With that theory in mind, Thalma rolled down the window and summoned the appropriate expression of puzzled innocence for the approaching police.
"Miss," said one of the officers, "keep your hands where we can see them and exit your vehicle."
Thalma started the window up before stepping out, hands raised, her keys in one hand. She triggered the door locks.
"What's this about?" she asked.
"You were observed in an altercation involving a firearm," the same officer replied. "Please turn and face the vehicle. Place your hands on the vehicle above your head. We're going to do a brief body search."
Thalma turned slowly and did as she was told. The men stood by, weapons drawn but aimed at the ground. This is not going to be pretty, she thought, as one officer began patting up her legs, stopping when he encountered the outlines of the Glock 23.
"Weapon," he called out.
The officers' guns jerked up in their hands, now aimed squarely at her. Even the two DEA agents, who'd been standing casually nearby against their van, straightened up and drew their weapons as the officer rolled up Thalma's jeans and slid her assault knife and pistol from their holsters. One of the other four Fargo police officers retrieved them and stepped back.
The officer continued his search upward, stopping at her underarm pistol.
"Another handgun," he said, more calmly than the first time. He drew back her work shirt and eased the Glock 27 out of its sheath. "And she's wearing body armor."
He handed the gun off and completed his search. Thalma tensed as she anticipated the next step involving handcuffs – and then breathed out as the officer stepped back. She turned to face them. The others moved forward, enclosing her in a semi-circle.
"I have a permit for concealed carry," said Thalma.
"Let's hope so." The lead officer, a thickset individual of ruddish complexion, smiled grimly. "Let's hope that's all you're concealing."
He nodded to the DEA agents, who ushered a German shepherd from the back of their van. One of the agents walked the dog slowly around her pickup and then up onto the bed. Thalma released a soft breath of relief when the dog failed to indicate. Not that she'd expected it would detect the likely LSD variant, but with dogs and their noses you never knew.
"If you watched what happened, you'd know I'm not guilty of any crime," she said.
"Would you mind if we had a look inside your vehicle?"
"Yes, I would. I don't consent to a search."
"What would we find if we did check out your vehicle?"
"Am I being accused of a crime?"
"You're being questioned."
"Am I being detained?"
The lead officer's smile curdled, while the DEA agents exchanged harsh smirks.
"Yes," gritted out the lead officer. "You're being detained until we've determined who you are and why you were at the Millstead factory. Let's start with some I.D. And your gun carry license."
Thalma pried them from her wallet and handed them over. He handed it to another officer, who returned to his car.
"I'm here because my boss told me to come out here and check out his property. He said he'd heard some rumors that something questionable was going on there."
"Who's your boss?"
"Peter Ulbright, Land Trust Investments."
"So he sent you out here armed to the teeth and wearing body armor?"
"In a truck that looks like it has bullet-proof glass," one of the DEA agents drawled.
"Yes," she said.
"What kind of work, exactly, do you do for your Mr. Ulbright?"
"His company owns a lot of property that sometimes needs checking up on." All part of a speech Thalma had developed years ago, but until now, had never used. "But this is the first time I've ever seen any of their properties used as a meth lab."
That drew an almost appreciative grunt from the DEA agents. Thalma sensed a slight thaw in their expressions and body language, but she wasn't in the clear yet. It was very important she get in the clear, because she wasn't going to jail, and if they tried to take her, things could get incredibly ugly incredibly fast. But for that to happen, the Fargo police department and/or the DEA would have to penetrate the multiple layers of her official identity right down to her core. The odds of that seemed minimal, but then what were the odds that one of her places would become a meth lab being surveilled by the local police and the DEA?
The officer returned from his car and gave the license to the lead officer, who handed it to Thalma.
"She's from Breton here in South Dakota," the officer from the car said. "She has a rural address."
"Give us the address," said one of the DEA agents, bringing out a tablet.
They tapped it in, and after a minute or two, one of them announced that the farm was owned by Land Trust Investments.
"As I said, I work for them," Thalma growled, with what she hoped was the right amount of innocent exasperation. "So why are you hassling me instead of busting those people in the factory?"
She contained an inner smile as she noticed the looks of discomfort, particularly from the DEA agents.
"We'll need to speak with your employer," said one of the DEA agents. "Will you give us his primary contact number?"
When she did, the DEA tapped the number into his cell phone, while his partner continued to work on his tablet. Since she'd given out the number used by outsiders, she assumed Ulbright would follow standard procedure and listen to the message before returning the agent's call. That is, if he were still alive and able to come to the phone.
The agent left a brief message, and joined his partner in studying the tablet. She guessed they were doing a background check on her. Depending on its depth, they'd learn about her military service – the part that was for public consumption – and other trivial details such as where she was born and went to school. She knew nothing criminal would show up. In theory, at least, they would see that as supporting her story, and would let her go. She couldn't see any legal right to hold her. But police these days, as with their intelligence agency brethren, couldn't be counted on to act within the law.
