While he was waiting, he pulled out his computer, typed up his notes from the encounter with Malloy. Sent them into Janet’s queue. When the bell above the door clinked, he looked up as two uniform cops came into the bar. The waiter brought out his fries, and asked the cops what they wanted today, encouraging them toward the patty melt blue-plate special.
One of them said something, gesturing toward Mac. Mac saved his file. Shut down the computer. Ate some fries.
“You just out at Andy Malloy’s Gun Range?” the older of the two cops asked him.
The cops were young, white and carrying enough weaponry to launch an assault on a Taliban stronghold. The slightly younger and taller of the two stood back, his thumbs hooked in his belt. Mac looked at the one who spoke to him.
“I’m Mac Davis, a reporter for the Seattle Examiner,” he said evenly. “I just wrapped up an interview with Andy — he invited me out there. Call Craig Anderson, he set it up. You know Craig? Over in Marysville?”
From the expression on his face, he did know Craig.
“Andy doesn’t like you,” the cop said.
Mac shrugged. “Andy doesn’t like most people,” he said.
“Maybe you should forget the fries and leave Arlington now,” the other cop said. “Be a shame for us to have to run you in on a citizen’s complaint.”
Mac stood up, started putting things in his bag. His phone rang. Janet.
“Hi boss,” he said, holding up one finger to the officers. They weren’t taking it well that he’d answered his phone. As if he gave a flying fuck.
“Yeah, I thought it was interesting. But get this. He put in a call to the Arlington police, and they came to roust me while I ate lunch.”
“What?” Janet said. “Are they there right now?”
“Un-huh.”
“Ask them for their names and badge numbers,” she ordered.
Mac looked up at the cops. “It’s my boss at the newspaper. She wants your names and badge numbers?”
“Fuck that,” said the shorter cop.
“Did you hear him?” Mac said. “Seems like an odd name.”
Janet snorted. “Don’t bait the man, Mac,” she said dryly. “Just read the badge on his chest.”
“Brown, L. #32,” he said. He squinted a bit. “Winters, C. #44.”
“What does she want with that?” Brown said, suspiciously.
Mac shrugged. “Janet, he wants to know why you want those?”
“Because I’m going to call the Arlington police chief and complain,” she said exasperated.
Mac looked back at the cops. He ate another fry. They’d been pretty good, but now they were cold. And cold fries sucked.
“She said she’s going to call your boss and complain,” he repeated. “And I’m going to get on my way, before she remembers she’s my boss and chews me out a new one for not heading directly back to the office.”
“We’re not done here,” Winters said.
“Yes, you are,” Mac said coldly, now that he was standing up and in a better position to defend himself.
“Mac, don’t swing first,” Janet warned him.
Mac laughed. “She says I can’t swing first,” he repeated to them. “Note she didn’t say anything about what happens if one of you punches me.”
The cook came out from back. “Gentlemen, if there’s going to be a problem? Could you take it outside?”
Mac used it as a diversion to slide past the officers. “Good fries, man. Sorry these guys screwed it up, and they got cold.” He tossed a $20 on the counter and with a nod, he exited the bar, the bell above the door ringing again.
“You still there?” Mac asked as he got back in his car. The cops were still inside. Maybe they’d eat lunch before coming out themselves. Or maybe they were waiting for back up.
“Yeah,” Janet said. “You OK?”
“I’m almost on the freeway, and headed out of Arlington. If I’m lucky, for good,” Mac assured her. He hung up, then called Rodriguez and told him what had happened.
“Sensei?” Rodriguez asked. “Doesn’t ring a bell, except you know as a cheesy gimmick thing in some movie.”
Mac laughed. “Yeah. Couldn’t believe he was serious. Still wasn’t sure until the cops showed up.”
“I’ll see about asking that guy from this morning,” Rodriguez said.
“You picked him up?”
“Yeah, he’s none too bright,” Rodriguez groused. “Who runs away from their arsenal? Without a weapon?”
