Chapter 33
In a diner outside of Kalispell, Montana, Surey Whiteside read the remarkable story concerning the United States Marshals Service’s Witness Protection Program. Congressional inquiries spawned more questions than questions answered. How did a high ranking official within the program go rogue and nearly compromise the identity and safety of every protected federal witness in existence? Unfortunately, this man perished in a car explosion resulting from a high speed chase with local police, or so the press reported. Whiteside wondered how often the government made people disappear and resurface as someone else.
Because of the classified nature of the people involved and the events that led up to this strange incident in a sleepy town just south of Denver, CO, the papers reported little more than speculation and various quotes from anonymous sources. Whiteside chuckled at the thought of disgruntled protected witnesses muddying the waters with ridiculous claims to strengthen some personal cause at the U.S. Marshals Service’s expense. He hoped Schwartz fared well from this debacle. Reports vaguely mentioned two U.S. Marshals receiving minor wounds, but limited detail as to nature of their injuries. They were just expected to make full recoveries and return to normal duty, whatever that meant.
There was no mention of him or anybody matching his description in the papers he perused daily for intelligence. The cable and satellite news providers equaled their competitor’s lack of accurate reporting. Internet sites offered a tabloid style feeding frenzy on widespread government corruption within the judicial system. Some went so far as to suggest government sponsored kidnappings of American civilians who underwent plastic surgery to change their physical features and extensive brainwashing for later use as governmental drones, systematically stripped of human characteristics to coldly perform bureaucratic sanctioned dirty work. How close they actually get to the truth sometimes, Whiteside thought.
He took a sip from his coffee cup and rolled the microchip over his fingers. He placed the chip on the table. He lowered his coffee cup and slowly ground its bottom edge into the chip. Its smashed remains lay twisted on the table, rendered virtually useless to everybody except a select few. But they’d never see this tiny piece of smashed electronics. Whiteside planned a brief fishing trip in Glacier National Park, where this bothersome piece of plastic and silicone would find its final resting place in a frigid alpine lake. With any luck at all, he’d hit a few walleye or northern pikes while he boated across the icy cold water. By this time tomorrow, he’d be in Canada, making his way to the lights of Vancouver.
With a little help from the world’s smartest dog, he removed the implant from Bernie’s neck in a cabin on the outskirts of Missoula. The dog seemed perfectly recovered within 24 hours, although Whiteside’s hands took some time to stop shaking after completing the procedure. A certain sense of welcomed warm emotion flooded his senses, drowning out years of cold, calloused, learned behavior. He feared weakness and indecision invading his world, but the peace and comfort he experienced overcame his initial misconceptions about rejoining humanity. This felt good, and he had Bernie to thank.
He raised his coffee cup and drained the contents with a final swig. He sat the empty cup back down on the table and tossed the remaining piece of bacon across the laminate top to his new traveling companion. Bernie’s head swooped down and gobbled the thick cut, hickory-cured slice in two bites and one large gulp.
“You might consider chewing in the future,” Whiteside said. “I’d hate to see you throw up in our new ride,” he said gesturing to the blue and white 1988 Chevrolet Silverado. He swapped the Mercedes for this fine automobile in Sheridan, Wyoming at the advice of his traveling partner. Whiteside understood the prudence of the decision. Depending how the ongoing investigation in Pine Valley developed, the Mercedes could become a potential liability. Besides, the Sheridan rough necks he met at the Lucky Deuce Motel seemed more than happy to make the switch. They even offered him a few ounces of crystal methamphetamine to close the deal. He declined that incentive and concluded the transaction with a handshake.
“Son, I’m a dog. Just because I’m sporting a fur coat don’t make me sophisticated. My belly doesn’t have a speck of pride.”
“That bodes well for you, since we’re not exactly traveling in the lap of luxury and Vancouver is approximately 900 miles away, not counting our fishing excursion.”
“Let’s roll, ole boy.”
The Bernie Factor Page 47
