by Allen Kent
“1751?”
More laughter. “That’s when I was born.”
“I’m on this,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank me by protecting my cover and keeping yourself safe,” she said. “Do you have a bitcoin account?”
It was my turn to chuckle. “As a matter of fact, I do. On a friend’s recommendation, I bought some early and have just been hanging on to it. I should have sold when it hit its high point. I’d be rich.”
“It’s going up again,” Julia said, “and this might give you a chance to spend some of it.”
27
The rest of Monday was dedicated to buying a refurbished Lenovo laptop from the kid on the square who has set up a successful little business beside LeeAnn’s Café. In what used to be a Pizza Hut, he repairs phones, debugs computers, and helps luddites like me figure out what happened to their machines when a new upgrade throws them a curve. I’ve known him since he was in diapers and have heard teachers talk about how he cake-walked his way through high school at the top of his class. He went over to the university in Rolla for a year, thinking he wanted to be an engineer, but dropped out to open his shop. He’s never been in a whiff of trouble since I became sheriff. I decided I would have to trust him with my uninitiated venture into the murky depths of the dark web.
His eyes sparked with a mischievous glee when I explained that, purely for investigative purposes, I needed to download Tor and Tails and could use his help.
“You’re kidding me!” he chuckled. “This is so cool. Do you know what sites you’re looking for? There’s an Onion Directory and one called Hidden Wiki that list sites on that web. I mean, like, you can find anything on there. But it mainly operates in bitcoin. Do you have a bitcoin account?”
“I don’t think I’ll need to buy anything,” I said, dampening some of his enthusiasm. “I just need to see if I can penetrate a group and monitor its activity.”
“Gotcha. You’re smart to get this separate computer,” he agreed as he loaded the browser and security programs. “They’ll be trying to watch you at the same time you’re watching them.”
“Yeah. I’ve been warned, and I’m ready—I think.”
“Let me know if you need more help with anything—and if you nail some bad guy out there, stop in and tell me about it.”
Back in the office, Marti helped me find sites on the not-so-dark web related to Outlander and download scenes that were examples of why the series wasn’t on network television to a folder labeled ‘My Favorites.’ She chipped in with a relish I hadn’t seen in her since Grace left, dropping hint after hint that an official trip to Scotland would do me much more good than fishing on the White River.
When I told her I would be spending the rest of the day streaming episodes of Outlander, purely for research purposes, and setting up a gmail account for my new avatar, she cryptically suggested Josiah.Twin.
“You’ll want to learn all you can about him,” she cautioned with a chuckle. “His deaf twin Keziah sometimes filled in for him at night—with Josiah’s wife. They were never sure which of the twins fathered her children.”
“Likeable guy,” I muttered.
“Actually, I quite liked Josiah,” she admitted. “If you have any questions, I’m the person to come to. I’ve seen every episode. Some, two or three times.”
“Not a word to Grace about this until I know this is a go,” I requested.
“Not a word,” she repeated, but I could see the gleam of anticipation in her eyes.
Chief Deputy Torres called at 2:00 in the afternoon to let me know nothing new had surfaced. When I asked about Gleidhidh Doras, she said they were beginning to wonder if it really existed at all.
“If there is such a group,” she muttered, “they cover their tracks pretty well.” I decided that for now, I wouldn’t try to convince her otherwise.
“No reports of sightings after Danny and Miriam’s pictures appeared in the media?” I asked.
“A couple by people who saw them the morning they disappeared. But none after that. And that’s pretty troubling. You’d think that if they’re together in public anywhere, someone would have spotted them.”
“You would think,” I agreed, more convinced than ever that they weren’t off touring with the couple from the café.
Grace was silent for a moment, then said, “Marti told me your church guys went after Darnell Budgeon. What could they possibly have had against him?”
“Graven images,” I explained.
“You mean like, ‘Don’t bow down to graven images?’”
“Yup. Like that.”
“You’re kidding. His paintings are graven images?”
“In their minds, almost everything is a graven image. He just happened to be the biggest offender in the county.”
“She also told me the men were killed in an accident—and that you pulled Darnell from the fire. Are you okay?”
“Good as ever,” I lied. “We got there just in time.”
“I wish we’d have a little more excitement here,” she muttered. “You know they say that every day that passes after a child has gone missing, the lower the odds they’ll be found.”
“These aren’t children,” I reminded her. “And they were together. Something will break for you, Grace. I’ve just got a feeling.”
Her light laugh sounded discouraged. “Have you been talking to the Webber sisters again?”
“No. This one’s coming from me,” I answered, wondering how she knew I had been to see the Webber twins in the first place.
Tuesday until mid-afternoon had me up at the site of the twins’ cabin working with groups from every church in town rebuilding the sisters’ home. First Baptist already had the floor blocked and covered with subflooring from a full day’s work on Monday. Three men from the Assembly of God had run new piping to the septic tank. Four other congregations were working walls. Like an old-fashioned barn raising, each framed its section on the ground and just before lunch, hoisted and nailed them into place. The women’s organizations had coordinated a lunch spread worthy of a city-wide picnic and as we ate, an Amish crew from up near Newtonia arrived with a trailer-load of trusses.