"You're former military," announced one of DEA men. "You were in the Army's female Special Forces program, WASP."
"Yes."
"You're a hired gun, then."
"I'm a multi-purpose employee."
"Why would a land investment business feel the need to hire a shit-kicker like you?"
"Because shit happens?" Thalma's smile was thin. "You saw what happened in the parking lot, didn't you?"
The agent gave a grudging shrug.
"I was heavily armed today because I was told that some 'bad elements,' might have taken up residence in the factory," she said, pleased with her improvisation. "I'm not some loose cannon. I always try to avoid violence. It's unprofessional and doesn't look good. I could've severely injured or killed those men in the parking lot, but I drove away instead."
The Fargo officers were looking at each other as if they were on the verge of nodding. Thalma decided not to press her point, for fear of overselling.
"So can I tell my boss when you plan to clear the factory out?" Thalma asked, feeling as if she were now on much sturdier ground.
"We'll be talking to him," said one of the DEA agents with a dismissive shake of his head. "Events are in motion."
The men fell into an awkward silence. Now, thought Thalma, it was mostly about saving face. They'd come at her all storm trooper-like, and now had to back off. Never easy for men accustomed to imposing their wills on others in these days when "Protect and Serve" was a distant memory.
"Well, I guess we're done here for now," said the original lead officer, looking to the DEA agents, whose stony faces offered neither approval nor rejection. After a moment, he nodded to another officer, who retrieved her weapons from his car.
Minutes later, Thalma was cruising west on 94, drawing sweet breaths of relief and smiling as she remembered the officers' nonplussed expressions as she drove away – as if
they somehow sensed they were missing something but couldn't quite place what it was.
Her smile slipped as a cell phone beeped from her glove compartment. She dug it out. The number was Peter Ulbright's private line. Some further digging in the glove compartment produced a portable voice modifier, which she slipped over the speaker end of the cell.
"Yes," she said, knowing that she sounded like a middle-aged male.
"THX," said Mr. Murphy. "Or should I call you '1138'? In any case, I see that someone for the Drug Enforcement Agency attempted to contact your Mr. Ulbright."
"That's true." Thalma gave herself a mental slap on the head. Of course this Murphy character would still be monitoring calls to Ulbright. "It turns out that the place I'd selected as a drop-off for your merchandise had been co-opted by some local meth producers, who were under surveillance by the DEA."
Thalma did not think it was a good sign that many moments passed before Mr. Murphy spoke.
"You allowed one of your sites to be converted into a methamphetamine lab."
She found herself bridling under the disdain in his voice. "I could just as well say you 'allowed' someone to take your product. Problems always develop. It's what you do to solve them."
"Point taken. In fact, that's where I got my moniker – my ability to solve those inevitable misfortunes." His chuckle was short-lived. "May I assume, then, that your employee was not detained by the police and is now en route to another drop site?"
"That's correct."
"Very good. Let me know when it's safely in place."
"I will. I assume you have Mr. Albright with you? I would like to speak with him."
"I'm afraid Mr. Ulbright is at another location. He will be released when we have taken possession of our product."
Thalma was tempted to push the issue, but couldn't see anything good coming from it. She'd promised all of her directors – "nominees" – to do everything reasonable to secure their safety and to defend them in the case of government prosecution. Not knowing for certain that Ulbright was okay left a little knot of unease in her stomach. Still, she couldn't see any reason why Mr. Murphy would kill him. And even if she did insist on speaking to Ulbright before making delivery, nothing would prevent them from killing him afterward, if that was what they wanted.
"Is there a problem?" Mr. Murphy asked.
"I take the welfare of my employees very seriously."
"That's quite commendable. Do you have a personal relationship with Mr. Ulbright?"
"No. I've never even met him."
"Then I must confess that I'm puzzled by your concern."
"I understand that the people you work for couldn't care less whether you live or die, except as a material asset – and I'm sure you don't give a damn about the people who work under you - but I've made assurances to my employees about their safety that I honor in principle."
"That's all very noble, but Mr. THX, you truly have no idea whom you're dealing with."
"Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"
"Someone who doesn't respect the nominative-objective distinction?" He released a soft chuckle. "True, I don't know you or your organization, but my suspicion is that if it were even remotely comparable in size and power to my own, I would know about it."
Thalma thought she heard the tiniest tinkling of concern in his voice. "My suspicion is that your organization isn't all-powerful, Mr. Murphy."
"What is?"
Thalma made herself take in a deep breath. She questioned how rational she was being, but God, nothing got her going more than a man trying to exert his authority over her. Maybe it was partly because she also had a man inside her.
"I'll look forward to hearing when the package has been delivered," said Mr. Murphy. "You can speak to your Mr. Ulbright then."
Thalma didn't reply. After a second or two, she ended the connection. Her intuition was sending stronger and stronger signals that they'd already killed Ulbright. If so, there was nothing she could do about it at the moment. She could only hope he was okay.
