“Father, what did you say?”
“He’s in a state of grace.” His speech was slurred from the bourbon.
“WHAT?”
Father Oreille wiped his face with his right hand. “Grace, dear God, a holy state of grace. He is guided by the Holy Spirit, I anointed him with sacred holy water given to me by the Pope. I’m sorry, but the FBI people warned me to keep quiet.” Father Oreille whispered softly, “God forgive me. Beth, I am sorry for yelling.”
“Why, Father? I don’t understand, how did Peter get involved?”
Father Oreille held his beads to his chest. “I don’t know; only God knows our paths. Nevertheless, your brother has become very important to the government. They warned me if too many people knew he could be hurt. They said the country’s security was at stake. Your family could be hurt.” Father Oreille shook his head, “My dear, I should have said nothing, I’m an old fool who talks too much.”
“You’re not an old fool, but why Peter of all people?”
“I don’t know why are we chosen to carry out God’s will. Who are we to question His choices? He died on the cross for us. He was chosen by God.”
Peter Mitchelli shot and killed six men. Six men killed. Trucks burned, six men killed! He asked Beth, “Dear God, you said six men were killed? How many trucks were wrecked?”
“Patrick said three; two were on fire and the third was shot to hell.”
“His wounds, how are they healing?”
“Father, I don’t understand.”
“For the love of God, answer the question! How are his gunshot wounds?”
“Ok, um, alright I think. Patrick did say he looked good. He was surprised how much weight he has lost…Come to think of it, he said he couldn’t believe how well Peter was walking.” Beth Mitchelli hesitated, her brother’s life flashing before her. She saw a little naive boy who used to sit and pray before a picture of Jesus. A toy gun in the elastic waistband of his pajamas, he used to whisper as he prayed to God, asking him to bear the burden for his family, their evil placed in his path. She remembered her adolescent brother pleasing his father by professing his desire to become a priest before he had met the love of his life. Later in his years, he would dress in his Reserve Sheriff’s uniform to direct traffic at parades, yelling at bicyclists for not obeying his command. “He always carried a gun, Father, even to church. He’s been ready for a fight his whole life. We always thought it was odd.”
“CHURCH!”
“Yes, Father. Sometimes he carried two guns. He’s been on edge since he was a little boy. As a child, we wouldn’t dare make him mad. My grandmother would tell us it was his nerves. Father, I’m sorry if I’ve angered you.”
“My dear, your brother survived two gunshot wounds. God only knows how many men attacked him at the marina; last night six men dead! Tonight, more car chases, a burning car in a field, and more dead men. He told me evil men would come after him and he would kill them.” The priest rambled, reassuring himself Peter Mitchelli must be in a state of grace. “The Holy Spirit must be guiding him. You’re a strong woman. Your family is special; you work and pray together. Stay faithful, I’m praying for your family.” Truth was, the priest was concerned about his own faith and judgment. Had he mistaken Peter Mitchelli for a crusader? Could he be involved with the Mafia? He continued, “You don’t need an intervention, but please keep our conversation within your family and use discretion with your siblings.”
“Don’t tell Phillip.”
“Well, ok. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Thank you, Father. Good bye.” Beth’s tone was confident; the priest had done his job.
“God bless you, my dear.” He placed the phone down on the receiver and looked at a picture of Jesus on the wall in front of him. He clasped his hands together. “Oh Lord, forgive me. I had to ease her pain.” I hope she believed me.
In her home, Beth Mitchelli faced her husband as she set down the phone. “Well,” he asked. “Is he going to help?”
“No. He doesn’t think it’s necessary,” she said. “Funny, he must have been drunk. His words were slurred; he went on and on about how Peter’s in a holy state of grace? I felt bad for him, what a bunch of bullshit!”
***
MacJames, Mitchelli, and Coarseni sat at her dining room table with numerous cartons of Chinese food scattered across the tabletop. Mitchelli had spoken to his family and his children. He did his best explaining there was a misunderstanding with the police and everything was fine. The ruse continued.
Maps and photographs of Olean lay between the cartons of food. “Angela,” Dom said, “I didn’t know the Irish liked Chinese food. I thought only Jews on Christmas Eve and Italians anytime they get sick of pasta.”
“Dom, I must be part Italian.”
“Both of you handled yourself great tonight. We could have done without the high school necking in the squad car, but what the hell. The kid Trooper got a lesson in Middle Aged Desperation Love, MADL.”
Mitchelli and MacJames looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
“What! Don’t give that look. You’ve heard of it, it’s been on all the daytime talk shows.” Coarseni raised his hand over his head in exasperation.
“Ok, please explain what syndrome Angela and I have.”
“Peter don’t encourage him, I don’t want to know how desperate I am.”
“Ok, Ok, Ok MADL is when single losers in their forties are so hard up to find someone; you know they can’t find anyone to hook up with at their jobs or in bars. So in desperation, because they always feel like fifth wheels when they go out with their married friends, they settle into relationships of desperation love. You know, pathetic, gross relationships with someone they would have never considered in their thirties, but in their forties, beggars--sorry I meant losers--can’t be fussy, so they throw in the towel and settle on any schmuck that comes along.” Coarseni hid his face in a box of Chinese takeout, stuffing noodles in his mouth with chopsticks. He raised one eye out of the box, expecting a violent reaction.