While the sects battled to see who could side and insulate their wall the fastest, the fire crew and two deputies from the police department set trusses and decked and shingled the roof. I worked with Bill Latimer, the Methodist minister, on setting up a solar pump to channel water from the spring into a pressure tank in a rear corner of the new cabin. It was one of the few things I could manage without too much climbing or bending, movement that still ripped at my burned leg like a tangle of hot barbed wire.
Bill waved at me as I headed down the hill in the shadows of late afternoon, craving a cool shower, a deck chair, and a cold beer.
“Thanks, Tate,” he called. “You really didn’t need to be out here with that leg. But I think we should be able to move the twins back in this week sometime.”
I did need to be out there. It reminded me why Joseph was right about where I wanted to lay down deep roots. The work on the cabin was building community as surely as it was building a home for the sisters. It was important that I be part of that building.
Able Pendergraft called the office early Wednesday afternoon when I was somewhere into season five of Outlander. The Frasers had now immigrated to western North Carolina and were about to get involved in skirmishes with the governor’s militia. I found that I could count on a scene in almost every episode worthy of my new “The Best of Outlander” folder. The blinds remained down in the fishbowl.
“Good news, Tate,” Able announced with his usual air of understatement. “I just talked to the federal district judge. He will be issuing a summary judgment in our favor closing the Greaves complaint.”
“Terrific news, Able. Thanks so much for your great work.”
“This isn’t for public dissemination yet. He still has to write up his decision and has a lot of other issues to address first.”
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“Understood. How long will that take?”
“At least a week. But he read over our filing, agrees that both you and Officer Joseph acted well within the limits of your authority as law enforcement officers, and are clearly covered by even the strictest interpretation of qualified immunity. You won’t need to worry about a trial.”
“Has anyone told Joseph yet?”
Able chuckled. “I doubt it. This was a personal call from the judge to me. We are old law school friends. I’m sure he will wait to contact Officer Joseph’s counsel until he is ready to announce the decision. I suggest you wait on him before you say anything to your friend.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “Nothing to anyone until he announces.”
“By the way,” Able added. “I heard about what you did at the Budgeon place. Thank you. And at the risk of sounding callous, I’m glad you got there after Zack Kinnaman and his friends left. It was tragic what happened to them. But we didn’t need another shooting, and you obviously would have had grounds. It helped your case immensely to have a rescue to report rather than another shooting.”
“Word gets out quickly.”
“It does when that many people are involved. You did well.”
“I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances.”
“Probably not. But I appreciate you saving me another excessive force complaint—and it gets two of the major monkeys off your back. The lawsuit and the mysterious fires around town.”
One to go, I thought. Of Granny Durbin’s troika of bad news, only one was left. But it was the big one. After the conversation at the house-raising yesterday, I knew that Crayton could never be completely whole again until we recovered our lost teenagers.
My cell buzzed with ‘call waiting.’ I recognized the number as Julia Blair’s. “Got an important call coming in, Able,” I told him. “I’ll get back with you tomorrow.”
I answered the agent with an official “Sheriff Tate.”
“You’re in,” she said brightly. “Jamie—the only one in the clan who can use that name, by the way—seemed pretty excited that they may be getting another man for whatever it is they have planned in Inverness. I guess most of those who have gone to Scotland are women. Did you get your email set up?”
“Email, computer, and Tor and Tails downloaded. And I’m a season away from having seen all the Outlander episodes. My gmail is Josiah.Twin.”
She laughed. “So you obviously know who Josiah is. What do you think?”
“I like him. But I’d rather know whether my kids are my own. And I’m thinking I should get a round scar on my thumb to show I’m really committed to all this.”
“Well, glad to see you’re up on the guy. And that would be a nice touch. Maybe a tattoo.”
She paused and I could hear the rustle of notes. “You should get a message sometime today telling you how to enter their website and pay your pledge fee. Let me remind you again, once you venture onto that web, people will be trying to access your computer—including the clan and some of us here.”
“I’ve got nothing on it but scenes that anyone can catch on Netflix.”
“Does this mean you’re planning to join them in Inverness?”
“The prospects are looking better. One of the other major hurdles has just been removed.”
“If you do, would you keep me in the loop? Rosario thinks a lot of you, and you can be my eyes and ears at whatever’s going down over there.”
“Be glad to.”
“Just be aware that once they make contact with you there, you may be followed all the time to make sure you’re legit.”
“I’ll remember. And I couldn’t have linked in without your help. Keeping you posted is the least I can do.”
“You can reach me at this number,” she said. “And watch yourself. I can’t tell how nutty and dangerous this Jamie and Claire seem to be, but sometimes they seems pretty close to the edge.”
“I’ll remember that too.”
I ended the call and lifted the blinds on the fishbowl, caught Marti’s attention, and signaled her into the office.
“What kind of response did you get from Larry and Darren about filling in if I take a few weeks?” I asked.
