“Tinker Institute monthly meeting. All Welcome.”
A logo at the bottom right corner of the sign was the same green and white circle Loggerman had seen painted on his new export truck.
A middle-aged man wearing a dark business suit danced back and forth at the entrance to the tent avenue. He had strapped over his shoulders a chain of large yellow balloons with the word CON on each in white letters. A little flag draped from the bulbs stated:
“COLE TINKER IS A FAT ELECTRIC LIGHT BULB.”
Loggerman braked his car and steered to the right as a police sedan passed with a squeal of tires. The bright green car stopped in front of him and two large men in grey uniforms, trimmed with gold braid, jumped out and grabbed the man. He was hit in the face and forced to the ground. His yellow bulbs flew off him, bouncing on the ground. The police chased and popped the balloons. Blood streamed on the suited man’s face as he was tumbled into the cruiser. The trash of his display was packed over him and the door slammed as the car speeded away.
One of the policemen with a sheriff’s badge remained and walked up to Loggerman’s car. He bent over to glare through the window.
“Step out of your car,” he ordered.
Loggerman got out. The officer held his body close to intimidate but Loggerman did not step back. His face was only a few inches from the lawman’s nose.
The sheriff took a notebook form his pocket and studied Loggerman. He looked up and said, “I’m looking for a visitor who resembles you.” Loggerman smelled his unwashed breath. He wondered how this sheriff had known he was coming to River Sunday.
“Show me your license.”
Loggerman reached into his jeans side pocket and produced his passport case which included his international driver’s license. He still did not step back.
The sheriff flipped the pages, this time shifting his body. “It’s a tough name,” he said. “You a tough guy?”
Loggerman remained quiet. He was taller than the sheriff and his eyes locked on the policeman’s eyes.
“You staying in town?”
“Chesapeake Hotel,” said Loggerman.
The officer returned the passport. “I’ll get more on you later, Loggerman.”
The sheriff moved back further. Loggerman got into his car as the officer watched. He started his engine.
He followed several streets using a Chamber of Commerce map he was given at a local gas station. When he reached the address of the doctor who had written him, he was surprised to find a veterinary clinic.
“I didn’t expect this. Doctor Mike Carmichael is a pet doctor,” he said to himself.
Unlike neighboring residences, the doctor’s front yard was decorated with wooden statues of small animals, some lifelike, others more artistic with bright fanciful colors. The house was similar to those of his hometown in Maine. The two-story Victorian, however, had a bottom room converted to an office. White wood clapboards covered the outside walls and an ornate chimney stood at one end. Tall single-pane windows sported dark green shutters. He climbed sagging steps to the porch and felt the boards creak under his booted feet. He still wore the heavy footwear of the drill sites at home. He found the front door open. Inside, a pretty woman about his age sat working with her computer. Empty client chairs beckoned around the room.
He walked to the desk and said, “I’m looking for Doctor Mike Carmichael.”
“You got her,” she said, looking up from her keyboard and smiling. She took off her glasses. Her red hair was held up in a rubber band. From her neck was a toy three-legged dog doll on a necklace. It measured about one and half inches, about the size of the African charms he had seen so many times overseas.
“I’m John Loggerman.”
She studied him carefully. “Yes, she looks like you. You’re Stephanie’s father all right.”
He reached over the desk and shook hands. “Do I call you Mike?”
“Everyone else does.” Her blue eyes showed a spark of humor.
“I haven’t seen my daughter for ten years.”
“Yes, she told me. Come on back to the office.”
He followed her down a short corridor lined with shelves of packaged animal food.
“You know Stephanie pretty well?” he asked.
“Well enough to worry about her.”
They reached her office. Inside a dog slept on the floor beside her desk. Sample medicines and stacks of file folders covered the workspace next to her phone.
“Lots of animal work?” he asked. He pointed to the necklace. “You advertise you are a vet with the little dog toy?”
She patted the black and white doll. “I wear it everywhere to make sure folks take care of the little ones with only three legs.”
“Are there a lot of these dogs?” He knew instinctively she had been a good influence on his daughter, a warm caring woman. He knew this person was the exact opposite of his former wife.
“We call them tripods. Cats, dogs, animals lose a leg in an accident or surgery. We work on the care of them with clubs all over the country.”
“I’ve seen them in Africa. Some folks think they are magic creatures.”
“Any way they can get care is good. “ Her voice was worried and kind, as she talked of the dogs.
“Not many patients here today?”
“Most of the clients came in earlier. The younger ones come in the morning before work. The older clients bring their pets in early too so they can get home for their soap operas. The barks and meows overwhelm.”
“Same in Africa,” he smiled. “Animal noises.” He thought of the streets in New City and the constant swirl of animals.
“I love elephants.”
He nodded. “Small pets too. However the only vet is a hundred miles away from our New City. He specializes in zoo work for Europe and the States.”
She sat back, straightening a pile of folders. He sat on a chair in front of her desk.
