by D P Lyle
CHAPTER 7
Bobby Cain, Age 18
That Bobby Cain made it into the military was a minor miracle. For one thing, he had a criminal record—juvenile, sealed, and later expunged—but still a record. Surely the military had access to that part of his life. He had limited formal education. Some homeschooling as his gypsy family scurried from town to town, thanks to Aunt Dixie, and his adoptive parents, the Cains, had pushed him to a high school diploma. But his education had always felt haphazard, incomplete.
Degree in hand, he enlisted in the US Army. Amazingly, they accepted him. Even though his final two years of school were at a military academy, he had no real “military connections” to smooth the path. Everything indicated that his Army career would be uneventful.
Things changed a few months in. Thanks to the not-so-formal education he had received from his gypsy family.
Several of the “parents” in the troupe had offered lessons that aren’t available in a real school. Things like how to run a con, or lift a wallet, or a watch, or empty a purse in a heartbeat. Day, night, alone, in a crowd, each required a different approach and skill set.
For Cain, these lessons most often came from Uncle Al, Aunt Dixie, and Uncle Maurice, known as Uncle Mo.
Fighting lessons were particularly intense. “No fight is fair,” was Uncle Mo’s mantra. “The guy who fights fair, loses.” He taught Cain to box, wrestle, and what he called “grappling.” The art of taking someone of any size down with a single punch, or the literal snap of a finger, or out cold with a choke hold. Most of Cain’s “brother” opponents back then had been years older, and much larger and stronger. But, he learned quickly. The key, according to Uncle Manny, was hand strength. Strong hands win fights.
Uncle Al taught him that in a fight, everything was a weapon. Fists, feet, elbows, knees, your head. A stick, a stone, a chair, a lamp, and, of course, a knife. He showed Bobby where to hide knives in his clothes and shoes, even how to construct those that could be secreted in belts, hats, pocket linings, seams.
Aunt Dixie gave him a master class in the art of throwing.
Uncle Al taught him how to climb. Trees, at first, then poles, trellises, whatever it took to get inside a house to “go shopping.”
Then, it all ended. The FBI swooped in. The family had pending charges in several states. Mostly Texas, but also in Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, and a few other adjacent states. Essentially everywhere they traveled.
Home schooling was over. But it was his gypsy training—the skills he had learned from his various uncles and aunts—that pushed his military career in an unexpected direction.
SERE’s training. SERE stands for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. Basically, newbie soldiers were dropped in woods just outside of camp, given a basic backpack and a five to ten minute head start, and then hunted down. The recruit’s task was to evade, survive, and if captured, refuse to talk. Evading was difficult, capture and the mock prisoner of war camp wasn’t pleasant. Nor were the tiny boxes they folded “detainees” into. Or the bright light interrogations, or the water boarding, or the isolation, or all the inventive PsyOps techniques the “interrogators” imposed on those unfortunate souls who were captured.
Which was eventually everyone.
Except Bobby Cain.
Uncle Albert had taught him a bag full of evasive techniques. You just never knew when a B&E would go south and the cops would be on you. When a tree, basement, shed, drainage pipe, even partial self-burial could be a friend.
Cain’s SERE’s training took place at Camp Mackall, part of the massive Fort Bragg complex in North Carolina. In July. Hot and humid didn’t cover it. Neither did oppressive.
Cain thought the entire set up was borderline ridiculous. Sure they would be released, given a few minutes head start, and then tracked down. Okay, that worked. But if by noon you hadn’t been located and captured, you were supposed to come out of the woods and turn yourself in. The military didn’t want anyone to miss the pain and humiliation of interrogation. A rigged game. Cain wasn’t interested in playing ball. If they wanted evasion, he planned to supply it.
He and his fellow recruits were released in small groups, Cain’s consisting of six guys. They ran, weaving through the trees, maybe two hundred yards. Then the squabbling over which way to go broke out. Cain left them to their debates and melted into the forest. Better to be alone if flying low is the goal.
Uncle Al often said that most pursuers assumed you would run on a track that would put the greatest distance between you and them. In many cases this was the best strategy. Quickly create a gap and then go to ground. Sit tight. Let the pursuers scratch around until they give up. Other times, getting close was best. Backtracking. His thoughts were that they wouldn’t even start looking for you until they were beyond your last known location. “Who would run toward the hunters?” he always said.
That’s the tactic Cain chose.