Her face brightened like a tickled baby. “You’re going, Tate? Oh, this is so exciting. Does Grace know yet?”
“If the guys are good to cover the shifts, I plan to go. As soon as tomorrow, if I can. But I’m not telling Grace for now.”
“You’re not telling Grace?” She looked at me uncertainly for a moment. “That might not be a great idea—to just surprise her like that.”
“Why? What do you know?”
The light disappeared from her face altogether, replaced by a hard glare. “It’s just not fair to her for you to show up unannounced. You sent her to represent us. If you just appear, it will tell her you didn’t trust the job she’s been doing.”
“Once we can talk face-to-face, I’ll explain everything.”
“Give her a call, Tate. Tell her you’ve been able to get things settled here, and ask if you can come see what you can do to help. She’ll say yes, and the message will be ‘I want to be with you’ rather than “I’ve come to check on you.’”
“I can’t tell her,” I explained. “I’ve managed to get into this Outlander cult. If they see me connected to the police in any way, they’ll cut me off. Until I know if they have something to do with the kids’ disappearance, I need to avoid her.”
Marti’s frown deepened.
“Was that a smart thing to do, Tate?”
I shrugged uncertainly. “The only way to know is to see if it takes us to the missing kids.”
“Grace will be calling you. And she calls here and talks to me every day. What do I tell her?”
“Tell her I’ve taken a few days to go back to the White River until my leg heals and this lawsuit blows over.”
“Lie to her? And you’re going to do the same? Another bad idea.”
“Have you got a better one?”
“Tell her the truth—that you’re trying to penetrate this cult and have to stay undercover.”
“Undercover means undercover. The fewer people who know, the better. Especially if one is connected to the police there.”
“So you’re going to leave her in the dark?”
“Look. Right now, only you and this woman at the Bureau know. For now, it needs to stay that way. Maybe you can tell her I’ve taken a few days off and you aren’t sure where I am. You won’t know exactly where I am, so that will be closer to the truth.”
“Not much,” she retorted. “But I’ll go along if you insist. I was just thinking this might be such a great chance for the two of you to work together over there. Finding Danny and Miriam is the most important thing that’s happening right now.”
I grinned. “I know you did, Marti. And we will be working together. Grace just can’t know about it to begin with—for her sake, and mine.”
Her face softened and she nodded reluctantly. “You’re right, and I’m on it, Josiah. Go home and pack.”
28
For five years of my life, I flew somewhere at least once a month—on a helicopter or C-130 to Marine units that needed interpreting help, then on commercial flights around the Middle East when working for Language Services. At the time, I found it a good break from sweeping villages for ISIS sympathizers or sitting through excruciating meetings with diplomats as they did their little political dances with Arabic-speaking counterparts. But since returning to the languid pace of life in the Missouri hills, I had come to hate air travel.
For some reason, my work history seemed to have put me on a ‘needs extra screening’ list. It was a rare trip through an American airport when I wasn’t tagged for a ‘random’ pat-down and bag search. But when they pulled me aside in Atlanta before boarding a Delta flight to Amsterdam, all I could think about was that this was something new. They had somehow learned I had been using Tor to check out an encrypted website where wo
men in transparent dresses whirled about a central fire to the haunting strains of Outlander’s The Skye Boat Song, followed by a free-for-all orgy.
They did make me turn the laptop on, but most of the extra screening was pretty perfunctory and more hassle than helpful. I managed to sleep crammed against a window during most of the trans-Atlantic flight, with only enough time in the Netherlands to change planes. I landed in Edinburgh as Grace had at 10:15 in the morning with three hours to get through customs and immigration and catch the Inverness train.
I had slept well enough during the overnight flight to stave off the worst of jetlag. The rail trip north was a visual reminder of one of the reasons the Outlander series had been such a smash hit. Scotland is a country of rustic, rugged beauty that exudes history, mystery, and strength. The train snaked out of Edinburgh along the rocky beaches of the North Sea, then wound through a countryside of hedge-lined pastures and ivy-covered cottages with mossy thatch or slate-tiled roofs. As it moved north into the craggy highlands of Cairngorms National Park, it took little imagination to see Claire and Jamie Fraser clinging together on the back of a galloping steed as they fled to Midhope Castle after some harrowing escape.
If we could somehow safely find the missing teens and send them home with Erin Graham, I could envision spending another week exploring this enchanted place with Grace, walking that path I hoped was the one seen in the Webber sisters’ tea leaves. But my arrival in Inverness reminded me that, at least for now, I needed to stay clear of my chief deputy and focus on finding Danny and Miriam.
Marti seemed to have had some of the same thoughts when she booked me into the Lochardil House Hotel, a converted Victorian mansion well away from the city center. The stately rose-colored stone manor had added a sunroom across the front that served as a dining area and overlooked a manicured English garden—the kind of setting romantic dreams are made of. But despite the flights of fancy as I’d traveled north, the looming pressures of time slapped me back to reality.
I tossed my bag onto the bed in my equally Victorian second-floor room, set up the dedicated laptop, and sent a terse email to the gmail address I’d been given: OutJamie1.
