by W. J. Lundy
“You’re pretty good out here,” John said.
Robert didn’t look back. He changed direction and then turned back west again. “I’m following a game trail,” he said. “No place out here is unbroken if you know what you’re looking at. For hundreds of years, living things have traveled this plain and these mountains. You’re right, they’ll eventually try tracking us, but follow game trails, and it confuses the police dogs. They get mixed up, wondering if they are tracking us or a deer. The handlers lose confidence in their dogs. Pretty soon everyone is depressed, cold, and just wants to go back home. They’ll get lazy and frustrated.”
“That’s spiritual, Bro,” John said sarcastically.
Robert stopped and turned back. “My name is Bobby, not Bro—and it’s bushcraft, not spiritual.”
John dipped his chin and said, “Okay, Bobby.”
The big man bit at his lower lip then turned and continued his trek west. John closed the distance as the vegetation thickened. “So, Bobby, what’s with the rifle?”
“It was Grandad’s,” he said then lifted the back of his shirt, exposing the handle of a Colt 1911. “Just like this, also Grandad’s. He was in the real war.”
“The real war, aye?” John said. “World War Two?”
“That’s the one,” Bobby said, not slowing his pace. “Daddy had these in a locker up in the attic. He was planning to bring them to the hunting cabin and put them under the floor this weekend. He’d heard the Feds would be collecting soon, but we weren’t expecting them until next week.”
“Cabin? Where is that?” John asked.
Bobby shook his head. “We have a lot of supplies there: ammo, food, medicine, everything. But that’s no good. Everyone knows Daddy has a cabin up near Bear Hill. They’ll go there, for sure.”
John thought on it. Bear Hill was only a thirty-minute drive; it wouldn’t be a good idea to go there any time soon. “Homeland would be checking it out, but maybe in a week we could try it,” he said.
“Nope,” Bobby said. “The Legion will be rat fucking it. Probably already started. That’s the rule. One of us gets taken, the Legion will make any evidence of bad stuff go away.” He laughed. “But it still belongs to me. They’ll box anything they find and take it someplace safe.”
“The Legion?” John asked.
“That backpack,” Bobby said. “They’re the ones that gave it to you.”
“Wait, the old guy with the beard, he said you and your dad were members.”
“Dad mostly, but I’m a member also, even though I don’t know as much as Dad and Grandpa did.”
“The man said something about Emmerson’s Pass. What the hell is that? I’ve never heard of it.”
Bobby laughed. “It’s not a real place.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s sort of a rally point,” Bobby said. “I heard Gregory tell you that. He knew you wouldn’t know where the hell Emmerson’s Pass was, and he also knew any rat listening in wouldn’t know where it is. That’s why he said get over the big river at Emmerson’s Pass.”
“The only river around here is ten miles north, up by the old copper mines,” John said.
Bobby stopped and pointed behind them. “That’s why nobody is following us.” The big man smirked. “That little town of ours is full of rats. And your neighbor—”
“Karen Robinson?” John said. “Don’t even—she’s the nicest lady on our block.”
“Hell,” Bobby said, “Daddy hates that woman. Nice, yeah, as long as you’re doing her bidding. She’s a stooge. She’ll rat you to the city for mixing up your recycling.”
“She not on contract, she’s independent,” John said. “She’s like us.”
“Shit, she ain’t one of us. Yeah, she is indie only because she can afford to be. Her daddy left her a trust fund and that old house. The woman is dammed well off, but she hates that she can’t be part of the greater good like the rest of them. You see, if she signed a contract, the government would get it all in exchange for her subsistence.” Bobby laughed. “You should have heard her arguing with Daddy about it. She was so mad that she couldn’t go on contract like the rest of her yuppie friends on the block.
“Daddy said, ‘If it’s so damn important for you to be on contract, then give up the trust fund and live off the government titty like the rest of ’em.’” Bobby laughed again. “Boy, that woman went beet red, and she never did talk to Daddy again. Oh, she’s got principles, but not when it comes to protecting her livelihood.”
