by Scott Blade
“I always thought their job was pretending to be buyers to bust drug dealers.”
“Ninety percent of their job is probably surveillance. They are good at it.”
“You think? What’s it like being an FBI agent?”
“Ninety percent of my job is paperwork.”
“That’s basically my job.”
“Not much difference.”
“You sound like you don’t like it?”
Watermoth said, “I love it. I’m sorry. It’s not really all paperwork. That is a lot of it. It’s ninety percent details. We spend a lot of time combing over details.”
“Details, huh?”
He slowed and stopped at an intersection.
“You know how they say the devil is in the details?”
Collins looked over at her. She was staring back at Ryman in the passenger side mirror.
“I’ve heard it.”
“In the case of the FBI, the case is in the details.”
Just then her phone buzzed and vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and pointed at the radio. Collins took it to be a signal for him to turn it down. He pressed a button on the steering column and the radio’s volume went all the way down to a low hum.
Watermoth looked at the caller ID. It was Smith.
“Go ahead, sir.”
“Are you alone?”
“No. I’m with Collins.”
“Who?”
“State Police.”
“He trustworthy?”
“Yeah.”
Smith said, “Fine. Where is Ryman?”
“He’s in his own car. Why? What’s going on?”
“I tried to dig into Lee and him. I called over to the DEA. I called the head of their department.”
“And?”
“They’re giving me the runaround.”
“What else is new?”
“No. I mean, like the runaround. I’ve never had so much backlash for asking questions. They’re giving us zero cooperation, at the same time telling me they’ll cooperate fully.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Tell me about it. And get this. I called above me. I asked my boss to request files on Lee.”
“And?”
“The FBI director called me.”
“What?”
“Our boss’s boss’s boss. You know. The guy who signs our Christmas cards every year?”
“He called you?”
“Yeah. He told me that he’d take it as a personal favor if we’d stop asking questions about the SWATters and their crew.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?”
“He told me that the FBI’s official tasks here are to find Molly Lee and recover Sheriff Portman, if possible. And to find and arrest the guys who raided his stationhouse.”
“How do we do that without investigating the connection with the SWATters?”
Smith said, “Then he told me unofficially that the SWATters might engage in covert missions over the Mexican border.”
“What? Can they do that?”
“They can with the assistance of the Mexican Federales. Apparently, they engage in assaults and raids on drug farms and compounds over there all the time. From what he told me, they aren’t exactly by the book over there. Then again, over there they’re going by Mexico’s book, which ain’t by the book either.
“They play by dirty rules. They have to. The cartels aren’t going by the Geneva convention.”
“What kind of ops are the SWATters pulling over there?”
“If I had to guess, I’d guess everything from illegal interrogation, to illegal surveillance, to assassinations.”
“Assassinations? Of who?”
Smith paused a long beat. He said, “Watch what you say in your present company.”
“Of who,” Watermoth repeated.
“Of criminals. I hope. Anyway, it’s not our business. But it could be connected.”
“What if it is?”
“For now, Molly Lee is our main suspect and our only lead. It looks like she burned her house to the ground, and escaped custody. Stick to her for now.”
Watermoth wasn’t satisfied with that answer. She stayed quiet for a second, and then let her better judgment speak for her.
She repeated, “What if it is?”
“Joanna, you see smoke, you smell fire, or you feel the heat, you get the hell out of there. You drop it. Got it?”
Watermoth stayed quiet.
“Listen, I got something else for you. It’s a real lead.”
“What is it?”
“Our guys pulled all the records on Molly Lee. Something interesting was that she filed her taxes separately. Or rather a separate version was filed for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Turns out she’s a federal employee. Which means the IRS already knows what she’s paid. They’re sent copies of her W2 and her paystubs. Well, it’s already online for them to view.”
“No one here has said anything about her having a job.”
“Well, she did.”
“What department?”
“United States Department of Agriculture. More specifically, the United States Forest Service.”
“What the hell does she do there?”
“I don’t know. But turns out that she wasn’t using her married name. She goes by her maiden name.”
“Which is?”
“DeGorne. Molly DeGorne. Take a look at her records. I sent them over to your office.”
“We’re almost there now.”
“Good. Keep me updated,” Smith said, and he clicked off the phone.
Watermoth slipped her phone back into her pocket.
CHAPTER 32
WIDOW AND DEGORNE FINISHED DINNER, which had been a MRE, as DeGorne said it would be, and they stayed up sitting on the balcony of her fire lookout for two hours, before he realized the time had passed.
They sat on a pair of matching, foldable lawn chairs. Widow’s legs and feet stretched out nearly to the point where his toes hung over the side of the deck. DeGorne was far from having the same problem.
A wolf howled in the distance.
Widow asked, “How many damn wolves are out here?”
“I have no idea.”
