Flight of the Scarlet Tanager

by Bevill, C. L.

  Sitting outside the Lincoln County Courthouse in Newport, Judd waited in a county car, while Sheriff Hereward J. Bird attended to his business inside. Several people gazed at him curiously in his still-crisp Army uniform, sitting quietly inside the police vehicle, concentrating on the laptop and the cell phone.

  Outside the courthouse there were a few reporters who had somehow been cued as to something unusual happening on this particular day. Two men with high end, digital cameras congregated at the steps of the courthouse. One smoked a cigarette while the other one gestured at the front doors. A film crew waited in a loading zone, daring a police officer to ticket them. An anchorwoman dressed in a blue skirt-suit adjusted her hair in one of the van’s rear view mirrors, applying more hair spray to combat the incessant wind of the pacific coast. But the moment these people were waiting for hadn’t quite occurred and the expectation was with bated breath.

  Judd couldn’t resist a triumphant smile, pleased that his hunting foray had been more successful than he could have imagined. Bishop and his son weren’t out of the woods yet, but they were getting closer. He was even happier to explain that notion to his boss. “Sir, the sheriff has ascertained certain discrepancies in what purportedly occurred at the hospital.”

  Bishop absorbed that information, attempting to relate it to the state of affairs of Fitch.

  “One of the agents involved related incidents in a way that was directly contrary to eyewitness account. Not one eyewitness but at least three. To include one newsman who was filming the incident on tape. He was taping a clip with a reporter and caught a specific incident in the background that verifies the eyewitness accounts. Furthermore, Bird believes that your hunch about the bullets was, indeed, correct. Miss Howe’s fingerprints are not shown on the interior of the weapon. However, the agent’s are.” Judd smiled again.

  Bishop took it in mutely.

  “And a forensics specialist has found a print belonging to Special Agent Gower, on the broken neck of the reporter who died in the hospital. Consequently, Bird is requesting a judge to issue a warrant in the name of John Gower, suspicion of the murder of the security guard, Clough and the journalist, Hudson. Additional charges of obstruction of justice and malfeasance on his part will be filed presently. Bird is also requesting information from the Bureau lead in Salem on Agent Gower’s pursuit of Theodora Howe. There doesn’t seem to be a reason for his hunt of the girl, except that she’s a runaway, and the FBI hardly has jurisdiction in that area.” Judd adjusted the cell phone on his shoulder and tapped the page-down key to show more data on the information he had summarized in bullet-format. “This leads me to the conclusion that any pursuit of your son was distinctly illegal and that the agent who entered your beach home did so without warrant or provocation.”

  “Consequently, whoever shot him,” Bishop concluded, “in all likelihood, was defending himself. Or herself.” He seemed pleased with this scenario, as if he could have never brought himself to believe that his child was guilty of such heinous actions.

  “That might be the perception of the applicable court.” Judd’s voice lowered to a warning level. “However, he was still an agent, in pursuit of a criminal suspect. He might have believed that Miss Howe kidnapped your son and was attempting to avert a hostage situation. One must take into account that the fourth person at the scene at the time, a deputy by the name of Robert Jacy, states the agent went inside the house alone and that the deputy heard the shots shortly thereafter, with your son’s vehicle parked outside.”

  “Did the agent who was killed know that Miss Howe and Fitch were inside the beach house before the matter?”

  “The deputy states that this is not the case. Both agents separated to cover two areas that were possibilities where she might have taken refuge. The deputy has also sworn that the deceased agent used illegal means to gain access to your property.”

  “You mean through the electronic gates, Judd?”

  “Yes, sir. He configured the system using electrical wires to maintain the premise of the security alarms. Sheriff Bird suggests that you might want to reconsider your property’s security, by the way. However, the agent managed to bypass the same security system and gain access to the house, again, without setting off the alarm system. The alarm system only went off when the deputy entered the house upon hearing what he thought was muted gunfire and witnessing flashes of light that he deduced were from gunfire. Bird has indicated the areas where the system was effectively and quickly bypassed, rendering it useless for the purposes intended.” Judd hesitated. He had spent an hour at the beach house, determining what had actually happened at the Lee’s beach house. “The same deputy kicked down your front door, sir.”