“I didn’t know any of this,” John said.
“Well,” Bobby shrugged, “most of it went down before you moved to the block. There was a big hubbub about joining the greater good back when President Joseph was elected and sold all of the national debt to the big corporations. She was big into recruiting, and then she read the fine print about surrender of property and assets. Oh yeah, her tune changed overnight then.
“Anyhow, by now, someone would have told Homeland that we’re headed for some Emmerson’s Pass near the river. We have people in the police department to take the Homeland where we want them. They’ll be looking at maps and see that there ain’t no Emmerson’s Pass by no river. But there is an Anderson’s Pass.” The big man’s grin turned into a smile. “And know what else is in Anderson’s Pass by the Menominee River?”
John smiled this time. “Let me guess. Bear Hill and your dad’s cabin.”
“Yup, that’s right. Dad’s cabin, and our man in the police department will make sure Homeland knows that,” Bobby said, “and by the time Homeland gets there, it’ll look like we came and took what we could and left again. Daddy has an old pickup truck addressed to that place, but now it is probably in the bottom of the river. People will call in sightings of it west of here. Homeland will be searching for that bad boy on the highway headed west instead of us up in these woods.”
“And this is the Legion’s work?” John said.
Bobby looked at him. “Not yet. I’ll tell you more about them later.”
“But what about Gregory? The neighbors will rat him out for what he did. Won’t they take him in?”
Shaking his head, Bobby said, “Gregory’s already gone. He’s been waiting for something like this to happen for ages.”
John closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “All right, you have my head hurting, Bobby. Earlier, you said you didn’t know where the hell we were going. Now you have this vast cast of characters and almost a solid plan. So, what the hell is Emmerson’s Pass, if such a named place doesn’t exist.”
Bobby chuckled and started walking into the woods again. He looked over his shoulder. “You know, folks at the VA say I got my head rattled and I’m a bit slow now. I went ahead and let people believe that because, to be honest with you, I don’t like people so much since the war. I don’t like their questions and the way they look at me. But, damn, all this time the neighbors thought I was the slow one.” He stopped and turned to John. “But, hell, you seem to be the one that can’t keep up. The lumber camp is Emmerson’s Pass. I knew all along where we were going but had to make sure I could trust you before I said so.”
John grinned. “And what would have happened if you found out you couldn’t trust me?”
Smiling, Bobby said, “Just as Greg said goodbye, he told me to put a bullet in your head if you gave me problems.”
Chapter Three
Sheriff Bill Ransom sat on the back of an ambulance, holding an ice pack to his already swollen jaw. The neighborhood had been swarmed with Homeland agents. Bill looked across the street and saw people surrounding John Warren’s home as more agents strung up yellow tape and began searching the house with wall scanners. Bill shook his head. If John had hidden rifles inside, they would certainly find them now. “All this for some damn guns,” he said.
“What was that?” A Homeland agent turned and looked at him. She had been writing notes on a ring-bound leather notepad.
Bill sighed. “Nah, it was nothing.”
“Yo
u said, ‘All for some damn guns.’” She shot him a false smile. The tall woman’s pockmarked face was spackled with enough makeup to make it look smooth. She was skinny in an unhealthy way, and her cheekbones pushed out prominently. Wearing a dark-grey pantsuit, she had black hair pulled into a ponytail and dark brown eyes that were currently locked on him.
He shrugged. “It’s just sad, you know. Four men dead because a couple assholes want to hold on to some relics of the past.” He paused. “A past we need to forget,” he added, covering his real thoughts.
He knew John Warren and the Newsome family. They were good people in this community. All three of them were combat veterans of forgotten wars, and that made them even more prone to peace. They never made trouble and were always helpful when help was needed. They were the type of men that, if you left them alone, they would keep to themselves for decades until a casket maker draped a flag over their coffin.
