At a small parking lot marked BRIDGE VIEWING AREA just off the south side of US 2, he drew a Nikon Monarch twelve-power binocular from its case on the padded waist-belt of his backpack. He turned the focusing wheel as he surveyed the bridge as well as he could along its five-mile length. The midsection of the bridge was hazy from heat and humidity, and the binocular’s normally sharp optics delivered a fuzzy sight picture. He hoped to see some sign of the white van that was carrying the terrorists, but he knew that was almost certainly just wishful thinking. If they’d crossed to the southern end, they’d be long gone from sight by now. There were just too many motels for him to check in the Lower Peninsula.
He had the hundred dollars he’d kept from McBraden’s money in his pocket, so he stopped at a little burger joint along US 2 and ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Again, his rough-looking, bearded appearance and his backpack didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow among the staff; these people were used to all kinds. He went outside to an open-air table under a peaked roof in front of the restaurant, where he had a clear view of the Mackinac Bridge. He tried not to appear as if he were starving as he ate his sandwich, but he was feeling that way, in spite of the speed he’d taken. He hadn’t eaten since the day before, and now that he had a moment to relax, he was ravenous.
He was also exhausted. The speed was keeping him awake, but he felt as though someone were holding him up by his shoulders. His knees and hips ached, and his feet throbbed. He needed to sleep. He was feeling every year of his age, and he’d pushed his body beyond its threshold; he was keeping himself moving only through toughness now. Rod rotated his shoulders and stretched his neck from side to side as waves of exhaustion washed over him. The Dexedrine was wearing off.
He had enough money left to rent a motel room for the night, but that probably wouldn’t be a good idea. By now, there was definitely a warrant for his arrest, and every police officer in the Upper Peninsula was probably eager to protect the population from a survival instructor gone mad. The past two days had seen more excitement than the UP had had in the past twenty years, and cops who were used to nothing more shocking than a rowdy drunk were probably a little trigger-happy over multiple murders on Betsy River.
Instead, he worked his way down to the lake shore at the Straits of Mackinac on the Lake Michigan side. There were lots of houses there along the shoreline, most of them seasonal residences or inhabited by the elite of Saint Ignace—doctors, lawyers, judges. A rough-looking character like himself would seem out of place there, but it offered a clear view of the bridge, and he didn’t plan on being conspicuous, or even seen.
At the lake shore, he found a copse of poplar trees between two of the typically spacious houses that lined a gravel road. The houses were spaced about seventy-five yards apart, with lots of dogwood bushes growing at the roadside. He found a dry hummock in an undeveloped lot about midway between two of them where he would not be seen by occupants of either house, but still have a clear view of the bridge.
He laid a pallet of dead branches side by side on the ground to prevent his body heat from being absorbed into the earth, and then padded the insulating layer with dried leaves and bracken ferns gathered from the surrounding area. Finally, he covered himself with a layer of ferns that would inhibit his body heat from radiating into the atmosphere while he slept.
He felt secure in this little niche. Using his backpack as a pillow, he snuggled into his sleeping nest. Fatigue washed over him as he fell asleep almost immediately.
Chapter Twenty-One
PARADISE
Colyer had driven back to the Betsy River after Shannon dropped him at his car. He’d spent the entire night at the grisly murder scene with state police forensic investigators, trying to piece together what had happened.
He’d decided not to let local and state police agencies know anything more than they already knew; not yet. He’d put together what he thought was a pretty feasible theory, but it would sound crazy to cops who were used to nothing much ever happening in their neck of the woods. And even if local authorities did believe him, there was a real likelihood that they’d do something to tip off the men he was after.
What if the submarine that had been scuttled by its own crew off the east coast of Canada had delivered the four men that Shannon had tracked for him? The Eyes-Only report from the US sub had claimed that the diesel submarine had discharged four men. If these were the same men, where had they come from, and who were they? Money was apparently no object; an undocumented submarine, by itself, denoted millions of dollars spent to achieve an objective that had obviously been deemed worth the expense. Discarding a new Zodiac on the shore of Lake Superior would have been an insignificant expense compared to the money that had already been spent to reach Canada.
