidentified voice said, ‘What the hell’s a moke?’

  Clipper grinned and picked up the microphone, “We don’t know,” he said, “but apparently they come in groups, so stay on your toes.” A flurry of microphone clicks signified the relief of tension.

  Eight, and then nine o’clock came and went without incident, and units in the smaller towns signaled that they were going back on patrol. At ten o’clock, Clipper called off the Bangor units and headed back to the station.

  Chapter 8

  Kempton Dautry slid the matte camo muzzle of his Tiberius T9.1 sniper rifle through the lower branches of the balsam fir he was using for cover. He had cut away enough of the inner branches to allow himself room to curl around the trunk, with the upper, ground-brushing limbs providing perfect concealment. Infinitely patient, he had been relaxed under the small tree on the hillside since dawn. Below him, an overgrown tote road ran through the rocks and stubble of an old logging site, stark in the early morning light. He stiffened only slightly as a flicker of movement at the head of the road told him he’d been correct in thinking that his quarry would take the easier path.

  The approaching soldier was leery of the open area, moving slowly, head constantly turning, rifle ready at port arms. He was alone on his mission to infiltrate the enemy territory, and close enough to his goal to believe he might succeed.

  At a hundred and fifty feet, Dautry settled the crosshairs onto the enemy’s head, holding an inch high and shifting slightly away from the goggled eyes to cover the exposed right temple. He took a breath, exhaled half and began a steady trigger pull.

  “Damn it!” Larry Archer dropped his rifle and slapped a hand to his stinging ear. He didn’t need to see the bright smear of fluorescent green paint to know that Dautry had won again.

  Dautry slid backwards out from under the tree and kept it between Archer and himself as he scuttled back over the crest of the hill. Keeping his tree hide secret, he circled to the tote road and strode up to Archer. “You’re too easy, Larry,” he said with an icy grin. “You want to think about cover and concealment a little more.”

  Archer bent over and retrieved his paint-ball rifle, still scrubbing his ear. “What’s the point of all this protective gear, if you always aim for skin?” he groused. Archer was one of Dautry’s older recruits, an army veteran who had found Dautry’s online presence and was now a permanent fixture at the camp.

  “If this was real,” said Dautry shoving his rifle into the other man’s face, “your only protection would be not being seen … and you wouldn’t be getting another shot at me tomorrow - area one, at dawn.” He turned on his heel and started the half-mile walk back to the compound.

  The Infidel Army training camp #1 had started life as a collection of three primitive hunting camps clustered in the second-growth forest and largely uninhabited farmland to the south of Bangor. Surrounded by swampy lowlands, posted pastures and twisting secondary roads leading nowhere, the 20,000 acre tract offered plenty of the remote privacy craved by militant survivalists. A half-mile long twisting gravel road, unique among the thousands of simple roads disappearing into the Maine woods only because of its large, new ‘Private Property - Do Not Enter’ sign, led to the largest camp, which had originally been owned by Dautry’s father. Two years previously, upon his separation from the United States Army, Dautry had quietly purchased forty acres of surrounding land along with the other two abandoned camps and, along with his son Raymond and long-time associate Neville Fuller, set about building the headquarters of his fledgling Infidel Army. Their public mission statement was simple; they would survive and stand, alone if necessary, in the defense of America against the Islamic contagion now spreading throughout the world. Privately, Dautry was quietly determined to build and train a private militia to combat and prevent government intrusion in his life… and to get rich along the way.

  In the last year, Dautry had carefully selected and recruited more than thirty men, nearly all ex-military, and assembled them into an abbreviated infantry rifle platoon. Dautry, Raymond, Neville Fuller and Larry Archer were permanent residents of the camp, which Dautry had dubbed ‘Camp Freedom’ with the other members coming and going, committed to a minimum of ten days per month of rigorous training. With Major Dautry in overall command, his son Raymond held the rank of Captain and led a twenty-man strong rifle squad comprised of local recruits. Captain Neville Fuller, who had served with Dautry as a Staff Sergeant in Afghanistan, commanded a six man special ops squad and advanced training unit that were not local recruits and rarely mingled with the others.