She smiled at Loggerman. “You’re lucky to have such a fine daughter.”
She went on, “Stephanie volunteered here at the clinic until last summer. Suddenly she stopped coming here. No explanation. She just disappeared.”
She paused and said, “She went to a school at the compound.”
“Compound?”
“Oh,” she said. “I don’t often meet folks who don’t live in River Sunday. This town is the home of the Tinker Institute.”
“The Tinker Institute with the big festival by the courthouse?” He showed astonishment and she nodded.
“Yes. A festival will be downtown. We attend because most of us work for the Institute. Anyway, it’s where she goes to school.”
“So tell me about the compound?”
“That’s what we call it. The large estate and farm is a few miles outside of town where they have the school and headquarters.”
He added, thoughtfully, “Her mother used to work for Congressman Tinker. My daughter lives with her. So I guess they both live there.”
“Your former wife is an officer at the Institute. Anyway, after Stephanie stopped coming to the clinic, I tried to find out what happened to her. I can’t find out anything about her from the Institute or from her mother. No answers to my calls.”
“Mention this to the police?”
“People around here do not trust the police. Our police station is larger than the courthouse.”
“A lot of crime?”
“No. Tinker and his people built it. It’s like a private army.”
“So they can’t help you?”
“Won’t. You don’t want to mess with them, Mr. Loggerman.”
“It’s just Loggerman. They can’t investigate?”
“As I said, Tinker employs most of us. The police, let’s say, work for the Tinker Institute”
“Do you?”
“Work for them? I take care of the dogs guarding the compound. You could say I’m very important to the Tinker people.”
“You are a native in River Sunday?”
“We came here five years ago. My brother and I.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A car crash.”
She was silent for a few moments. She said, “I’m not afraid of the police but I play it pretty carefully.”
“Your sheriff stopped me on the street. He also arrested some protestor.”
She added, “Tinker men and women come into town and push their way into lines to get service. No one does anything.”
“These are what they call the green circle people?”
“How did you learn about them?”
“They painted up some of my trucks loading for Africa. The protesters snuck into our pier in Baltimore.”
She nodded. “They don’t wear those circles all the time but when they do, people stay back, Loggerman.”
“So Stephanie helped you?”
“Maybe they allowed her to come to the clinic. It was to keep up appearances her life is normal. As I say, now she’s stopped coming.”
“Well, you’ve got me worried even more. These Tinkers are not very nice people.”
“I think you should be. I don’t think she’s happy.”
“How do you know?”
“Things she said. She did confide in me she stayed there because she wanted to help her mother.”
“A cheering section for my ex?”
“Yes, only it is a dangerous place. The volunteers are trained to do various dangerous things.”
“What, for example?”
“Some start these riots across the country.”
“You’ve got me convinced. I’ve seen them marching in Baltimore and it is very hazardous. I’ll go talk to her mother.”
“Good luck. Not many people get inside the gates. They’re like a cult. Everyone thinks Cole Tinker is a man with a mission so the employees at the compound protect him.”
Loggerman was thinking. He said, “I could put her on a plane, maybe even my freighter, and I can arrange for her extended visa in Nigeria.”
“You don’t appear to be the kind who scares easily.”
Loggerman, grinning, said, “No, I’m not. I’m convinced something bad is going on. I am afraid for Stephanie. I’m glad you contacted me.”
“Let me know how you make out with your former wife. By the way, you’ll know you are at the compound when you spot the dead wildlife carcasses hanging in the trees along the entry road.”
“Are these warnings?”
“The guards like to shoot anything alive. They hang the carcasses to convince outsiders to avoid the bullets.”
The dog stood up and stretched. He had only three legs. “They aren’t going to get you,” she said, leaning down and patting his head. “He’s a terrier.”
“Black and white like your necklace doll,” said Loggerman.
“This is my buddy. “ She picked him up. “Aren’t you fine, Tripod?”
* * *
Stephanie Loggerman looked out over the city of Richmond. She was dressed for her last appointment this evening. She opened her iPhone and retrieved her secure app. She had been trained at Tinker Institute to read the alphanumeric code. The code opened a daily newsletter informing the volunteers in the field what was going on in other target assignments across the nation. It was typical of Cole Tinker to do nice things for all of them so they could keep in touch. After all, as he told them, they were part of a great family. It was secret, too. With the codes no one could enter or read the app except the volunteers. Today’s information was like all the former newsletters, self-destructing after she read it. She smiled. So many utility companies and fuel tanks had been sabotaged in the last months. So many companies had joined the Tinker Institute as a result. She studied her newspaper again. It was arranged by column, the first being location, the second being volunteers involved, the third being the target, and the fourth being the action carried out. Some news was repeated when it was a forthcoming action. The message flashed on, a field of numbers stretching in order across the screen.