“It seems like every night they’re up howling at the moon. And they’re everywhere.”
“It only takes one or two to howl enough for you to constantly hear it. You ever own a dog?”
“I like dogs.”
“I asked if you ever owned a dog?”
“Once. When I was a kid. We had a dog.”
“It have a name?”
He smiled and said, “Ronald.”
“Ronald?”
“Yeah.”
“As in McDonald’s?”
“As in Reagan. You know, the fortieth President of the United States?”
“Why not call him Reagan then?”
Widow shrugged.
“I was only five years old when we got him.”
“Anyway, Weirdo. Did he bark a lot?”
“Can’t remember. Probably.”
“That’s what dogs do. They bark. Wolves. They howl.”
Widow pulled a tin coffee mug up to his lips and took a drink from the rest of his third cup.
“Do you want more coffee?”
“Sure.”
“You love coffee, don’t you?”
“I do. Yours is better than mine.”
“Danvers liked some kind of Egyptian coffee.”
“Turkish. He has Turkish coffee. It’s good, but not this good.”
DeGorne rocked back once, pulled herself up to her feet with her momentum and said, “I’m going to have something stronger. You want to share? Instead of the coffee?”
Widow stayed quiet, thought about her offer.
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Look out there,” she said, and pointed out over the land to the distant wildfire.
&n
bsp; Widow looked.
“How often will you get a chance to have a drink with a woman like me out in the middle of all this?”
“That’s a good point.”
She smiled and went indoors. A minute later she came out with two rocks glasses. Both had three ice cubes. Both had vodka poured over the ice. She handed him one.
He took it, and said, “Can’t say I ever drank vodka over rocks before.”
“You sailors probably just shoot it, right?”
“In my youth.”
“You’re young now.”
“Not like I used to be.”
She raised her glass and offered it to him for a clink. He mimicked her gesture, and they clinked glasses.
“Cheers,” she said.
They each took a sip.
Widow said, “That’s stout.”
“Oh, what? You can’t handle it?”
“I was a Navy SEAL. I can handle it.”
“You were NCIS and a SEAL? How does that work?”
“I had a long career.”
DeGorne looked away, stared off over the balcony at the fire. She took a couple more sips and finished off her drink.
She turned back to Widow.
“Want another?”
He said, “I’m still sipping this one.”
“I’m having another.”
She got up and went back into the tower. He listened, sipped his vodka. He heard the same sounds of ice, glass, bottle cap coming out, and new sounds.
First, he heard something coming off. Shoes, he figured. Then socks. Then he heard something soft. Something cotton. Something different. Like fabric dragging across the floor.
Behind him, the light in the interior of DeGorne’s fire watch switched off.
A moment later, she came sauntering back out with a new drink in one hand and a thick, knit blanket in the other, casually dragging half behind her across the wood.
She reached her drink out to him.
She said, “Hold this.”
He reached up, and she set it down on the palm of his hand like it was a tray. Then she grabbed her chair and dragged it over to him. She slid it armrest to armrest. She turned around and flicked the blanket outward. She let the wind pick it up. She sat down next to him, close. The blanket floated down on top of them both.
She pulled her knees up and in. She took the vodka drink from him, curled up next to him. She said, “Take your shoes off. Get comfortable.”
He did as she commanded.
She said, “This is nice.”
“It is. Very.”
They stayed there for long, quiet moments. He listened to her breathing. He heard her heartbeat, felt it on his chest. He felt one of her hands on his leg.
They stayed there even longer. Not talking. Just sipping. Watching the stars. Watching the fire.
She said, “It’s getting pretty late.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
She said, “It’s a long walk back to your tower.”
“Yeah.”
“You should stay here.”
“You want me to?”
“I do.”
Another moment went by. Another wolf howled in the distance.
She finished her drink and set it on the floor. She turned toward him. She took his glass away and set it next to hers. Then she stood up. She took the blanket with her.
“Are you coming?”
He stood up, cold. And shuffled into the tower behind him.
She waited in the middle of the room. The blanket was wrapped around her. Something wasn’t right. Something was off. Something that wasn’t bad. Just off.
Then he saw it. She was moving and shifting under the blanket.
He waited. He stayed quiet.
She stepped back, gently, toward the cot. He saw her pants and her top and her panties. They were on the floor. She moved behind the Osborne Firefinder. She stepped over to the side of the bed and tossed the blanket back like a bullfighter’s cape.
She was completely naked, and spectacular. Absolutely flawless.
She whispered, “Do you like? Do you like, Jack Weirdo?”
Widow nodded.
“I would stare at you over a million wildfires,” he said. And he meant it.
“Come here?”
He came over to her. She sat back down on the bed. She reached over to him and used her fingers to undo his belt buckle. She took her time. She fought with his pants, but managed to get the zipper, the button both undone. She slid his pants down to the floor.
