by Dave Edlund
“Hey! Wait!”
He sprinted forward and reached out, grabbing Jana’s arm.
“Sir!” the clerk said, her voice louder than it needed to be.
“Let go of me,” Jana said, her voice menacing. Peter didn’t loosen his grip.
“Is he bothering you? I can call security,” the clerk said.
“Maybe you should,” Peter replied, his head turned toward the sales clerk.
Jana Cooke was 50 pounds lighter than Peter, but an expert in hand-to-hand combat. Yet she was beginning to regret following him—what should have been a routine surveillance had now turned into a mess. And it would only get worse if the clerk followed through at Peter’s goading and called security.
It was time to act. She could still salvage the mission, and the only consequence would be a tongue-lashing from her handler in Washington, who would assign another agent not recognized by Peter Savage.
Jana reacted, aiming to take Peter down. With blinding speed, she placed her leg behind him, pivoted, and grasped his shoulder with her free hand, yanking him backwards. Off balance, he tumbled, but maintained an iron grip on Jana’s left arm. Peter managed to grab a handful of blond hair on his way down, just before he hit the carpeted floor. His attacker came, too.
Immediately, Peter twisted and pushed off Jana, blocking her attempt to regain her feet. When he reached his knees, Peter rammed a fist into her nose, immediately drawing blood. He pulled back, striking her again.
The sales clerk was panicking, yelling for him to stop. Three other patrons were screaming and running for the door.
Jana managed to land a blow to Peter’s midsection, just missing his solar plexus. Forcing back the urge to double over, he slammed his fist into her face again, splitting her lip.
A middle-aged man with a beer belly and wearing a private security uniform grabbed Peter from behind and pulled him back from Jana. As Peter struggled, she rose to her feet and lashed out with a kick aimed for his groin. Peter twisted and the kick connected with the guard instead. He released his hold and bent forward in agony.
While Peter stumbled to the side, she uncoiled another kick, striking Peter’s right leg. He felt a bolt of pain shoot up from his knee and he collapsed to the side.
The guard was rising from his knees, attempting to draw his Taser. Jana caught the movement a moment before the Taser would have cleared its holster. With blinding speed, she launched a vicious punch that struck the center of his face, bloodying his nose and rocketing his head backwards. As he fell, his skull hit the metal base of a clothing rack, splitting the scalp. Unconscious, his head rolled to the side, blood matting his hair.
“I think she killed him,” a hushed voice said. Two young men had watched the brutal attack, and decided it was time to take action. One man stepped forward, his friend right behind him.
“You have to stop!” he commanded, his arm outstretched, pointing at Jana. She reached out, grabbed his arm, and yanked him toward her. At the same time, she struck with her right fist, crushing his windpipe. Stunned and unable to breath, he went down in agony, hands at his throat, trying desperately to suck in air, and failing as the tissue swelled, closing his esophagus.
His friend was next. She struck with a foot to his groin. He reflexively doubled over and she drove her knee into his face, breaking his nose and driving bone into his brain.
With the distractions eliminated, Jana stripped the Taser from the guard’s belt holster.
Struggling to his feet, Peter saw the red laser-aiming dot on his chest. Jana fired.
As the dual darts shot forward, Peter pulled over a rack of flannel shirts. The barbs caught in the soft fabric and were pulled to the floor. While she was working to reload the Taser, Peter sprang at her, his right knee protesting as he pushed off.
He collided into her with all the momentum his 170 pounds could deliver. With outstretched arms, he latched around her legs and slammed her backwards. Together they tumbled into another display cabinet holding a dozen different hand-held GPS units arranged on a multi-tier shelf. Topographic maps were alphabetized in drawers within the base-cabinet below the shelving. She still had hold of the Taser, attempting to twist her right hand enough to point it at her adversary.
Using his left arm, Peter grabbed the weapon and struggled to wrench it from her grip. He landed another blow to her face, which was already turning purplish and smeared with blood and saliva.