  When Dautry got to the compound, he went to the main cabin in which he lived and maintained his unit headquarters. His father would not have recognized the once humble three-room hunting cabin. Dautry had enlarged the building over a new cellar which included rooms for a generator, armory and refrigerated food storage and added a second story with metal roof. The windows, each overlooking a carefully cleared firing lane, were fitted with heavy wooden shutters. The faux-wood doors were actually plate steel. Both of the two smaller cabins had been similarly upgraded, although not as extensively, to serve as secure bunk houses. A new wooden pole barn with attached tool shed along with another, smaller shed, completed the visible compound.

  Dautry took a quick shower and dressed in clean jeans and black jersey. He spent a moment brushing his short-cropped iron gray hair before clipping a three-inch Colt Python .357 magnum to his belt and shrugging into a gray sports coat. Dautry was always careful about his appearance, holding himself and his people to Army uniform dress standards.

  Chapter 9

  Janice Owens hesitated, and then gently slid the tip of the ornate letter opener under the flimsy lock on Ann White’s diary. Alone in the Gaylord Mansion, Janice had tried valiantly to concentrate on the voluminous inventories and museum plans that needed completion, but finally gave in to the mystery of Eleanor Gaylord’s decades-old disappearance. Over the past two days, she had read all of the collected newspaper articles and police reports, and her firm belief that the answer to the mystery lay in the diary finally overcame her natural reluctance to pry.

  The diary’s first entry, dated January 1, 1975, spoke in a fine feminine hand of a pleasant holiday season. Entries followed at sporadic intervals into the spring and summer, touching on family events with frequent cordial mention of Eleanor Montgomery and the children of the combined household. Janice read slowly, building a mental picture of Annie and her family. Annie had been affectionately tolerant of her husband and son, mildly disapproving of her standoffish brother and totally devoted to her sister-in-law, Eleanor. Reading between the lines, Janice could picture the family divided into two strata; Montgomery, Sebastian and Pauline, the staid, old-line dynastic group, with Eleanor joining Anne and her family in a simpler, less rigid lifestyle. There was no sense of antagonism in Anne’s writings, more a feeling of wistfulness, perhaps some frustration with Montgomery’s growing obsession with politics and appearances.

  At the end of September, Anne wrote proudly of Chester’s new driver’s license and Eleanor’s impending visit with her brother in Chicago, and October’s entries turned to thoughts of the upcoming holidays.

  Then, on November second, the pleasant record of normal family life changed forever.

  ‘11-2-75

  ‘Eleanor is missing! Tom called and said she wasn’t on her flight to Chicago and he hasn’t heard from her. Walter out looking, Monty’s coming home.’

  11-3-75

  ‘Airline says Eleanor’s ticket not used. Police here, still no sign. I’m afraid… FBI and State Police here. Luggage gone, but cab driver swears nobody was home when he came to pick her up. They think she was kidnapped, waiting for call. I should have been here.’

  11-4-75

  ‘Five days. Oh. Eleanor, where are you? Police searching everywhere, over and over. House like a morgue. Everybody quiet – Monty explosive. Kids home, in their rooms. Waiting for cal
l, spending all my time making coffee for police.’

  11-6-75

  ‘Still no call – FBI says maybe not kidnapping. How can they believe she’d just run away? I know she was taken, or worse.’

  11-10-75

  ‘Still nothing. Dearest Eleanor is gone. S & P have returned to school, and Monty spends all day on the phone with his political friends. The police have left us alone. They think she left Monty to be with someone else. NO! She wouldn’t just leave. I know she’s dead, and no one will believe me. I have to keep trying.’

  11-19-75

  ‘Nothing changes, we drift along. Walter working longer hours. The house is so empty and I’m so lonely.’

  12-21-75

  ‘Going through Christmas motions. No joy. Monty not participating, S&P quiet, subdued. Chester too. Empathy?’

