Lone Wolf

by Sara Driscoll

  “Not even kind of. You either obviously.”

  “I never even went home.”

  “Maureen must not be happy about all the extra hours you’re putting in.”

  He met her gaze, his tone going defensive. “Maureen gets it. She knows what’s at stake.”

  “Of course she does. Sorry, sometimes I forget she’s one of the rare ones who really do understand what we do.” Meg turned and glanced into the empty interrogation room. “They haven’t started yet?”

  “No. They’re making sure every t is crossed so there are no technical loopholes for this guy. They’ll be starting shortly.” On the other side of the two-way glass, a door opened. “Or right now, as the case may be,” Craig finished.

  The observation room went instantly quiet as two agents escorted Skinner into the room and seated him at the table. He rested his hands against the edge of the table in a gesture meant to showcase his confidence, but the white knuckles of his fists spoke of his actual mind-set. His head stayed down, his eyes downcast on the tabletop.

  The door opened again and EAD Peters and SAC Maloney of the Criminal Investigative Division came in. Peters nodded to the other two agents, silently dismissing them. Maloney carried a file folder and set it down on the table at her elbow.

  Craig whistled low under his breath. “Pulling out the big guns for this one.”

  “You think it’s a mistake?”

  “I think it’s exactly right. Peters is climbing the ranks so quickly because he’s such a good agent. He’s got a good eye and can read people like he’s known them for years. And Maloney was always known as a good interrogator. They want to do this one right. My bet is that Peters sits back and lets Maloney take the lead so he can observe without distraction. He’ll want to know in his bones this is the responsible party. They can’t afford to make an error at this point. Not with the president—hell, the whole world—watching. Here we go.”

  As the door closed behind the exiting agents, SAC Maloney fixed a steady gaze on Skinner. “Mr. Skinner, I know you were read your rights in the field, but I’d like to reiterate.” She smoothly recited the Miranda warning. “Do you understand your rights as they have been explained to you?”

  Skinner’s gaze didn’t rise from the table. “Yeah.”

  “And you understand you’re entitled to a lawyer?”

  Sullen eyes shifted upward briefly. “You don’t leave me any choice there. Can’t afford my own and I’m damned if I’m going to take one of yours. How stupid do you think I am? Your lawyer would never be on my side.”

  “That’s not how the system works, Mr. Skinner, but as you wish.” Maloney pulled several pieces of paper from the file folder and spread them out on the table in front of Skinner, sliding them directly into his field of vision. “Mr. Skinner, these are copies of your communications to the Internal Revenue Service. Do you remember sending them?”

  Skinner stared at the documents for a moment, then simply shrugged.

  She spread more paper before him. “And these are your communications to the US Department of Agriculture. You’ve been quite prolific, Mr. Skinner. Now, do you remember composing these documents?”

  Skinner didn’t bother to grace them with even a shrug this time.

  “Mr. Skinner, can you tell us your whereabouts on Tuesday, April eleventh, at three PM?”

  Skinner was in profile to the group behind the double-sided glass, so Meg could just see Skinner’s eyebrows snap together in confusion, something she doubted Maloney herself caught. He’s not connecting the date.

  “Dunno,” Skinner mumbled.

  “What about Friday, April fourteenth, at ten forty-five AM?”

  Meg studied Skinner’s face keenly, but this time there was no change in expression.

  “Dunno.”

  “That was yesterday morning, Mr. Skinner. You can’t tell us where you were yesterday morning?”

  “I’d have to check my social calendar. I can get back to you.” Surliness rolled off his words in waves.

  Meg glanced at Craig, who simply raised an eyebrow at her. She turned back to the glass. He has no idea what they’re really asking him here, or he’d put more effort into saying where he was or making something up to cover his ass.

  Maloney remained outwardly calm, her hands neatly folded on the table, her face unlined and serene. Meg was impressed. If it had been her, she’d have been tempted to reach out and shake Skinner. But Maloney’s voice continued on with utmost calm, although there was a core of steel behind it. “Mr. Skinner, I suggest you answer our questions. You’re here on a number of charges. The state of Virginia dictates several, including weapons charges and aggravated assault.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, seemingly at ease. “But the federal charges in play are somewhat more significant. We’re looking at the use of weapons of mass destruction, destruction by explosives, and involuntary manslaughter of thirty federal employees.” Skinner’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly alarmed, but Maloney simply rolled over anything he might have said. “Oh, yes, and the state of Virginia and the District of Columbia want a total of forty-eight counts of first degree murder. I guess I forgot to mention that one.” She leaned forward, slapping her palms down on the table with a crack that startled Meg. “You’ll go to jail and you’ll never come out again, Mr. Skinner. Now do you remember where you were yesterday morning?”

  Skinner licked his lips and shifted his hands down with a clink of metal on wood to grasp the edge of the table in a death grip. “At home, out in the fields, working the farm.”

  “Doing what? When? With whom?” Maloney mercilessly shot questions at him. She had him off balance now and clearly wanted to keep it that way.

  “My wife was there. And the farrier stopped by to shoe one of my horses.” He looked from one agent to the other, trying to maintain his persona of cool indifference, but failing. “What is this about?”