Jana shifted on her back, pushing Peter to the side. She swung her fist, striking him in the ear. She swung again, hitting his temple. His grip slackened, and Jana sensed her opening. She brought her fist around again, this time more forcefully. The blow to Peter’s temple nearly caused him to black out. He relaxed his hold and rolled away, trying to gain some distance, momentarily forgetting about the Taser.
He saw the black gun lining up on his body, and he ducked behind the cabinet. The darts shot forward, missing him by inches. Jana had risen to her knees, again reloading the weapon. From the far side of the display cabinet, Peter pushed the shelving holding the GPS units over. It tumbled onto Jana, striking her head.
Peter rounded the cabinet. Jana was dazed, but not out. She heaved the shelf aside, the Taser no longer within her grasp. She slowly righted herself, spit a gob of blood and saliva, and wiped away more blood mixed with mucous. She looked at Peter with unadulterated malevolence.
She charged him, head down, driving him backwards; somehow Peter managed to stay on his feet. They broke, separated three feet, and she kicked out again, aiming to cripple his right knee. Peter dodged the blow, and before he could regain his balance she launched her right arm forward in a stiff-arm punch that rocked Peter’s head back.
He stumbled back several steps until he could retreat no further. Another short cabinet was blocking his withdrawal. He placed his hands behind him, not wanting to turn his eyes from Jana and yet needing to know what the obstacle was. His hand felt a familiar form on the cabinet, his fingers gripping the handle.
Just then, Jana launched herself at Peter. With nowhere for him to run, she was going to end the fight.
Peter swung his arm forward, outstretched, covering a wide arc. Within his grasp was a compact camp shovel. She didn’t see it soon enough to halt her forward momentum. So she did the next best thing and bent her legs, trying to slide under the swinging implement.
It was a mistake.
The edge of the steel shovel sliced into her neck. Although not sharpened or designed as a cutting implement, the utilitarian tool still cut deep into Jana’s tissues, severing arteries and veins, along with tendons and muscles. Her head fell limp to the side and massive amounts of blood gushed from the wound.
She dropped to her knees, one hand on the ugly wound, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood, the other helping to hold her balance. With insufficient oxygen to her brain, she passed out, and a moment later was dead.
Peter dropped the shovel. He looked at the motionless body lying before him and couldn’t recall what she looked like before he had bruised and bloodied her face. Later, the face would return—haunting his nights and terrorizing his sleep.
But now, he had to get away. He was in enough trouble already. But where? Where could he go where he wouldn’t endanger others and yet he would not be captured by the police? It had to be someplace where he could defend himself, where he would have the upper hand. Then it came to him.
Returning to the cabinet that housed the topographic maps, Peter opened a drawer. He quickly worked his way until he found the quadrant he was seeking. It was a map of the Three Sisters Wilderness, just west of Bend. He ran to the checkout counter—everyone had fled the store by now—and used a pen to mark an X on the map.
Then, he placed the map on Jana’s body. He only had a minute to get what he would require—an expedition hunting pack, a box of freeze-dried meals, a water filter and several plastic bottles, and a backpack cooking kit. He shoved everything inside the pack and grabbed the first sleeping bag he laid hands on—rolled
tight and stuffed inside a nylon bag—as he made his way for the door. Before he left, he slipped on a down parka. He would need it where he was going.
From the fringe of the crowd a man with a flesh-colored butterfly bandage at the edge of his scalp and another bandage across his nose spoke into his phone. “Yeah, we have a problem here—a big problem.”
Chapter 16
Bend, Oregon
April 20
Outside the Pinnacle store, a crowd was gathering. Sirens could be heard in the distance, the shrill sound growing in intensity—emergency vehicles no doubt summoned by many of the witnesses to the hand-to-hand combat.
“There are people inside who need help,” Peter shouted to the onlookers, causing a dozen faces to inch closer to the windows, driven by morbid fascination. With the hunting pack slung over a shoulder and the sleeping bag clutched to his side, he pushed through the crowd, quickly putting the store behind him. He followed a zigzag path through the shopping complex and soon arrived at the stairs to his home on the floors above EJ Enterprises.