  12-30-75

  ‘Monty told me to let Eleanor go. He said I’m making the family look bad by insisting that she was murdered. He’s mad that she tarnished his reputation! Will not even talk to me about her. I’ll never stop. Avery understands.’

  1-10-76

  ‘Chester is changing. Becoming distant, abrasive – argues constantly with S&P. I worry for him. Monty rarely here now – spends all his time in Augusta. S is changing too… Staring at me when he thinks I don’t notice. Puberty for everybody? I miss Eleanor…’

  1-29-75

  ‘Chester and Sebastian in a fight today. Two bloody noses, but they seem to have gotten it out of their systems now. Called Monty. He didn’t care about the fight but will be home next week.’

  2-13-76

  ‘Avery is leaving! Retiring and moving out of state. There’s no one left to talk to. It feels like Eleanor has just disappeared again. I can’t stop… I’m so alone.’

  2-21-76

  ‘There is something evil in this house. I can feel constant anger…danger. Monty says I’m dreaming. Walter’s kinder, but he doesn’t sense it either. I’m scared.’

  3-3-76

  ‘Monty thinks I’m sick. Wants me to see a psychiatrist. He told me I had to “get over” Eleanor. He has become so cold and unfeeling, I don’t know him anymore. He’s gone to Augusta again… said we’d “settle this” when he got back. I’m not crazy!!!’

  3-13-76

  ‘I found $200 in Chester’s room today. He’s scared, but wouldn’t tell me where he got it. Later heard him arguing with S in the barn. Only caught parts, but they were talking about “she” and “to blame” and S told Chester to keep his mouth shut. I know this is about Eleanor and I know they won’t talk to me. I need the police, and I have a plan to get them back on the case.’

  3-14-76

  ‘I told Monty what I’m doing. He exploded. Called me crazy and stormed out of the house. I’m afraid of him…’

  Janice turned the next page and blinked at its empty expanse. She quickly riffled through the rest of the pages, but there were no more entries. She started to put the diary back in the box of personal items, and then reconsidered and slipped it into her pocketbook to show Clipper later. She was reaching for a new stack of papers when a cheerful “Hello,” sounded from the downstairs entry, announcing the arrival of Kathy Singer, one of the Historical Society volunteers. Happy at the prospect of some help, Janice put the mystery of Eleanor Gaylord’s disappearance out of her mind.

  Chapter 10

  Clipper arrived back at the station about ten-thirty with a headache he knew was probably due to unburned adrenalin and the tension of the fruitless stakeout. He grabbed a couple of aspirin from his desk and was headed for coffee when his desk phone rang. It was Miss Elliot, the Chief’s secretary, telling him that Chief Norris would like to see him in his office immediately. Gulping the aspirin dry, Clipper gritted his teeth and headed for the admin area.

  Miss Elliot showed Clipper into the chief’s office where he found Chief Norris seated behind his immaculate desk and a stranger rising from one of the visitor’s chairs.

  “Lieutenant Thomas Clipper,” pronounced Chief Norris without rising, “This is Kempton Dautry.” Clipper shook Dautry’s hand as he appraised the man’s solid physique and military bearing. “How do?” he said briefly looking into slate gray eyes.

  “I do just fine, Lieutenant,” said Dautry in a gravelly bass, with just an echo of superior/subordinate inflection.

  The two men inspected each other in a gathering silence until Chief Norris stood saying, “Lieutenant Clipper is the head of our criminal division.” The dapper chief came out from behind his desk and looked at Clipper. “Mr. Dautry has come to us with a proposition which I think may be very timely. Please be seated and I’ll let him explain.”

  The three men sat, and Dautry looked at Clipper appraisingly. “How many men do you command, Lieutenant?” he asked baldly.

  Clipper leaned back in his chair, suddenly afraid he knew where this was going. “We’ve got a ten man investigative division,” he said.

  “And what, probably six or seven patrol officers on the street at any given moment?”

  Clipper nodded, noncommittal.

  “And I would guess your department handles a couple hundred thousand calls for service every year,” Dautry said.

  “Around that, but we manage to keep a lid on it,” Clipper said with a cold smile.