“Well, I’m thoroughly insulted.” MacJames poured herself a glass of whiskey.
“Interesting, Dom. Are there any books available on MADL?”
“Drop it Mitchelli, right now! I don’t want you analyzing me after every chapter. That’s my job, remember?” MacJames poured Mitchelli a large glass of whiskey, no ice.
Mitchelli studied the satellite photograph of Stoker’s Bridge; the CIA had discovered the dead body and car of Mitchell Garez at the bridge. “How many investigators are in Olean?”
Coarseni replied, “Two teams, a total of four men. It’s a small town; too many investigators would look out of place among the locals. Other than the footprints and tire tracks, they haven’t found anything.”
Mitchelli looked at Coarseni. “Nothing?”
“These small towns are tough, kid. They don’t like outsiders--even the Sheriff’s been tight lipped. These things take time, Peter. You can’t go in there and rough up the whole town. Pretty soon you have bartenders following you home and people running you off the road. Capisce?”
Mitchelli studied the photos, flipping nervously through them. Each image was a half-mile wider than the previous. The final picture had an image that was approximately fifteen miles in circumference. The photos showed heavily wooded hills surrounding Stoker’s Bridge. Mitchelli carefully studied the photograph, running his fingertip along logging roads. His finger pressed against the picture and MacJames noticed his arm was shaking at his wrist. She could also see he had a nervous eye twitch.
“Peter, what’s so interesting?” MacJames leaned over his shoulder.
“They’re hard to see, they’re obscured by the dense foliage, but I’m trying to find logging roads. They’re dirt roads made by logging companies. They use them to move lumber down the hills. They run from property to property; they’re like the highway of the woods.” He looked at MacJames. “Hunters and snowmobilers ride their machines on them.” Logging trails
, timber trails? I know who to call…
MacJames turned to Coarseni. “Dom, did the investigators trace the ATV tracks?”
“Not really. There’s a lot of rock around the bridge, you know, shale. They found some of those logging trails a day later, but with all the rain they have down there, you know it’s in the snow-belt. Storms blow in from the lake. One blew in when they were tracking Garez, and the tracking system lost communication with the satellite. They haven’t found any tracks other than at the immediate scene.”
“Dom, they couldn’t find anything? Give me a break!” Mitchelli shook his head in disbelief. “What the hell is going on? They lose Garez, he’s killed. The only clues are footprints and ATV tracks which go nowhere!”
“Hold on cowboy, we don’t know if he was killed. It looks like he fell and hit his head. Don’t be jumping to any fantastical conclusions, we have to deal with the evidence.” Dom turned to MacJames. “Right, Angela? You tell him.”
“Dom, they found footprints by Garez’s truck?”
“Correct Angela, by his door. Do you see Peter how we work with evidence?”
“Yeah the same way you tail a suspect, you lose it.”
“Funny, real funny; He’s a pip Angela, a real pip!” Coarseni popped a piece of orange chicken in his mouth. “We got ourselves a real Perry Mason here, except rather than prove his case in a courtroom he tries, judges, and kills the suspects at gunpoint.” Coarseni’s spoke quickly.
Mitchelli put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. “Jesus, what have I done? We have nothing, absolutely nothing.” He removed his hands from his face and stood staring out the window at the yellow rental car. “Hell, I must be mad. What was I thinking, yippee-ki-yay, cowboy! Peter, you’re a dumb ass.” Logging?
MacJames put her hand on Mitchelli’s shoulder. “Easy. Dom, tell us what we do know.”
“The footprints go from the ATVs to Garez’s truck door, then to his body and back to the ATVs.” Coarseni turned to Mitchelli, “They think the guy stood at the truck door for awhile, the prints were deeper and more numerous.”
“Mores was confident that Garez bought into the idea that he was drugged and had to get to his boss so he would call Mores for an antidote. More than likely, Garez spoke with someone who stood by his car door before he died.” MacJames paused. “Garez had to have made contact with someone before he got to the bridge.”
Coarseni quickly answered MacJames. “There were no phone calls made from the phone we gave Garez.”
Mitchelli spoke up. “Yeah, but Dom, they lost him. How much time went by until they found him on the tracking system?”
Coarseni studied the CIA report. “Looks like fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”
“Jesus, he could have built a signal fire in that time.” Mitchelli began swearing, “Son of a bitch.” He took the report from Coarseni. I’m crazy, Ann; you were right. I’m going to get my family killed.
MacJames sensed the stress building in Mitchelli. She had to calm him down. Mitchelli had been through two rolling gun battles and his nerves were frayed. He continued to question his involvement with Task Force E. MacJames blamed herself for getting him involved.