The sirens were much louder now, and then they silenced, indicating the emergency vehicles had arrived. There would be at least one ambulance and a couple police cruisers, Peter reasoned. More would be summoned once the first responders took stock of the carnage inside.
Taking the steps two at a time, his knee protesting every movement, he entered and was greeted by Diesel. He leaned over and rubbed his companion’s head and ears. “We have to go,” he said. Diesel looked at him and tilted his head, his amber-colored eyes suggesting understanding at a basic level.
Peter dropped the sleeping bag in the entry and went directly to the secret door in the bookcase and opened it. He bypassed the antique weapons for the gun safe. Where he was going would require substantial firepower if his worst fears were realized.
He spun the dial on the large safe—left, right, left, right—finally turning the lever handle. The heavy door swung open silently on greased hinges. Peter grabbed a worn pigskin bag from the floor of the safe and filled it with the ammunition he would need—shotgun shells, rifle and pistol cartridges. Next he retrieved a semiautomatic Colt .45 Government model. After placing the pistol inside the pack, he added the pigskin ammunition bag and a belt holster. Lastly, he included his Leica binoculars and spotting scope, and a set of third generation night-vision goggles. The optics alone would cost several thousand dollars to replace, which is why he kept them in this secret space.
After slinging the heavy pack on his shoulders, Peter finished his task by removing the Remington riot gun and one of his hunting rifles—a scoped Weatherby in .340 caliber. It was a powerful round with heavy bullets, favored for hunting bear and other dangerous game.
Peter hastily gathered up everything, closed the safe, then secured the secret bookcase panel before he called Diesel to his side. Lastly, he grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from a kitchen cabinet on his way out. No point locking the door. The police will be here soon anyway, he thought. Once they interview witnesses at the store and review the video from the security cameras, they’ll come here for me.
Ignoring the pain in his knee and general aches all over his body, he quickly climbed into his red Hummer H3 truck, having placed his possessions in the back. Diesel rode shotgun as was his preference. Trying to avoid drawing attention, Peter put the truck in gear and slowly backed out of his reserved parking spot in front of EJ Enterprises just as the receptionist came running out the door. She was shouting something incomprehensible. Peter made eye contact, shook his head, and drove away, leaving his receptionist wondering what was happening.
Within minutes, the red Hummer exited Bend, pointed west on the Cascade Lakes highway. Soon, Peter would be in spotty cell coverage, and he had one important call to make before he lost a signal.
“Jim, the situation here has deteriorated.” Peter explained what had happened in short, almost cryptic, sentences, but it was enough for Commander Nicolaou to follow. He listened carefully, holding his questions until Peter was done.
“You understand that the police are going to perceive you as a violent criminal who has assaulted an FBI agent and is the prime suspect in the murder of one or more civilians. Whoever contacts you first—local police or FBI—will be predisposed to shoot first and sort it out later.”
“That’s why I’m not hanging around,” Peter said. “I’ll be in touch when and if it’s safe to contact you. Don’t try to reach me—you won’t be able to.”
“Where are you going? They’ll find you—you can’t hide.”
“Don’t worry. Where I’m heading law enforcement won’t find me unless I want them to.”
“Listen Peter. This isn’t a good idea. Surely you recognize that the woman who attacked you today and Agent Barnes are almost certainly connected. Whoever these people are, they obviously have some heavyweight resources. And they won’t hesitate to kill again.”
“I know. I’ve thought this through.”
Jim had heard the same raw determination in Peter’s tone before, when the stakes were equally high. “They’ll hunt you down… but you already know that.”
“I’m counting on it. Only they’ll be on my turf, under conditions of my choosing.”
“You won’t have any backup. You’ll be alone.”