He guessed he had five minutes max. He worked through the trees toward the main installation, toward his pursuers. In a heavily wooded area, he found what he sought. A depression in the landscape, between two scraggly pine trees. He fisted some soil, added a bit of water from his canteen, and lathered the resulting mud on his arms, neck, and face. He wriggled into the depression and covered himself. Leaves, pine needles, dirt, rocks, anything he could find. He began with his feet and worked his way upward, making sure the surface looked undisturbed. He finally balanced a pine bough over his face, inhaling its sweet, pungent aroma.
He waited.
At first the cool, damp earth drove a chill into his back, but soon his body heat warmed his cocoon. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and tuned in the sounds of the forest. Tree branches rustled in the breeze, a squirrel clawed up a tree above him, knocking loose bits of bark that tapped against his covering of leaves.
Wasn’t long before the first troops shuffled by. A good thirty feet away. He couldn’t tell how many but guessed four or five at least. Talking, laughing, making no effort to be secretive, not on the hunt yet. Thinking there was nothing to see until they got past the drop point.
Then they were gone.
Still, Cain waited. Insects crawled over his legs, arms, face, exploring, seeking food or a nesting spot. He ignored them, hearing Uncle Mo in his head: “When you go to ground, stay to ground. Movement can be seen and heard.” Bees and wasps buzzed the air above. Even the sonorous hum of bumblebees. The breeze shook loose pollen and leaf bits, which fell through the pine branch over his face, triggering the need to cough and sneeze, watering his eyes. He remained still, silent. He turned inside, slowed his breathing, floated on a calm lake. Another trick from Uncle Mo.
Two more small groups came by, each farther away, maybe two hundred feet. Then nothing. The forest sounds fell into their natural rhythm.
The light that filtered through the trees and his coverings showed that noon came and went. He remained “buried” until nightfall, then crawled from his “grave,” and worked his way toward the camp. He was now officially AWOL.
A nearby tangle of brush offered him cover and he slithered inside, waiting for the camp to settle into slumber. Midnight arrived. He knew his time was running out. At daybreak, his CO, a burly, whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking, by-the-book guy named David North, would be furious, and getting nervous. Fearful something had happened to Cain, he would bolster the search efforts, probably bring in the dogs.
But Cain had a plan. One that suited his skills perfectly.
No place is completely secure. One of Uncle Al’s truisms. Not a house, a high-rise apartment building, a bank. Nothing. There was always a way in—and out. This was also true for military bases. Cain found several exploitable defects in Camp Mackall’s perimeter security. A barrier undergoing repairs, a shallow depression that left a small gap beneath a chain-link fence, an unmanned gate that was easily scalable. He opted for the low road, and crawled beneath the fence.
Once inside the compound, he had the run of the pl
ace. It was two a.m. Any guards on duty worked the perimeter, not the inner buildings. He knew a couple of the barracks were not in use. Probably waiting for the next wave of recruits. He showered, first in his smelly clothes, and then out of them. He squeezed water from them as best he could, then redressed. They would dry. He grabbed two blankets from the storage rack at one end of the sleeping quarters.
Back outside, he scurried between buildings until he found the one he wanted. Provisions were stored in a large metal quonset-like structure behind the mess hall. Entering was a snap. No alarms, no guards, and the door lock was simple, standard issue. Less sophisticated than many of the houses he had breached. He went shopping. Bread, cheese, salami, candy bars, and bottles of water, another of Jack Daniels. The building possessed an attic area. Access by way of a staircase along one wall. It was empty. Just dust and solitude. His new home. Until he decided to give up the game.
He dumped his provisions. One more thing to do. Back downstairs he lifted the wall phone and called his adoptive parents, Wilbert and Ruth Cain, both well-respected and successful attorneys. Told them all was okay, but if the military contacted them, to simply act concerned, but know that he was in no danger. Neither was happy. His mother questioned the wisdom of such a move. But after Cain explained the entire plan, his father, who Cain knew had a streak of outlaw in there somewhere actually laughed, seeing the humor in it. Which garnered a rebuke from Ruth.
“Don’t encourage his bad behavior, Wilbert. What if they toss him out?”
“They won’t,” Cain said. “They need the bodies.”
He returned to his new quarters, ate most of his provisions, drank from the Daniels bottle, rolled onto a blanket, and slept.
He remained there for a full week. His major discomfort was the heat during the day. The building was air-conditioned, and some did seep into the attic, but not enough to make things comfortable. Just tolerable. Regardless, he ate well, slept well, and during the day listened to the camp noise. And read. He had found a cache of books, a flashlight, and a pile of batteries.