Mac laughed, and focused on driving south through rush hour traffic. Damn it.
Chapter 4
(Tuesday, 6 a.m., Examiner newsroom)
Mac debated about whether do to a feature on Andy Malloy’s gun range. He wasn’t sure how much was bullshit, how much was a front for something else, and how much was for real. He kind of liked the notion of a certification program for those who wanted to learn about guns. It amused him it was run by die-hard anti-gun-regulation freaks, but there you go. He took a look at Malloy’s website, and sure enough the program was advertised.
Janet looked at him like he was crazy. “This guy chases you off with a gun, and you want to send newbie gun owners to him?” she asked.
Mac stopped to consider that aspect. “It is a good idea,” he defended himself.
“Mac, the world is full of good ideas, it’s who’s in charge of the execution of those ideas that matters. Go into any bar and listen to the guys at the bar. Enough solutions to the world’s problems to make it a paradise. Good solutions. But the world is still going to hell, because getting things done is the challenge. And having a gun-waving maniac teaching newbie gun owners how to use their weapons isn’t good execution of a good idea.”
Mac considered that. “OK, can I quote you when I send him an email telling him why there won’t be a feature piece?”
Janet rolled her eyes and went back to editing his blotter items for Tuesday’s paper.
Mac decided to shelve it all for the time being. He had enough small stories to keep him busy — he never lacked for copy. Maybe he could have regular hours and see Kate. He frowned. He hadn’t seen her much lately. They’d gone to a movie Friday night. But she hadn’t invited him to Sunday dinner, the first he’d missed in a long time. Time to do a relationship checkup? God, he hated those kinds of talks. They usually resulted in relationship death.
And then Rodriguez called.
“Want to listen to the tape of the interview with the man who killed his wife and kids?” He asked.
“You’re going to let me listen to an interview tape?” Mac said startled. Cops didn’t let reporters do that. Ever. Rodriguez was worried about something. Really worried. Even if he couldn’t articulate what it was.
“Yeah, but you better come over now, before I get cold feet about this,” he said.
“On my way.”
George Martin hadn’t been willing to talk about the actual murder of his wife and children. He’d lawyered up at that point. But he’d been quite willing to talk about guns. About the weapons he had, the weapons he wanted to get. About Andy Malloy and his certification program. And the guys he’d bonded with there.
Maybe he was willing to talk so freely because he was talking to cops who were all weaponed up? Mac wondered. Or maybe he just liked to talk about guns.
“So, what got you started with guns?” Joe Dunbar asked. Mac had met Dunbar before. He was a dogged investigator, but Mac had thought the department kept him away from civilians because he, well, was a dogged investigator who pursued questions a bit too far for the comfort of the general public. Not unlike Mac in that way. No one let Mac do touchy feelie stories either. Thank God. But there was Dunbar, a tall, thin Black man who look like a marathon runner or a long-distance bicyclist, interviewing this white desk jockey about guns.
A friend, of course. George Martin talked enthusiastically about a friend who was in this club for people who thought there was trouble ahead, and they needed to be able to fight for their families if it
came.
“It might be civic unrest, or a natural disaster, or a military takeover, an invasion from another country. But trouble is coming, and we need to be ready to fight,” Martin said earnestly. He mentioned the SHTF websites and Facebook groups. “It’s real, man, you know it is,” he said. “Shit is going to hit the fan.”
He was given the team photo picture and asked to identify the men in it. He had listed about a half-dozen names, when suddenly he stopped. “What are you going to do with these names?” he asked suspiciously. Day late, dollar short, Mac thought disgustedly, although he would be glad to get his hands on those names himself. But damn, the guy was gullible and stupid — stupid enough to run away from his arsenal, he reminded himself. He grinned.
Joe Dunbar just shrugged. “Curious, that’s all,” he said. “This is America. You can have all the guns you want.”
The man relaxed at that comment. “Damn right,” he agreed.