  “Dautry nodded. “Seems like a quiet town, I’m sure you do - under normal circumstances.” He leaned forward and pointed a stubby finger at Clipper. “But these are not normal circumstances,” he said. “From what I read, you’ve got military-style commandos robbing banks all over the place, and I don’t think you’re equipped to handle it. Not…” he said holding up a placating hand as Clipper stiffened, “…not that you’re not good at what you do, but this is not business as usual.”

  “And you can fix that,” Clipper said flatly.

  Dautry shrugged. “Hear me out, Lieutenant,” he said. “My name is Kempton Dautry, Major, U. S. Army infantry, retired. I saw combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and now I have the honor to command a local platoon-sized group of experienced military specialists. We have a training facility south of here which we call Camp Freedom.” He offered a business card which Clipper ignored. Smiling easily, Dautry set the card on the edge of Chief Norris’ desk and continued. “My group, The Infidel Army, is committed to the highest standards of law enforcement and the protection of America from the threat of Islamic terrorism. I can provide you with no-cost surveillance and intel capabilities like you’ve never dreamed of, and, if push comes to shove, every one of my men is fully weapons qualified and combat tested.”

  Clipper got to his feet. “Mister Dautry,” he said carefully, “I’ve had experience with your…men, and while I respect your sense of civic responsibility, and I’m sure Chief Norris appreciates your generous offer, we got this. We do this for a living, and we don’t use wanna-be’s or mercenaries.”

  “Now, just a minute, Lieutenant,” said Chief Norris, bouncing out of his chair. “This is my decision, and I’m ordering you to coordinate with Major Dautry, at least for intelligence gathering purposes.” He looked at Dautry. “It might be best if your men remained unarmed,” he said apologetically. We don’t want the appearance of vigilantes.”

  Clipper stepped back to include both men. “Let me be very clear,” he said, looking from one to the other, but speaking to Dautry. “If I see or hear of you or any of your men, around any of my crime scenes or representing yourselves as connected to this department in any way, I’ll lock your ass up.” He started for the door, and then turned back and gestured at Dautry’s hip. “And, the next time you come into this station, leave your damn guns at home.” As Clipper stalked out of the room, he almost smiled at the quizzical look on Chief Norris’ face as he peered at the discreet bulge at Dautry’s waist.

  Clipper ducked into the criminal division to let Paula know he’d be out, and then left the station in his truck. He was going to spend some time on the street, cooling down and trolling for info on the robberies, but found himself driving toward
the Gaylord Estate on Bangor’s high west-side ridge instead. Driving through the open ornate black cast-iron gate in the block granite fence, he parked behind two other cars in the circular drive in front of the imposing house. Recognizing one of the cars as Janice’s, Clipper tried the front door, found it unlocked, and wandered into the house whistling appreciatively under his breath at the mansion’s opulent interior. Hearing faint voices from the second floor, he climbed the grand staircase and found Janice and another woman in a small den.

  “Oh. Hi, hon,” said Janice. “You remember Kathy?” She nodded toward the other woman, who smiled and offered a small wave. She was a slender brunette dressed like Janice in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Of course,” said Clipper with a smile. “What are you guys up to?”

  “We’re still trying to separate out the stuff that should stay with the family.” Janice shook her head. “I don’t think anyone ever threw anything away in this house,” she said with a grimace. “I’m ready for a break. Do you want the grand tour?”

  “At least you’ve got some help,” said Clipper as they left Kathy opening yet another box of papers.

  “Kathy’s going to make a great curator here someday,” Janice said. “She’s got a real interest in the history of this place, and she’s putting in as much time as I am.”

  As soon as they were alone, Janice grabbed Clipper’s arm. “I found something,” she whispered excitedly. “I read Ann White’s diary, and she was sure Eleanor Gaylord was killed and she said she knew who did it. She was trying to get hold of the Police Chief when she died.” Janice gasped. “Oh, my God, I bet she was murdered, too.”

  Clipper snorted. “We don’t know if anyone was murdered here,” he said. “You want to be a little careful where you say things like that.”