Peter glanced to the side. Diesel was sitting at attention, watching the trees pass by.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got all the backup I need.” Just then the line went dead as Peter’s cell signal was lost. He was twenty minutes out of Bend and gaining elevation quickly.
s
The first responders were shaken by what they found inside Pinnacle. The paramedics quickly determined they had one survivor, a security guard, and rushed him to St. Charles hospital in serious condition with a suspected skull fracture. After the forensics team extensively photographed the crime scene and collected evidence from the bodies, the deceased—two men and one woman—were bagged and transported to the morgue for autopsy. Detectives were still combing through the scene well into the evening.
“Four homicides in less than two weeks. That isn’t a coincidence,” Detective Nakano commented to her partner. With a population of almost 90,000 and primarily known as a paradise for recreation, murder and manslaughter were rare—maybe one a year on average.
“Other than Peter Savage, what are the points of commonality between the Emma Jones murder and the three victims at Pinnacle?”
Niki Nakano shook her head. “Nothing.”
“There’s got to be more”, Colson said. “We just haven’t found it.”
“What do you make of the topo map on the deceased woman?”
“It’s gotta be a message.”
“Like in X marks the spot? But why? It doesn’t make sense that he would flee and then point us exactly to where he’s going.”
“Yeah, I agree. But just in case, the Deschutes County Sheriff Department will check it out in the morning. Too dangerous to start the search at night.”
Nakano understood. Besides, by morning they would know more. “Any word from the Feds yet on Agent Barnes?” she asked.
“No, not yet.” Just then Colson’s phone rang. She recognized the area code as Portland. “Speak of the Devil, maybe this is them now.”
While Colson was on the phone, Detective Nakano returned to her pad of paper and the matrix she was constructing. A visual thinker, she preferred to use circles and arrows to indicate relationships between seemingly disconnected sets of facts. And there were a lot of discrepancies to sort through. Not the least of which, the eyewitnesses couldn’t even agree on whether the deceased woman was an innocent victim or assailant. No one actually saw who killed the two men, although two witnesses did see Peter Savage strike the woman with the camp shovel. That would be easy enough to corroborate with fingerprints from the handle. She hoped they’d learn more when the security guard recovered enough to be questioned—assuming he did pull through.
She was chewing on her pen when Col
son finished her call.
“Well, that was interesting. Agent Andrew Shooks—he’s with the cyber-crimes division out of the FBI office in Portland—says Barnes works in his unit. He’s requested access to everything—all the evidence related to this investigation and the Jones murder.”
Nakano looked up from her diagram. “Why? The Feds don’t have any jurisdiction here.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. There is the matter of unauthorized access to secret government files, allegedly by Mr. Savage. And even he admits he assaulted a federal agent.”
“Not exactly. He claims that Barnes is a fake and not a federal agent.”
“Regardless,” Colson continued, “I doubt the Chief will want to get into a pissing match over this. But you want to know what’s really weird?”
Her partner gave her the do-I-really-have-to-answer-that look. “Okay,” Colson said. “It’s Agent Barnes.”
“What about him?”
“Well, Shooks sounded surprised when I asked how the agent was doing.”
“Maybe Savage is right and Barnes is an imposter.”
“You can’t be serious. Anyway, he said we’ll be getting an arrest warrant for Peter Savage within the hour.”
Nakano raised her eyebrow. “Really? How come Saint Charles hospital has no record of anyone by the name of Barnes being treated in the last 24 hours? In fact, they haven’t treated anyone identifying themselves as an FBI agent during the past six months.”
Colson shrugged. “Agent Shooks says Barnes is doing well but will need several days to fully recover. That would be consistent with what Mr. Savage described for his injuries.”
“Where is Barnes now? We should interview him.”
“Good question,” Colson answered with a frown. “Shooks wouldn’t say and added that Barnes had been thoroughly questioned by the Bureau. Maybe the Chief can get a copy of his statement.”
“Why wouldn’t Barnes take himself to the emergency room to get checked out? Without a proper medical examination soon after the alleged incident, there’s no evidence an assault actually occurred.”