Whatever their objective was, it was worth murdering people as well. In fact, the deaths of the people at Betsy River seemed to have been merely peripheral to the main objective. They were acts of convenience rather than an end in themselves. The thought that murder and torture would be committed as easily as it appeared to have been indicated an important goal for the perpetrators, and a potential catastrophe for the United States.
But were the people who’d been killed been an active part of the scheme, or had they simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? It had been easy to determine the identities of the dead woman and two of the men—they appeared to be who Shannon said they were. The third man, the one who’d been more or less decapitated, was a ghost. Colyer hoped that his DNA might reveal who he was, but a cursory search so far had come up with zilch. Fingerprints, face . . . so far the CODIS system had turned up nothing, and INTERPOL was still looking for a match.
When Colyer reached the village of Paradise, within sight of a cell tower, he pulled over and checked the reception of his cell phone. The bar graph was solid. He dialed up Lieutenant Perkins at the state police post in Sault Sainte Marie.
“Hello Tom,” Perkins answered. “Are you at your office?”
“No, I’m in beautiful downtown Paradise.” The sarcasm was thick in his voice—for Colyer, this collection of decaying buildings was pretty far from living up to its name. From where he sat in his car, he could see the entire village. If he were to tell the people he saw going about their business that multiple murders had occurred the day before, they’d never have believed him.
Perkins seemed to be reading his thoughts. “I know you’ve been up all night with the forensics guys, but I thought you might be interested in a carjacking that happened early this morning at the 123 and 28 intersection.”
“A carjacking here?”
“Yupper, but that’s not the part that’s really interesting. The middle-aged male who jacked the car at pistol point actually told the victims to dial 911, and then he took off and left them with a fistful of cash and a half-naked man tied up on the side of the road.”
“That’s weird,” Colyer said.
“Yeah, and the man he left them with is Timmons McBraden, the son of retired Sheriff Dennis McBraden.”
“And?” Colyer was tired and he was getting a little grumpy.
Perkins noted Colyer’s impatience. “And he’s been out of sight for the past two years; completely off the radar. Now he’s been dropped at the side of the road by a carjacker who fits the description of your ex-con survival instructor, right down to the big knife that he’s known to carry.”
“Rod Elliot?”
“Yeah. You know who he is? The prosecutor considers him a prime suspect in the murders on the Betsy River.”
Colyer bit off a reply. Rod Elliot hadn’t killed his own survival students, he was sure of it. But he didn’t want to reveal too much of what he thought. Not yet.
Instead he asked, “Do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know,” Perkins answered. “Doesn’t matter anyway. The judge has issued a warrant. We have to arrest him for questioning.”
“Okay, thanks for the tip, Jim. I’ll follow up on it. Meanwhile, lean on the sheri
ff a little, will you? Tell him this is a federal case, and the Bureau wants McBraden kept under wraps for now. I’ll tell you more when I’m able.”
Colyer pushed the end button. It was rude to hang up that way, but he didn’t want to give Perkins a chance to ask more questions. He laced his fingers together and leaned the back of his head against his palms. He closed his scratchy eyes and let out a long exhale. God, he was tired, both physically and mentally. He needed sleep if he was going to be effective on either count.
He decided that he’d get a room at one of the motels in Paradise. No sense driving back sixty-five miles to Sault Sainte Marie when nearly all of what he needed to see and do was in this vicinity.
He’d better call Lanie and tell her not to expect him for dinner. He punched his home phone number into his cell. After three rings, the machine picked up, and he left her a message. She’d be disappointed, but being an ex-cop herself, she’d understand. She’d spurned a badge after their relocation to the Upper Peninsula, preferring to be a full-time, stay-at-home wife. It was a decision he heartily agreed with—but she knew that sometimes doing the job meant staying away from home.
Paradise had an abundance of motels for its size, so he snugged his necktie and smoothed some of the wrinkles from his jacket and trousers before checking into the one he was closest to. When he walked through the door and into the office, he was met by the faint smell of a litter box that needed emptying, and the flowery scent of room deodorizer. There was no one at the desk, so he tapped the desk bell twice. He heard a door open in the back. Seconds later, a balding man of about sixty appeared, dressed in a clean, white tank-top undershirt and faded blue jeans. The clerk wiped his hands on the front of his shirt as he finished chewing a mouthful of his breakfast.