“Do you know the suspects?” the woman asked him.
Bill stared at her, his mouth clenched shut. He hated Homeland; they were nothing more than enforcers for the corporations. They would feign sympathy, but their only concern was with enforcement at all costs. He eyed her suspiciously, not speaking.
“I’m sorry, my name is Agent Jennifer Dawson. I’m with Homeland.”
“Ahh, I see,” Bill said. “Is this your show now, I mean Homeland?”
She shook her head. “I’m just a mid-level department head in Houghton. They sent me up here because I was the closest. Something like this, they’ll be sending in field experts from the Capital to take over. Once someone is assigned, they’ll run the show.”
“D.C.? Really, this is that big?” Bill asked. “What about the state police?”
“Sheriff, there were two Homeland agents killed today,” she said. “You know the collection laws. Regardless of where it happens, any violation falls on Homeland. Local and state police have no jurisdiction here.”
“And one deputy,” Bill added.
“And one deputy,” she repeated. “I had asked you earlier, did you know the suspects?”
Bill shook his head no. “Not really. The guy that lived there, his name was John something.”
“John Warren,” she said, looking at her notes. “You were serving a search request on him today.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. We had just started talking to him about it, when the commotion started over here.”
She held up a hand, pausing him. “What was the search request for?”
He dipped his chin and squinted, trying to remember. “A rifle and a handgun, I think. He had the proper papers, so we were about to move on,” he said, lying.
Her eyes lit up. “The same firearms used in the shooting?”
Bill shook his head no. “Like I said, he didn’t have them. He said he’d sold them years ago. We were just finishing up the paperwork when the thing across the street happened.”
She scratched at her hair with a long fingernail and pursed her lips. “Let’s hold the thought on Mr. Warren’s missing rifle and pistol.” She pointed back at the house. “Agents did a preliminary search of the property and came up with nothing in the man’s home. For now, let’s just assume he was armed, and it was his rifle and pistol that took down our people. He must have taken them with him when he fled.”
Clearing his throat, Bill leaned in. “It was an M1 Garand. The second suspect had it. I would have noticed if John had been carrying a World War Two battle rifle when he crossed the street.”
“How was it you managed to find yourself across the street, mixed up in an altercation with a civilian in tow, anyway?”
Bill closed his eyes; he’d been trying to think about what he would say to the question for the last half hour. Up until then, the only questions anyone had asked him had to do with descriptions of the suspects and where they had gone. He knew they would want specifics, and he’d been trying to close the gaps. “It was Agent Matthews. She wanted to keep Mr. Warren close. She had more questions for him and didn’t want him off on his own.”
“Close. Really? Well, why did she cross the street in the first place?” Dawson asked. “Why not stay focused on the task at hand?”
“That, I couldn’t tell you. I assumed the Homeland agent called her for backup. All I know is she began walking across the street and asked Mr. Warren to follow us.”
She looked at him and wrote several lines in her notebook. “I’ve been over there. The crime scene doesn’t make any sense to me,” she said.
“The entire thing was senseless,” Bill commented.
“Can you explain it to me?” she asked. “What happened?”
This was the crossroad Bill had been contemplating. If he lied, he would be ruining John and Robert’s chances for vindication. If he told the truth, he would probably be taken aside and shot in the back of the head. He needed to find common ground.
He sighed. “Ma’am, I have been sitting here trying to remember what the hell happened. I got hit pretty hard and woke up in that grass.” He paused and looked down at his dirty hands. “The last thing I remember is walking across that street with Agent Matthews and Mr. Warren. Then I wake up to an EMT asking me if I have been shot. Honestly, I was hoping you could tell me what the hell happened.”
She looked at him then slowly nodded her head and flipped through pages in her notebook. “One of the neighbors said they’d heard the shooting and came out just after the last shot. He said he saw you confronting one of the suspects, and he knocked you to the ground. Then they fled.”
Bill looked down and rubbed the knot on his cheek. “I wish I could remember.”