The drive droned on. She turned on a Bach cantata, and drifted in its divine mathematics. After spending most of her time cooped in or around her house, driving offered a welcome change. In a long stretch on the road, she started to feel part of a larger, more reassuringly normal reality. This used to be her social time, as pathetic as it was – stopping at gas stations and the occasional restaurant, spending nights in motels – something she had far less interest in since Louis had arrived.
About thirty miles out from Bismarck, Thalma noticed the car. At first glance, nothing particularly noticeable about it: a white SUV two or three hundred yards back, absorbing the soft pre-evening light and shadows to the point where it sometimes slipped into near-invisibility. Thalma wasn't sure how long it had been there, or why it had caught her attention, but for some reason it roused her to full attention. Maybe because there were so few cars on the highway?
Thalma added four miles to her speed, still under the "plus ten" rule – in her experience, police rarely ticketed people driving less than 10 MPH over the speed limit – but pushing it.
After three miles at that increased speed, the SUV was still there, maintaining the same unobtrusive distance. What were the odds of that? She was tempted to vary her speed again, but if the car was following her that would likely alert them.
Who would be following her? It could be that the DEA had decided she was interesting enough. She frowned. Possible, but it seemed unlikely. The most interested party would be Mr. Murphy and his mysterious international organization. But how could they know -
Thalma's frown became a scowl. The phone call from the DEA agent. That would've provided the state's area code. Had the agent mentioned that he was calling from Fargo? She wasn't sure. But if he had, Murphy's people would have a near-pinpoint location for her. Given the state's simple highway system and lack of population, they could reasonably guess she'd resume travel on one of two major nearby highways in one of two directions. It was a stretch, but if they had the resources Mr. Murphy claimed, they might be able to place people on those highways in fairly short order. They might even have an insider in the DEA – or the ability to hack into either the agency or the South Dakota DMV – and obtain her driver's license and make of vehicle.
But in practical reality, what kind of crime organization would be capable of doing all that? She couldn't imagine any Mexican or South American cartel having that capability. It was more like some rapid-response military tactical force. But she couldn't recall too many government tactical forces involved in dealing LSD.
Ten miles out of Bismarck, Thalma entertained herself with various scenarios. With the weapons in the storage unit office – which included a Barrett .50 and a grab-bag of fragmentation and concussive grenades, plus a couple of assault rifles – she was sure she could handle one SUV if it came to a firefight. A far greater danger would be if any customers were in the facility, but she was certain that the last thing Murphy wanted was a firefight that would draw every cop in the area down on them. He was probably just playing it safe, wanting "boots on the ground" in case there were more snafus. Still, when you put people with guns together, bad things could happen.
Thalma took the first Bismarck exit and cruised out to her self-storage unit property. The SUV exited with her, now maybe only one hundred yards back, answering any lingering questions about its purpose. She was a little worried it would make a move before she reached the storage units, but it stayed back, matching her speed.
The storage unit swam into view about a half-mile ahead. She watched a red pickup approach the facility, scowling when it – naturally - turned in toward the front gate and after a brief pause entered the facility.
"Great," she whispered.
The storage unit was a key card operation, largely maintenance-free, with no staff regularly on hand – there was that at least. Thalma stopped at the front gate, not rushing as she punched in the "override combination" at the top of the card reader s
tand. The gate swung ponderously open, and she idled through.
She continued toward the back between perpendicular rows of storage units, one eye on the rearview mirror, one eye looking out for the red pickup. The SUV stopped at the gate. The red pickup was parked at the far end of a row on her left. A bearded man with a rugged build was carrying boxes. With any luck, he'd stay occupied for the next few minutes.
Thalma's cell rang. She lifted it from the passenger seat. Peter Ulbright's number.
"Mr. Murphy," she said.
"Greetings. I wanted to let you know that those are my men waiting outside the gate of your storage facility."
Thalma resisted the urge to ask how he tracked her. Only so many logical possibilities, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of gloating.
"I'll tell him," she said. "He'll buzz them in shortly."
"Very good. I'll let them know."
Thalma rolled up to the garage attached to the two story office building and backed in close to the door. From there she had a straight-on view of the gate and the waiting SUV. She retrieved her Steiner 20x80 binoculars from below the seat and pointed it at the SUV. She found herself staring into the binoculars held by another man behind the windshield. She made out four men inside. No sign of a rifle. From roughly three hundred yards away they had no shot with a handgun.
She pressed the garage door opener under her dash, and the door behind her lifted obligingly. She backed her truck inside and lowered the door. Her cordless impact wrench made short work of the false fuel tank bolts, and she slid the blue plastic case out from under the pickup. After checking through the spy hole to make sure the SUV was still at the gate, she opened the garage door and placed the case a few yards out from the garage on the asphalt.
As the door rolled down again, Thalma entered the office through the connecting door. The gate-opening button perched on a wall near the front door. She'd let them in when she was good and ready.
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