Widow breathed in and breathed out.
She looked up at him, whispered, “Take off your shirt.”
He did as he was told.
She slowly moved back up his body. Her fingertips were soft. She explored every part of his skin, and he let her.
She stood up on tiptoes, and whispered, “Kiss me.”
Widow embraced her. He spanned his hand across her belly. He smoothed his hands around her waist, until he was caressing her back. He pulled her into him and kissed her.
Her mouth was wet. He felt her tongue. He felt her hands move down his back, clawing him, gently.
They kissed for a long, long time.
Next thing he knew he was on his back, on the bed, and she was on him.
The California wildfire raged on far to the south.
CHAPTER 33
JACK WIDOW WOKE UP naked in a beautiful woman’s bed and he didn’t mind. Not one bit.
DeGorne was snuggled up to him, tight. She held onto him like no other woman had before. He held her back. Out there, in the middle of nowhere, it felt unlike anything he had ever felt before. She was incredible.
He let the fingers on his one free hand brush her hair. He listened to her breathing.
He must’ve watched her for forty minutes before she woke up.
Outside, he heard birds chirping, leaves rustled in the distance.
DeGorne’s avocado eyes opened, slow at first. Then all the way. She stared at him. A slow tear formed in her eye.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said and smiled up at him. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
She sniffled and another tear formed out of her eye. It streaked slowly down her face.
He brushed it away.
“What is it?”
“I haven’t been with another man before.”
He stared at her, and asked, “Like a virgin? I thought you were married before?”
“No!” she said, and laughed. “I mean with another man other than my husband.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a good thing, Weirdo!”
She poked at his chest.
She stretched in his arms, fanned herself out over his body. Her feet didn’t even reach his ankles, and her head barely reached his chin. She yawned, a loud yawn. Then she leaned in and kissed him, a long, passionate kiss. As good as the night before, if not better.
Then she sat up and took the blanket with her.
Widow dragged his legs out of bed and stood up, tall. He stretched out his joints and bones and muscles. He felt the bones in his neck and back crack. He yawned—a big bear yawn.
He walked away from the bed, passed the Osborne Firefinder, toward the sun in the east.
DeGorne watched him go.
She stood up and walked over to him. Her feet cracked as she walked across the floor. She dragged the blanket with her.
She stopped behind him. She stopped cold, and stared at his back. She pawed at three, small circular scars at the top and center of his back. They formed an uneven triangle, if connected.
She asked, “What’s this?”
“That’s nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Scars.”
“I see. But from what?”
“They’re from a long time ago.”
She was silent for a long moment. DeGorne had been told to shut up many times before, by her husband. She was afraid to push. Afraid to ask que
stions.
But Widow wasn’t like her husband. He was different. He was a good guy. She knew it. She felt it.
She said, “They look like bullet holes. Are they?”
He turned around to her, grabbed her, pulled her in to him, tight.
“They are bullet holes.”
Silence.
He said, “They were bullet holes. Once. A long, long time ago.”
“You were shot? Three times? In the back?”
He stayed quiet. He didn’t nod. He didn’t blink.
“How are you alive?”
“Molly, it was a long time ago. And a long story.”
She nodded, and hugged him, squeezed into him. She couldn’t reach all the way around him with her arms. He squeezed her back.
“I feel safe with you.”
He stayed quiet.
“Hey, what shall we do today?”
“Work?”
“We got all summer to do that.”
He wasn’t going to argue about it. He asked, “What do you want to do?”
“I have one thing I need to do later. I have to go over to Forman’s tower. I need to use the phone.”
“Okay.”
“You want to come with me?”
“Sure.”
Silence.
Then he asked, “What should we do till then?”
She reached up to him and whispered, “I know what I want to do.”
She kissed him, and they shuffled back to the bed. Back to doing what she wanted to do. What they both wanted to do.
CHAPTER 34
DANNY RYMAN HAD HIS FEET up on an empty desk in the Seattle FBI field office. Which was a place that he never imagined he’d be. His eyes were shut. His head back against a wall.
He sat at an empty desk, in an unoccupied office cubicle. His Glock 21 stuffed in his pancake holster, but off his belt. It was resting on the desk in front of him. He wasn’t pretending. He was asleep.
Collins was fast asleep on a sofa in an empty office. His suit jacket draped over him like a blanket.
Watermoth was awake. She was the first to wake up this time. And she liked it that way.
She was in her own office, but could see the other two because most of the whole floor was nothing but offices and business machines and desks, and a conference table, and all of it was separated by nothing but thin walls and glass windows.
Watermoth had woken up early because she had set her alarm on her phone to wake her up at five in the morning.
She wanted to wake up this early because the main office for the United States Forest Service main headquarters opened at eight in the morning and it was located in DC, which was on East Coast time.