She pointed at his shirt. “Your body camera is missing.”
He glanced down and reached for the empty space on his shirt pocket just below his badge. He stood from his seat and looked down around him. “Oh—it must have fallen off when I fell. It’s probably in the grass over there.”
She held up a plastic bag with the shattered device. “Your deputy had his camera turned off; do you know why?”
“Homeland,” Bill said, looking at her, confused. She knew exactly why Tony’s camera was off. Homeland demanded these things not be recorded. But it was also why his own camera had been on against orders. “It’s Manager Nohrs’s policy to have them off when assisting Homeland. Something about preserving tactics and procedures.”
She nodded and smiled. “That’s correct.” She handed him the plastic bag. “Looks like the suspects smashed it for no reason. All part of it, though. They don’t need to know that we don’t record collections either.”
He took the bag and held it up to his eyes. “Can I have this? It’ll make requesting a new one way easier.”
She shrugged. “It’s useless to us. Do you know what would be at Emmerson’s Pass, on the river? It’s not on any of our maps.”
“Anderson’s Pass, maybe?” Bill said. “Why do you ask?”
Dawson pointed to a middle-aged blonde woman standing at the end of Warren’s driveway. She was talking to a pair of Homeland agents. Other men were walking out of the house, holding sealed brown paper bags. “She said as the suspects were fleeing, they were aided by another man, a Gregory Thompson that lives two houses over. She said that this Gregory told the men to get to the river at” —she flipped to a page in her notes and lined something out then wrote in below it— “well, Anderson’s Pass, I guess. That makes more sense. We tried to question Gregory, but he seems to have left.”
Bill looked out at Karen Robinson. He smiled internally; some people were just predictable. He knew if Gregory spoke those words in front of Karen, then he wanted them to be repeated.
He shook his head. “The old man, he had a cabin there. Not a resort or anything like that, but a hunting shack.” He sighed and looked down at the plastic bag before tucking it in his shirt pocket. “As far as Gregory helping them? I think I would take that with a grain of salt. Karen is… well, Karen is sort of one of our favorites.”
“What does that m
ean, one of your ‘favorites’?”
Bill smiled, took a step away from the ambulance, and closer to Dawson. He leaned in and spoke in a hushed voice. “She likes to tie up the hotlines. She is sort of the neighborhood watch you never wish you had.”
“Ahh, I see.” Dawson opened the notebook, flipped to a page, and wrote several lines. “Still, this Anderson’s Pass is something she heard them say.”
“Well,” Bill said, scratching at his chin. “Knowing Gregory, he probably ran out here trying to stop Robert from running away and hurting himself. The kid is a bit of a head case. He got his brains scrambled back almost ten years ago. I imagine Gregory may have asked Robert where he was going, and he probably said to the cabin at Anderson’s Pass.”
Bill waited for Dawson to say something, but she continued writing in her notebook.
The woman looked over his shoulder and then looked back to her notebook. “Looks like your boss is here,” she said.
Bill leaned out and looked behind him. A jet-black Cadillac Celestiq with diplomatic plates on the front had just pulled to the curb. Bill scowled. The price of that car could buy his department three new patrol cars. “Of course, he is here. No crisis can go to waste,” he said.
Dawson raised her eyebrows. “Is there some tension between you and the city manager, Sheriff?”
Bill forced a smile. “Absolutely not. The city manager is the ultimate authority in this town, just like the council wants him to be.”
“Is this sarcasm, Sheriff?” Dawson said.
Bill shook his head and turned around, crossing his arms. He detested the man, and whenever he spent time in his proximity, he risked going to jail for assault. Manager Fred Nohrs was moving toward him at a slow pace. Average height and heavy, bordering on obesity, he kept short-cropped hair over a soft face with a ruddy complexion. The man’s appearance completely fit his personality. Bill watched as the manager slowed and spoke to some residents, listening to them and shaking his head with false concern.