The clerk appraised his suit, rumpled from trying to keep up with Shannon Elliot in the forest, with a critical eye. He seemed to take an inordinate interest in the manner of Colyer’s dress; not many people wore suits and neckties in this area, and most of those didn’t look like they’d been up all night hunting deer in them.
“Welcome to Paradise,” the clerk said. Colyer was glad that he hadn’t extended a greasy hand for him to shake. “Can I get you a room?”
“Yes,” Colyer answered simply. What’d he think he was there for?
“Okay, I just need you to fill out this card.” The clerk slid a small sheet of paper toward him across the desk. It was a boilerplate form that asked the questions every motel asked when it rented one of its rooms. Colyer filled it out as a civilian, never letting on that he was here in an official capacity. The clerk noted that he knew his driver’s license and license plate numbers without looking at them.
“How long will you be staying with us?” the clerk asked nonchalantly as he studied the completed card perhaps a little too intently.
Colyer grinned. “I’m not sure yet. Let’s take it one day at a time.”
“Okay,” the clerk said, handing him an old-fashioned room key—no electromagnetic strip cards at this motel. “That’ll be $75 for the first night. Checkout is at 10. My name is John,” the clerk said with a rehearsed smile. “If you need anything, just ring me at the front desk. To get an outside line, you need to dial 9 first.”
Colyer paid the man and asked for a receipt. The tag attached to the brass key said it was for room thirty-seven, facing Whitefish Bay. Good, that was out of sight of the office, so he’d be spared scrutiny from this obviously inquisitive manager. The manager watched intently as Colyer drove the Charger around to his room.
He had a small bag in the back seat that he always carried on road trips for cases that might demand he spend a day or two away from home. In it were a razor and other toiletries, as well as a change of socks and underwear. Hanging from a hook on the door stanchion between the front and back seats, was a garment bag with a fresh suit and tie. The FBI wasn’t understanding of agents who looked slovenly, no matter where they were.
The room was dark and musty smelling when Colyer opened the door, but it was cooler than the outside, which was already growing uncomfortably warm. Colyer laid his garment bag on the other bed, then set his overnight bag next to it. He flopped onto his back atop the opposite bed, and fell instantly asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
BOMBMAKING
Aziz and Grigovich awoke to the bedside alarm clock buzzing at 6 AM. Today was the last day that bridge workers would be permitted to perform maintenance on the structure before everything was cleared in preparation for the annual Labor Day Bridge Walk, less than three days from now. Aziz felt almost giddy with excitement.
They were ready. Aziz’s carefully selected and highly trained team of demolition experts may have been reduced to half its size, but they were ready for that, had been ready for it since training in Afghanistan. Satan himself seemed to have frowned on their mission, and everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. But Aziz believed that those difficulties had been just tests of his faith and determination. Holy Allah had seen fit to bring them to within sight of the goal, nevertheless. They were so close now that nothing could stop them. Allah be praised.
Aziz wasn’t ordinarily a devoutly religious Muslim. He’d seldom prayed properly these past few weeks. But this was a special day, and he felt that it would be prudent to ask Holy Allah to guide his hands in the tasks that lay ahead today. He didn’t have a proper prayer rug, but the throw rug in the bathroom would have to do. He brought it into the motel’s main room and laid it out flat at the foot of the beds. Then he faced east, toward the rising sun, more or less, and prostrated himself to his god.
Grigovich twisted his knuckles into his sleepy eyes, but said nothing. His bladder was full, and his first function of the day was to relieve himself. He walked to the bathroom wearing only his underwear, and urinated noisily into the bowl, farting loudly as he did. He’d left the door standing wide open. Aziz glared at him from his prostrated position, incensed that his morning prayers had been so rudely interrupted. But he said nothing; it would do no good to give this muscle-bound imbecile a dressing-down, because he was always going to be a simple-minded moron. Aziz would just be wasting his breath.