  “I see,” replied Bishop. His voice suddenly changed and the younger man could immediately tell that something was amiss on his end of the connection.

  “Sir, are you secure on your end?” asked Judd neutrally.

  “No, Judd, I am not. The matter that we’re discussing is prominent in my mind.”

  Judd suddenly realized that the general meant that Agent Gower had entered the same room and he was not free to converse freely, no matter how secure the link up was. “And your location, sir? I’ll ensure that Bird issues the correct paperwork to the county sheriff there to aid in the agent’s arrest.”

  “Salem, Judd. We’re in a county building adjacent to the capitol. Perhaps you could encourage that particular gentleman to accelerate his movements because it’s my belief that the individual won’t be present much longer. I think I’ve heard my son use the expression once. He’s more slippery than an eel covered with Vaseline in a pool of Jell-O.”

  Judd resisted a chuckle. “I’ll pass that along, sir. Anything else?”

  “Tell him to hurry, Judd,” Bishop instructed calmly. “I’m out.”

  Judd listened to the dial tone and then looked up to see Sheriff Bird exiting the courthouse. Two of the reporters rushed him with a bevy of questions. He brushed them off with one ham-sized hand and strode to the county car. The film crew couldn’t get out of the van quickly enough and the shapely female anchor was staring at Sheriff Bird and trying to make up her mind whether or not he was worth pursuing. Suddenly, two of the other reporters dashed inside the courthouse and she decided that the story was inside rather than without. She followed them at a brisk pace, balanced precariously on high heels as she tottered up the stairs.

  Bird pulled his bulk into the county car and sighed. Judd disengaged the cell phone from the modem and closed the laptop’s slender metallic lid and looked up at the other man.

  “That judge just about opened his jaw wide enough to sink a ship in, when I told him what-for,” commented Bird irately. “Wanted to know, did I have proof, was I jumping the gun, did I know what kind of hellish publicity this was going to cause?”

  Judd realized that no response was necessary and made an assenting noise.

  Bird went on, “Jesus, God, Mother, Mary of Christ. Do I know all of that already? I ain’t slept for a day and a half because I know exactly all of that crap, already. Did I want to come asking hizzoner for a warrant to arrest an FBI agent? Of course not. Hizzoner thinks that the FBI is next to Godliness, that being a member of that particular organization is akin to being untouchable.”

  Judd understood what Bird was telling him. “You’ve got your warrant.”

  “Darn tooting, I got my warrant. That black-robed, block-headed, jurisdiction-mis-understanding, corn-cob-having-up-his-ass boobhead. He wanted me to wait and see.” Bird guffawed. “And let our boy escape the state with not so much as a by-your-leave. Because he’s the Eff-Bee-Eye. You talk to the general there?”

  “Yes, sir. Agent Gower is still in Salem. I suggest you contact your counterpart in that county and arrange for the man’s arrest before he gets another chance to murder another innocent bystander.”

  Bird took a moment to glare at Judd. “Boy, you don’t mince your words, do ya?”

  “No, sir. It’s my experience that bei
ng direct produces the best results.”

  “You ain’t going make your first star, Adjutant Judd,” stated Bird. “Them general officers don’t care for up front directness as a matter of course. I used to be a sailor, once upon a time. They dint like me neither, but that was because I had a fresh mouth.”

  Judd shrugged. “That’s all right if I don’t make it to general. I still get to go home and I get to go to sleep at night without taking a pill or having a drink. Better get on the horn, Sheriff.”