“Is there a leader you particularly like?” Dunbar asked. “I’d like to check this out for myself — personally.”
Should maybe have had a white guy ask him that, Mac thought sourly. But George Martin was happy to have another convert. He talked about Andy Malloy and Craig Anderson, and then he said, “If you want to really know about all this though, you need to go online. Facebook. Search for SHTF, and look for Sensei. He’s the one who really knows this stuff.”
“Online? Not local then?”
George Martin hesitated as if he hadn’t thought about it. “No, he’s in this region,” he said. “Western Washington. He’s been really good about specific advice. Like where would be best to go if there’s a big earthquake in the Puget Sound area? That kind of thing.”
Dunbar nodded as if this was all very sensible. Mac decided he was a better interviewer than he’d thought.
“Maybe I best add a white man’s picture to my page before I go looking though,” he said laughing, pointing to the team photo again. It was all white men, ages 25-45. Mac had noticed it too.
“Nah man, just tell him you’re a cop. He likes it when cops join up.”
“Why?”
Martin shrugged uncomfortably. “When SHTF we’re going to want to have law enforcement siding with us, you know?”
There was more chat, but nothing particularly new, until Dunbar started asking him about Sunday. “You were gone all weekend? More SHTF stuff?”
Yeah, he and his unit, about 10 other men, had gone up into the mountains in Skagit County to practice wilderness survival skills. He gave up a couple of names as “alibis.” And then he’d come home.
“And then you came into the house, and found the folder with divorce papers in it? Damn that’s cold,” Joe Dunbar said sympathetically.
“I need an attorney,” George Martin said suddenly. “I want an attorney.”
Joe immediately described the process to get an attorney, and that he’d wait in jail until one could be appointed.
“That’s fine,” Martin interrupted. “Call this number,” and he gave Dunbar a number from his phone, “and tell them I need to have representation now.”
Rodriguez shut off the video.
“Stupid fuck,” Mac observed just as Joe Dunbar walked into Rodriguez office.
“Hope you’re talking about George Martin and not me,” Dunbar said.
“Martin. Stupid enough to run away from his own arsenal,” Mac said. “That may become my new line about stupid. And then he talked to you for a half-hour about his gun fetish before he realized he needed an attorney?”
Dunbar nodded. “As you said, he’s a stupid fuck.”
Rodriguez rolled his eyes. “Any other bright conclusions now that we’ve got the obvious one out of the way?”
“So, who did you reach when you dialed the number he gave you for an attorney?” Mac asked.
“His personal attorney,” Dunbar said. “Poor fuck, it’s the same person who drew up the divorce papers for his wife.”
Mac winced. “And?”
Dunbar shrugged. “They handed him off to another partner who is more familiar with criminal proceedings, and he’s going to be here later. So that seems like business as usual.”
“Do I get a list of the names from the photo and from his ‘unit’?” Mac asked trying to sound hopeful. He was doubly surprised when Dunbar handed him a list. “Really?” Mac said. “You all usually aren’t this helpful.”
The two cops looked at each other, and Mac watched fascinated as they seemed to have a complete conversation with a few twitches and a shrug.
Rodriguez sighed. “Did you notice the comment about ‘just say you’re a cop’? They’re recruiting cops into this gun-nut club, Mac. And his comment about Joe to the contrary, I’m not seeing any black or brown faces in those group photos, are you?”
“You think this is connected to the white supremacists that surfaced last fall in the SPD?” Mac said slowly.
“I don’t know,” Rodriguez said uncomfortably. “I’m not sure they’re connected, or if I’m just afraid they will connect, and there will be hell to pay.”
“I want to know who this Sensei is,” Joe said. “I don’t like the sound of that. And I don’t believe him when he says I would be welcome in their Facebook groups. I’m going to try it and see what I find, but....”
Mac got it. “You want me to check them out because they’ll think I’m white and let me in,” he said as the lightbulb went on.