“Hey what do you want from me!” Coarseni looked at Mitchelli; he could see his frustration as well. He thought of what Mitchelli had been through the last month. “Hey, I’m sorry, buddy.” Coarseni looked at MacJames, then back at Mitchelli. “I’ll check in with the guys in the town tomorrow for any updates. I’ll call you in the morning.” Coarseni began to gather up his papers, stuffing them into his briefcase. He left the pictures on the table and made his way to the door.
“Dom, how do you think they found us tonight?” Mitchelli looked at Coarseni. Coarseni looked at MacJames hoping she would offer an answer. “Dom, I asked you a question!”
“Kid, I don’t know. Dumb luck, maybe they tailed us from the gravel pit.” He walked towards Mitchelli. “Maybe there’s a damn mole in our office. Bob has guys working on it. We’ll get these bastards and the mole if there is one, we always do.” Coarseni raised his arm attempting to hug Mitchelli, but he was too short. Mitchelli was in no mood for a hug, not from Coarseni, and the moment turned awkward. “Kid, we’re on your side, we not going to abandon you.” Coarseni noticed Mitchelli’s eyes; they were empty, hollow; overtaken by blackness. They were the eyes of a man who had nothing to live for. He had fought off his attackers and knew he was lucky to survive. Had his luck run out? Coarseni saw death in Mitchelli’s eyes; they were lifeless. He stuttered, “I’m going to go, you rest up kid. We’re getting an early start tomorrow.” He looked at MacJames. “Get him to bed, Angela. Oh jeez, that’s not what I meant! He needs to rest.” Coarseni quickly shut the door behind him.
***
Unable to sleep, Mitchelli stood in front of an oil painting lit by a dedicated light above it. Other than the painting, the entire room was black. He stared at the painting of a sheer mountain face. Far below, off in the distance was a very small picturesque village. Barely noticeable, clinging to the mountain face alone a mountain climber was wearing a red beret, blue shirt, and brown knickers. A large bundle of rope hung around his neck. His legs and arms sprawled out against the face of the mountain, clinging to it for his life; the outcropping of rock above the man impossible for him to overcome. Mitchelli stared at the lone climber and his lethal journey. No one around to help, he had to conquer the mountain on his own or die. The climber had no safety line; his situation bleak. He picked up a small vinyl black bag from the floor. He opened the kitchen sliding door, which led to the back patio and left the house into the dark night alone.
***
Mitchelli was in the back of a cab staring at his phone searching his contact list. Law, lawyer, log, logging that’s it, Buddy Boon, commercial logging. Mitchelli remembered he had attended a real estate continued education course regarding Cost Evaluating Vacant Land. Buddy Boon was a real estate broker who specialized in timbered property. Olean was in Cattaraugus County and Boon was the authority on vacant land, especially if it could be logged. Mitchelli touched his finger to the screen and the phone began dialing.
“Boon, what do you want?”
“Buddy, Peter Mitchelli.”
Boon spun around in his desk chair. “Peter Mitchelli, what the hell do want from me? Oh, I know you want a referral fee for that old school teacher with two hundred and fifty acres. Man did I overpay her, I lost my ass. You never asked for a referral fee; it’s too late now.”
“Forget the damn referral fee and I’m not buying; you lost your ass on her timber. You have tree sap in your veins, you made out.”
“Flattery is everything.”
“Do you know of any property near Stoker’s Bridge, maybe one that has a real protective son of bitch owner?”
“Nope, I don’t know of any property, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I never give up on a sale, especially buying timber. A sale may take me years but I’ll win an owner over or the kids that want a fast buck when they have to pay the taxes on the inherent estate.”
“Don’t be a selfish bastard, I don’t want the money for the timber. You can have it. I’ve never bugged you for a fee.”
“Well people change and get greedy; I’m not giving up my sources.”
“Buddy, I’m looking for a property with an owner that has some paranoid son of a bitch watching their property and chasing nosy neighbors away near Stoker’s Bridge.”
“You mean gun nuts who’d even scare a big manly forester like myself? Yeah, I could have a couple of those properties. Walked on them by mistake counting trees before I knew it I had a gun pointed in my face by some punk kid.”
“No way, you told my class you always go into the woods with a GPS.”
“Sometimes I’m forgetful.”
“I need the property location, text me the tax ID numbers.”
“No way, I’ve never given up on a sale, though I’m never going on that property again.”
“I’m sen
ding you a text stating that I want nothing for the timber and will give you exclusive timber rights on any property I’m involved with inside Cattaraugus County.”
“You asshole, you’d send that?”
“I would; and if I don’t get those property tax number in fifteen minutes I’m calling the IRS. That old women I referred to you with no fee, her son is a senior auditor with the IRS. He thought his mother should have received more money for her timber, without paying taxes of course.”
“I went through hell on my last audit. IRS bastards were in my office for a month. You dirty SOB, you wouldn’t? You’re a northern suburban pussy yuppie. You don’t have the guts.”
“Buddy, it’s pretty important I find the right piece of property without drawing any attention.” Mitchelli yelled into his phone, “You listen up, I would so do that, and more. What was her name, Greta Johnson? Send me the text, you have nothing to lose.” Mitchelli hung up and began texting his promissory statement to Buddy Boon.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 50