  While Bird did exactly that, Judd reflected on what his superior had done. Bishop had indirectly notified the very man who was now exposed as a potential murderer and what was infinitely worse, pointed him toward his own son. He wondered how Bishop was going to sleep in the next few weeks, if at all.

  •

  Bishop was pondering on the same subject. Treated like the VIP he was, the Marion County officials had set up camp in another county building a block down from the state capitol building in Salem. He had spoken briefly to Sergeant Galloway of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department the night before, who would not give him any information about the whereabouts of his son, Fitch. In fact, the sergeant had been extremely saturnine and openly resented Bishop’s presence. Upon further questioning it became clear to Bishop that his clever son had eluded the police’s trap, despite a solitary road that led into and out of the chain of towering mountains that were the Cascade Range.

  When morning dawned the federal agent in charge had deigned to speak with Bishop, tersely giving him additional but meager information about his son and Theodora Howe’s escape. The pair had stolen a fisherman’s boat, then a police vehicle, and finally had enlisted or forced the aid of a local pilot. The FBI and the state police were following up on the pilot’s flight plans. The flight plan had listed Seattle as a destination, but not one person present thought it was the actual terminus.

  Consequently, the man named Gower had moved the base of the fugitive search to Salem, where he had access to Bureau computers and state and local law enforcement. Until it could be proven that the pair had fled across state lines he would be keeping his investigation in Oregon. Bishop traveled from the mountains to Salem, offering his own assistance in locating his son. The FBI agent could hardly refuse. Bishop had intended that this should be so.

  Bishop occupied himself with a table in a corner, upon which he placed his own laptop, a top of the line Compaq model with more hard drive than a store full of desk top models and more expensive than most of the people around him would make in a year, and his cell phone, a special model that only specific members of government were issued. He busied himself, drank the coffee he was offered by a state trooper, and kept his ears open.

  Gower quickly and efficiently organized his pursuit. Assuming that the pair had engaged the plane that had taken off from Sisters Municipal Airfield the previous evening, they began systematic phone canvassing of airports where the Fairchild could land. They made a rough circle where the plane would first need fuel and began at medium sized airports. Pairs of law enforcement officers worked each level, starting at the medium sized airports and processed their way to the small airports. Gower surmised that the fugitives would avoid larger airports.

  While he waited for news, Bishop focused on remaining calm and collected, using his thoughts to center himself on being as productive as possible. It was afternoon when a trooper brought him a paperback book.

  The trooper said, “A man dropped this off at the front desk for you. Said you’d know who it was from, sir.”

  Bishop took the book and saw that it was The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager by Edward Morris. It was a dog-eared paperback that had been thumbed through many times. The cover had been torn and it was obvious that someone had perused the book more than once. He looked at the trooper and asked, “An older man with a beard?”

  “That was him, sir. He didn’t leave his name. Did I...”

  Bishop interrupted. “No, it’s all right. I know who it’s from.”

  The trooper whisked away and the older man looked at the worn book in his hand. Somehow Robert Wren had gotten himself out of the jail. Perhaps one of his more affluent friends had sprung him, but free he was and still concerned that Fitch’s father did not fully appreciate the situation that his son was embroiled in. Respect for the retired professor flowed reluctantly through Bishop’s mind.

  Then Judd had called on the secured line and more pieces of this massive, twisted puzzle seemed to drop into place. In the middle of his phone call, Gower had walked in and Bishop tightly controlled his features and tone of voice.

  Gower bent over a map and marked an alleged sighting with a red pin. Bishop disengaged the phone and studied the other man. A handsome man. In his younger days Bishop would have called such a man ‘pretty.’ Young enough to be appreciated by women, he would take advantage of his looks. Clever enough to be cunning and manipulative, had this same man taken advantage of what he saw as a moneymaking scheme?

  Bishop looked at the back of the blonde man’s head and tried to decide if a ruthless murderer stood in front of him. A man who would kill innocent people in order to clear his own path. But why?