When Grigovich had finished, he flushed the toilet—his time with Aziz had at least conditioned him to do that much—then he stepped in front of the bathroom mirror to squeeze blackheads that had been erupting on his face since they’d entered the woods. Aziz looked at his companion with disgust, and then went back to his praying. At least he had showered last night. They both had, reveling in the streams of hot water as they rinsed away several days’ worth of bug guts, sweat, and grime that had accumulated during their time in these horrible woods. Aziz never wanted to see a forest again.
Grigovich was tenser than Aziz about the events of this day, but it wasn’t evident. He hated Americans as much as ever, and he was determined to see this mission through. Richarde had been his friend. Their Arab handlers in Afghanistan hadn’t permitted them to consume alcohol, but he remembered several times when they had sneaked off together to smoke opium and drink bootleg whiskey. He’d never much liked McBraden, and he didn’t miss him at all, but he missed Richarde. The anger that he felt at having his friend nearly beheaded by that fucking American justified what he was going to do to this country’s typically bloodthirsty culture.
Aziz finished his prayers and stood up. Then he went into the bathroom to relieve himself. He closed the door. Meanwhile, Grigovich busied himself with rechecking weapons once again. This he was good at. The fifteen pounds of C4 explosive that each of them carried was packaged in a fifty-caliber ammunition box that had been repainted with a flat, black automotive primer. Inside each can, fifteen one-pound blocks of foil-packaged C4 were stacked peripherally around a baseball-size sphere of plutonium.
Inserted equidistantly into the packed plastic explosive at four points were electrically detonated Class B Match-type blasting caps. The detonator wires of each cap were spliced to similar wires on the other three caps, then soldered
to a single detonator-switch wire. The two detonator-switch wires terminated at either pole of the ringer circuit in a cellular Tracphone. The Tracphone was turned off, and the wires to its ringer circuit were shunted together with an alligator-clip jumper wire for safety. With all of the generators and electrical equipment that were in operation on the bridge, they wanted to minimize the chances of accidental detonation from spurious, sixty-cycle electrical emissions. When the bombs were placed, only then would they turn on the telephone and remove the jumper clips. When the jumpers were removed, dialing the ten-digit number of the corresponding Tracphone would result in a powerful, radiation-spewing fireball.
Mounting the ammo box bombs to the bridge was simple. In their pockets, they carried big magnets, purchased from a novelty catalog. When they found a suitable place, they’d simply stick the magnet to a bridge support, and then stick the box to the magnet. After that, they’d withdraw to a safe place where they could watch the bridge. At just the right moment—when the governor was within range—either he or Aziz would dial the number of the northern bomb. Right after that, when panicked walkers were fleeing in the opposite direction, he’d dial up the southern bomb. Grigovich smiled when he envisioned the amount of anarchy that would ensue. He wasn’t as pathologically bloodthirsty as Aziz, but he loved blowing up stuff.
While Grigovich went over the bombs, and then disassembled and cleaned the pistols, Aziz went out to the van with two plastic magnet-mounted signs. Like their white coveralls, the signs read JACKSONVILLE PAINTING. Brenda Waukonigon had had them made for him before they’d landed in Canada, and they’d been in the duffel when he’d picked up the van. Now he smoothed the signs over the plain panels of the van on either side, flattening and straightening them until they looked just right to him.
When he went back into the motel room, Grigovich had cleaned and reloaded not only his own pistol and Aziz’s revolver, but Richarde’s 9-millimeter Beretta. An expert with firearms as well as explosives, Grigovich had prudently emptied the guns’ magazines and speed loaders, replacing the cartridges with fresh rounds to help ensure that there couldn’t be a misfire if they were needed. A lot of soldiers and police had been killed because bullets had worked loose from their crimps, especially on the first round. A loose bullet might allow condensation to enter, causing the first round to misfire. He’d even disassembled the magazines themselves, removing the floor plates, stretching the feeder springs, and smoothing the cartridge follower platforms so they slid against the magazine walls with silky smoothness. With nothing left to do, and an abundance of nervous energy to burn off, Grigovich was polishing the bearing surfaces of each gun’s action with a tissue when Aziz walked in.
The Mackinac Incident Page 12