01 538-539 21 55
05 621 21 66-1
She read quickly. Two of her volunteer friends, 538 and 539, were at a protest of fuel in Baltimore, location 01. Some kind of ship, she had read the other day. She sighed, wishing she were doing duty instead of the code 77 spy activities. She always got these code 77 assignments because of her looks. They were not as dangerous. Oh well, she thought, if it helped her mother stay alive, she had promised to do them.
She shivered. The code on 05 indicated a volunteer number 621 was hurt. She knew him. He had graduated at Harvard. The attack on an oil tank at a refinery in Texas had been dangerous. She decoded 66-1 which meant he was burned. As usual, according to plan, the street crowd would hide him until he was ok. She was pleased about one thing. Finally Ferrars and Spire were targeting fuel storage tanks and fuel activities, coded as target 21, in addition to electric power stations.
Stephanie closed the phone. She had to get to work.
Chapter Three
It was twilight when Loggerman reached the entrance road, buried in a mass of brush and pine. He drove by twice the small sign stating Tinker Institute in green letters. Immediately as he entered the darkening lane, his lights picked up the bodies of dead animals hanging from the bushes and trees at the side, After about a quarter mile he halted his small rental car in front of a massive iron gate with black hammered iron letters spelling Tinker bolted across the bars. Beyond, the driveway disappeared into the darkness of dense trees with only a beacon of clustered building lights in the distance.
A man appeared and shone his flashlight making Loggerman blink from the glare.
“Hold it right there, mister,” an impatient voice with breath smelling of stale tobacco hammered at him. The gatekeeper, dressed in green coveralls, aimed at him a well-worn Remington pump shotgun. The muzzle tapped the door frame close to his ear, while the flashlight jerked quickly around the inside of the car.
“You all have to turn around and leave. This is private property.” His inexperienced tone reminded Loggerman of the nervous voices of the younger Nigerian guards back at his oil fields. He knew a man like this could scare easily, or even worse, kill to relieve his boredom or impress his leader.
“My name’s Loggerman. I came to visit my daughter.”
“You got some ID?” said the guard. “Who’s your kid?”
“Stephanie,” he said, slowly pulling out his passport. The guard held the light under his gun arm and grabbed the booklet. He looked at the photograph, smiled and threw it back on the car dash. He turned his head and called out, “Man comes here all the way from Nigeria. I never met nobody from there for sure.”
Another voice spoke from the darkness across the road from the car.
“Ten o’clock a little late for a social call, ain’t it?”
A nearby light illuminated the screened porch of a small clapboard hut. An older man, also in green pants and shirt, with white hair and a more friendly face, was watching.
“Careful with the damn shotgun. He ain’t going anywhere,” the old man advised.
“All right, Gramps,” the guard said, resting the shotgun stock down on the ground.
Gramps beckoned to Loggerman. “Come on over here while we call up to the big house.” He began to telephone.
Loggerman climbed out of the car, his long legs uncurling from under the steering. His boots crunched into the road gravel as he stood up. He was a head taller than the young guard.
The guard pushed at Loggerman with the gun barrel and they went toward the porch.
“Gramps, you want I should search him?”
The old man nodded. “What would you do, boy, if you didn’t have me teaching you? Of course you search him.”
Loggerman held up his arms while the man patted him down.
The guard’s hands stopped at his beltline. “Big knife,” said the guard, grinning as he pulled the Ka-Bar from the scabbard at Loggerman’s w
aist. “Heavy, too.” Loggerman felt the shift in weight at his waist.
He reached to take the knife back.
“We’ll just keep this while you visit,” said the guard, pulling the weapon away.
The old man replaced his phone back on the cottage wall.
The guard said, “Stephanie said her old man was working an oil rig in Nigeria, Gramps.”
Loggerman smiled when he heard his daughter’s name.
“Spire say you’re all right,” Gramps said, his face puzzled. “You must be important or she has something going on in her mind about you. Spire don’t waste time,” and, in a more pleasant tone, “You understand, mister, we got to keep a look-see at people coming out to bother Cole Tinker. Some folks trying to drive in here are not so friendly.”
“I tell you one thing. He don’t like being called no ‘king,’ said Gramps. He grinned, “Or, saying he’s ‘king of the working people,’ you spend any time around here. Anyway, she’ll send down for you.”
The younger man added eagerly, “Cole’s working for all of us. He ain’t no ‘king.’ You probably don’t know how it is these days, you being over there in Africa and all.”
In a few minutes, large round headlights broke through the darkness and the gate opened. Gramps moved out into the road, waving as a Land Rover came through. Its brakes squealed as the vehicle slid a few feet to stop, throwing stones and dust.
A young face with tousled hair revved the engine over and over, causing oil smoke to rise from the exhaust of its overheated engine. He grinned through the open driver’s window.
“Best not let Ferrars see you running this truck so hard, boy,” admonished Gramps.
“Hey you, Mister, get in,” the driver yelled, ignoring Gramps.
Loggerman climbed into the truck. Hardly had he got into his seat when the driver spun the Land Rover around in a skid, making the others jump backwards.
Power (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 8) Page 2