  “What was that, General?” asked Gower. Suddenly his blue eyes were studying Bishop. He had turned swiftly around at the word Bishop had uttered and left the older man surprised.

  Bishop smiled smoothly. The word ‘why?’ had come out of his mouth as he sat cogitating. But if he were nothing else he was a politician. “I was just wondering why any son would do this.” He wasn’t referring to his own son. No, he meant a man like Gower. He had a well-designed suit and the smell of money flowed from him like honey from a hive. His hair was cut in a way that suggested no mere barber had trimmed it, and Bishop was sure that this man probably came from an affluent family. Perhaps the youngest son, relegated to public service? After all, it didn’t really matter why. It only mattered that he had to be stopped.

  Gower’s eyes continued to spar with Bishop’s for another moment. Then the tall man shrugged. “Who can say?”

  Because Theodora is the heiress to billions of dollars, of course. Bishop became certain. More money than a man can shake a stick at, more money than the worth of some countries. If it isn’t the oldest reason for murder in the world, then it’s certainly the second oldest. And this man, albeit an FBI agent, is nothing more than a hired assassin, out to bring their pheasant in. But he isn’t working alone.

  “Agent Gower,” called another trooper. “You’ve got a call in the ready room. Deputy Director on the phone for you.”

  Gower went quickly from the room, his long strides as silent and graceful as any jungle cat, a predator in movement.

  Bishop was about to follow the man, to keep an eye on him, when his own phone rang once more, and the person calling left him trembling in his knees.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  August 17th -

  Excerpt from Picken’s Survival Guide, written by Don ‘Colonel’ Pickens, Millennium Press, 1998, page 97: One of the best ways to catch birds is to use what the military and survivalists call the Ojibwa bird snare. It’s a simple device that even a child could build. A stick is placed into the ground, around two inches in diameter, perhaps half a foot tall. A hole is bored through the top, approximately 3/8” to ½” in diameter. Then another stick that is about four to six inches longer and slightly bigger than the bored hole is used. It can be trimmed to fit into the bored hole so that it will stick out to the side. One runs a string through the opposite side of the bored hole, kite sting or some kind of cord works well. One side is looped and the loop is hung over the perpendicular stick. The other side is weighted with a rock or another stick. The weight should be placed on the end so that when it hits the ground the entire snare is inside the bored hole. If the snare does not stay in place one can use a bit of tree pitch or spittle. The bird will land on the cross member, the stick collapses, and the bird’s feet are trapped in the snare. The trap should be placed in an area where b
irds frequent. Even the lightest, smallest birds can be captured...

  Bishop withdrew the tattered paperback from under the table, where he had been concealing it from Special Agent John Gower. He wasn’t sure what the rogue agent would have made of the copy of The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager by Edward Morris, but as an old poker player, Bishop was well aware that there were times that it was essential to keep one’s face neutral, giving nothing away. In terms of intelligence, information was considered might, and oftentimes it was guarded as if it were as gold as pure as that from Sutter’s Mill.

  With the room emptied out he opened the dog-eared volume and began to read the foreword, written by an infamous conspiracy theorist. There was also a plug from Oliver Stone on the back cover. Bishop raised his eyebrows. They’ll get anybody to read these books. But here was an author, not a very good one or a famous one, he thought, who had died suspiciously. A man who had died in a way that might have been staged.

  The question, of course, was: Why kill a man who had already written a true-crime novel? The book had been published. It was a fait accompli. And these types of books were a dime a dozen. They came and went like yesterday’s news and no one even gasped for some of their puerile content. It was the kind of book at which Fitch would have laughed uproariously and secretly he would have read it with a flashlight under the bedcovers when he was nine years old. And if his son had known that Robert Wren was indulging in the most maudlin type of literary nonsense he would have given him hell about it. Much more so for passing it over to his father, the no-nonsense Army general officer, who wouldn’t have used it to line the bottom of a birdcage.