“Think you’re white?” Joe said. “Mac, you are white.”
“Says who? Not my mother — she doesn’t seem to know.” Mac shrugged. That bothered him less every year, he found. Who knew? Another few years and he’d find it funny. He kinda did now. “Never mind. Yeah, I’ll check and see whether a former Marine outweighs reporter. Have to create a page.”
“You’re not on Facebook?” Joe Dunbar said, startled. “Everyone has a Facebook page.”
“Why would I need one?” Mac said. “But I’ll get Shorty to set me up. Have you run the names he gave you?”
“Cleanest bunch of names I’ve ever run,” Joe said. “Not even an outstanding parking ticket.”
“But they’re real people?”
“Yeah, I added phone numbers to some. Addresses to others. They’re real. Just law abiding, financially solvent men who want a certificate that they know how to shoot an AR-15.” Joe rolled his eyes.
“OK, so you think this is a white supremacist militia form of preppers? Is that what I’m hearing?” Mac asked trying to get his mind wrapped around it.
“That’s about the sum of it,” Rodriguez said uncomfortably. “And it may have its tentacles into the police departments of the region. And they’re doing wilderness survival training. And collecting hundreds of guns.”
“And killing their wives and kids,” Joe Dunbar muttered. “Let’s not forget that part.”
“One did. And he could have just as easily used a butcher knife,” Mac said.
“Yeah, yeah, just what every gun nut says in defense,” Dunbar groused. “But guns make it easy. And quick. And too common.”
Hard to argue with that, Mac thought.
Chapter 5
(Tuesday, 5 p.m., Fairchild house in the U District)
Mac usually called ahead, but he’d been told it wasn’t necessary. So why was he sitting out in his car with a sense of dread? He sighed, got out and went across the street. Kate answered the door, and her smile was welcoming. Mac relaxed a bit.
“I didn’t expect you!” she said. “Come in! Can you stay for dinner?”
She led him out to the back courtyard, one of Mac’s favorite places. It had brick walls, although you could barely see them with all of the vines and shrubs that crawled up them. A big evergreen magnolia provided shade over the patio table and chairs. Since it was late April, Kate — or her mother — had pulled the table out into the center of the space where people could soak up some sun. He liked sitting there, just watching Kate as she fixed him some iced tea. He liked watching her. She was about 5-foot-6 w
ith long hair that she usually wore in a braid down the back. The first time he’d met her, she’d been baking and had two flour handprints on her butt. She had a nice butt — flour or no.
She sat down opposite him, got him to talk about his day, and told him about hers. Mac relaxed. Maybe he’d been wrong to worry.
“I missed you Sunday,” she said.
“I wasn’t invited,” he protested.
“Mac! You don’t need an invitation!” she exclaimed. “Good heavens. You’re always welcome here.” She looked horrified.
Mac studied her for a moment. “Kate?” he said. “What role do you see me playing in your future?”
She looked down. “That’s not... not a fair question,” she said.
“Why not?”
“That’s kind of up to you isn’t it? What do you want?”
Mac was silent. “It’s my choice?” he asked finally.
“More or less?” Kate tried. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I guess I’m waiting to see what you want.”
Mac snorted. “And I’m waiting to see what you want?”
She grinned. “Sounds a bit ridiculous doesn’t it?”
He laughed, and he was tempted to let it drop. But he couldn’t quite let it go. “Would you really be happy if we were married?” he asked. “I’m what I am. And it’s very different from the people you’re used to.”
She was silent. “I always pictured me with some children and a husband sitting in the pew every Sunday,” she said at last. “I want my children to be raised in the church, Mac. That’s important to me.”
Mac had tried going to church with her. He still managed it on special occasions, but he actually had an easier time dealing with Christianity if he stayed away from Sunday morning services. He was usually left dumbfounded, thinking ‘can people really believe this shit?’ It wasn’t even internally consistent, never mind in touch with reality as he knew it.
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