  Peters finally entered the conversation, coming in hard and heavy as the voice of authority. “This is about forty-eight innocent lives lost in two separate bombings, one at the Department of Agriculture, right here in DC, and the other at an IRS office, right there in your home state of Virginia.”

  Skinner actually pushed back from the table with a small screech of chair legs. “I didn’t do that.” He looked frantically from one agent to the other. “I didn’t do that. I can prove my whereabouts. You can search my home.”

  Maloney took the reins again. “We’re already doing that, Mr. Skinner. We have the legal right to search your property for evidence as you are suspected of a crime. Explosive detection dogs are going over the property right now to determine if there has ever been a trace of explosives.”

  Skinner’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. “Then I want you off my land.”

  “Pushback already, Mr. Skinner? Don’t you want to be exonerated before you start that?”

  “I’m not responsible for those bombings.” Fear was dissolving under the weight of surliness in his words.

  The shock wore off fast, Meg thought. He’s moving back to his normal stance of resistance.

  “Did you see that?” Craig whispered in her ear.

  “What?” she whispered back

  “The attitude change. From alarm to relief.”

  “Because of the dogs?”

  “That’s what I think. They aren’t going to find anything on his property and he knows it. He doesn’t live in a big city, so he can’t anonymously rent space to build the bombs off site. In a rural area like that, he’d have to borrow space from a neighbor, and risk someone snoopy figuring out what he’s doing and turning him in. No, he’d do it on his own property or not at all.”

  “You think it’s ‘not at all’ and we have the wrong guy?”

  “Not sure, but I think it’s going to be hard to prove.”

  They turned back to the window as Maloney continued. “Mr. Skinner, you’ve had numerous run-ins with federal and state agencies.”

  “Don’t r
ecognize them. They can’t regulate me.”

  “I see from your file here that you consider yourself a Sovereign Citizen.”

  “Yup.”

  “So you don’t believe federal or state agencies have any authority over you because you don’t believe in the government of the United States.”

  “I don’t.”

  For the first time, emotion colored Maloney’s voice, disgust dripping heavily. “So you live in this country, farm our land, enjoy our freedoms, but don’t recognize us, so you don’t feel the need to pay taxes or contribute to society. Is that about right, Mr. Skinner?”

  “It’s my land.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Real anger radiated from Skinner for the first time as his voice rose. “It’s my land. It was my daddy’s land before me, and his daddy’s before him, going back generations. I filed the patent and have the allodial title. It doesn’t belong to the state or the country; it’s mine. So no property taxes or municipal fees because I own it outright. The US government has no right to me and mine or my land or anything that comes from it and can go straight to hell.”

  “You sound pretty angry, Mr. Skinner. Angry enough to feel the need to make a point?”

  “And rain fire down on my head? Why would I be stupid enough to do that? Don’t you get it? We just want to be left alone. To make our own way without anyone interfering. To feed our families without handing anything over to greedy officials to steal for their own needs.”

  “And what if you ever run into trouble? What then?”

  “I’d call the sheriff.”

  That seemed to take Maloney back a step. “You don’t believe in authority, but you’d call the sheriff?”

  “I don’t believe in the government. But the Constitution called for there to be sheriffs. I believe in the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. In the right to bear arms, and in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I know our county sheriff. He’s a good man. I have no quarrel with him.”

  Maloney referred to the file in front of her. “I see you’ve had trouble with the state police. Got pulled over for having a homemade license plate on your truck.”

  “Don’t recognize the state. Don’t need their laws.”

  “What about US currency, Mr. Skinner. Do you at least recognize that?”

  “No, but sometimes it can’t be avoided. We try to be self-sufficient, grow food in our own gardens and on our land, get milk from our cows and goats, grow our own hay for the livestock, keep a few beehives and make our own honey. Barter for what we don’t have. We live simply and don’t want to make trouble.”

  “And yet you sent these.” Reaching out across the table, Maloney tapped on the papers.

  “In response to agencies prying where they damned well didn’t belong.” He grabbed one of the papers and scanned it quickly. “They have no right to regulate my handful of cows.” He tossed it to the floor and picked up another sheet. “I will not pay federal taxes to a government I don’t recognize. The US government is unlawful and I will not be a part of it.” A flick of his wrist sent that paper floating gently to the floor as well. “I have no intention of hurting anyone. I just want to be left alone.”

  “And when you talked about the ‘fire and brimstone of justice falling on their heads,’ that wasn’t a reference to the bombs you were making?”

  “ ‘The Lord tests the righteous and the wicked, and the one who loves violence His soul hates. Upon the wicked He will rain snares; fire and brimstone and burning wind will be the portion of their cup. For the Lord is righteous, He loves righteousness; the upright will behold His face.’ I don’t need to do anything. Those who persecute me, their time will come from a hand mightier than mine. The Lord hates a violent man.”

  “What exactly would you call shooting at federal officers, Mr. Skinner?”

  Skinner leaned forward, a light in his eyes. “Righteousness. The Lord would never smite a man for protecting what is rightfully his.”

  “So the Lord will protect you from the tax collector?”

  “The Lord doesn’t believe I owe you anything. ‘Then render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’ I owe Caesar . . . you . . . nothing.”

  “That’s not how it works in this country, Mr. Skinner. You live here as a citizen, you contribute. You do realize you can be jailed for tax evasion?”

  “I have no problem standing for my beliefs. And I’d have to be convicted first.”

  “That remains to be seen.” Maloney pulled out another sheet of paper. On it were several paragraphs of type. She pushed it toward him. “Did you write these messages, Mr. Skinner?”

  Skinner pulled the sheet toward him, pushing the other papers out of his way. He scanned the type and shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you and your family own a computer?”

  “No.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem. You could have done it from a local library or an Internet café.”

  “You’d have to prove it first. I didn’t do this or your bombings.”

  A buzz sounded and Meg, along with several nearby agents, turned to look at Craig. He slipped his phone from his pocket and quickly read the incoming message. “That was Neil. He and Groucho are out with the explosives team at Skinner’s farm. No evidence of any explosives past or present,” he murmured quietly. “They’re getting word through to Maloney as well.”

  “I’m not a profiler, but this just isn’t reading for me,” Meg murmured. “He’s pissed, but at all the wrong things. Craig, I don’t think this is our guy.”

  “Me either. And look at Peters. He’s silent, but his stance has changed during this interview. He doesn’t think so either, but until they can prove it definitively, they’ll hold him at least on the assault of federal officers charges.”

  Meg turned back to the window where the interview continued, Maloney questioning Skinner again about his whereabouts during the first bombing and his motivation for killing innocent people. But to Meg’s eye, the fire had gone out of her. She doesn’t think it’s him either.

  So now the big question remained—if this wasn’t the bomber, then who was and when would he strike next?

  Chapter 15

  False Alert: A false alert is called by the handler because clues or handling mistakes caused the dog to indicate when there is no odor present.

  Saturday, April 15, 11:15 PM

  Outside Moorefield, Hardy County, West Virginia

  Only the TV and the flickering fire in the hearth lit the living area of the farmhouse. The fire was less for ambiance than warmth as the night took on a chill, reminding residents that winter wasn’t as far gone as they hoped. The flames threw dancing shadows against the walls but cloaked the corners in gloom.

  The man wasn’t nearly so entertained. He hadn’t moved from the edge of the worn couch from the moment he’d turned on the evening news to catch up on the latest updates of his reign of terror, only to be met by a story focused entirely on someone else. This was what he got for spending the afternoon and evening testing the new drone.

  Jonas Skinner. Who the hell was Jonas Skinner and why did they think he was responsible for everything he himself had done? So he’d settled in to watch and learn. A man couldn’t make plans unless he knew what was going on around him.

  Grudgingly, he could only agree with many of this supposed suspect’s opinions and actions, especially as they didn’t fall far from his own. But now the bastards had the wrong man in custody. It wasn’t likely they would simply question him and let him go. From the moment those gates remained closed, Skinner’s fate was sealed. He simply jammed a couple of nails in his own coffin when he fired the first shot. The hotheaded sniper then proceeded to blow a few extra holes in that coffin.

  Skinner’s angry face filled the television screen, and the man watching raised the glass clenched in his fist to him. Well done, brother. You are an honor to the cause. He tossed back the moonshine in a single gulp, then sat
back contemplating the mason jar, half-filled with crystal clear liquid that was one of the last remaining artifacts of the family legacy.

  To a Mountaineer, moonshine was one of the marks of manhood. Liquid fire in a bottle, a thunderbolt in a glass. Nothing could warm the throat right down to the stomach quite like his Daddy’s liquor. Or go straight to the head. It was a truly glorious thing. And in the time-honored tradition, his Daddy taught him the family recipe, including the special little tweaks and secrets that made their moonshine revered across the county.

  At least it was until the West Virginia Alcohol Beverage Control caught him selling it without a license and then turned him over to the IRS for not collecting and submitting the required federal taxes and fees.

  Well, he’d shown the IRS what he thought about them.

  He turned back to the TV to continue his study of Skinner. The truth was that Skinner was a distraction. Now that a suspect had been caught, unless they could prove he couldn’t have been responsible, the media would eventually stop talking about the bombings, at least until the court case lit a fire under them again.

  A slow grin spread across his face. Only one way to fix that. Nothing says innocence quite like a bombing when your number one suspect is already behind bars.

  He knew just what to hit next. Who to hit next. Because this one was personal. Not just an agency. A man.

  When you’re in public service, you’re there to help the public. Not to turn your back on them.

  The person who turned his back on him would pay.

  It was all his fault. He had the chance to save a farm and a way of life, the chance to be a hero. But he’d chosen not to.

  Now he’d burn for that choice.

  Chapter 16

  Parkour: A training regimen using only the body and contact with objects in the environment for propulsion. Parkour—derived from the French word parcours, meaning “the path”—emphasizes using the obstacles to increase efficiency and speed. Parkour offers fun-filled agility conditioning for both humans and dogs.