Almost reluctantly he decided it was time to come in.
At five a.m., he returned the blankets, showered, and entered his CO’s office. And waited.
The look on Sergeant North’s face when he walked in early that morning was priceless. Cain sat behind his desk, the detritus of his breakfast, muffin wrappers and a banana peel, littering its surface, feet propped on the corner. Glass of bourbon in one hand, a smoldering cigar—one of his North’s bootlegged Cubans he found in the desk drawer—in the other.
Anger didn’t quite cover it. North’s face purpled as if it might explode, his thick neck pulsed, the veins roping.
“Cain, what the hell are you doing?”
Cain smiled. “Surrendering.”
“Where have you been?”
“Evading. Wasn’t that the purpose of the exercise?”
North’s entire body coiled, vibrated. “Do you have any idea how much time and manpower we’ve consumed looking for you?”
“Quite a bit, I imagine.”
North stepped forward, teeth grinding almost audibly. “You’re going to love the fucking brig.”
“On what charges? Wasn’t I supposed to try to win the game?”
“The game?” The words exploded. North spun toward the door, yanked it open, and bellowed down the hallway. “Get the fucking MPs in here.”
The brig followed. For a few days anyway.
Then a guy showed up. Scrambled eggs on the shoulders of his uniform. A bird Colonel. Told Cain someone wanted to see him. In Langley, Virginia.
CHAPTER 8
Chief Laura Cutler stood atop a limestone outcropping and scanned the area. The scent of damp leaves and pine needles permeated the air. To the east, she could hear Wally Spicer working his dogs, their snorting and occasional yaps echoing toward her. She had called in a couple of officers—the department only had nine, including her and Jimmy Rankin—and they were searching to the west and south. So far, nothing.
Rankin pushed through the trees.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Nada. If Wally’s dogs can’t find nothing, I doubt we will either.”
“That’s true.” She skittered down from her perch, a few loose pebbles tumbling behind her. As she crunched onto the pine needles her cell sounded. She answered, listened for a beat, and disconnected the call. “ME’s techs just showed. Clovis Wilson, too.”
Cutler and Rankin exited the trees. Clovis stood near his blue pick up and the white ME’s van, watching the two techs, one male, one female. They squatted, examining the pig-mauled leg. Clovis’s face was ghostly pale and sweat peppered his forehead. The heat, or what he was seeing? Probably a little of each.
“Clovis,” Cutler said with a nod. “You okay?”
He looked up. “Yeah. Just a bit shocked.”
“Us, too.”
“What is all this?”
“Looks like we got a body dumped on your property.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Who is it?”
She jerked her head toward the two techs. “That’s what I’m hoping these folks can tell us.”
Moss Landing, like most towns in this part of the state, contracted with the ME’s office in Nashville for their forensic work, including body recovery and autopsies. Budget didn’t allow for any other arrangement. Farming it out was much cheaper than supporting a local coroner or crime lab. Which was rarely needed. The truth was Cutler couldn’t remember the last time the ME’s office had been summoned to this neck of the woods.
She stepped toward the pair. “I’m Chief Laura Cutler.” She flicked a thumb toward Rankin. “This is Jimmy Rankin.”
The guy spun on his haunches and looked up at her. “I’m Sean Baker. This is Melinda Wurst.”
“Thanks for coming,” Cutler said.
“What is all this?” Baker said, pointing to the leg.
“Tattooing, it looks like.”
“Never seen anything like this,” Wurst said. “Definitely not something that’ll be in our gang database.”
“I doubt this is a gang-related thing,” Cutler said. “They don’t come down this way.” She shrugged. “At least not yet.”
“Looks more fashion statement to me,” Rankin said.
“We’ll get our tattoo guy on it,” Baker said.
“You have a tattoo guy?” Cutler asked.
Wurst smiled. “We got a guy, or a gal, for just about everything it seems. But, yeah, we have someone who’s more or less an expert in tattoos. Helps us identify gang members and occasionally ID remains. Like this.”
Cutler nodded.
“These the only remains?” Baker asked.
“Got a partial rib cage and arm in there.” Cutler pointed toward the trees.
“Let’s take a look.”
They did. Baker and Wurst went through their in situ examination, took several photos.
“If it’s okay with you we’re going to start packing things up?” Wurst said.
“Fine with me.”
“Looks to me like the body was buried here, and predators got to it,” Baker said.
“Pigs most likely,” Cutler said. She pulled the tusk remnant from her shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Found this near the ribs.”
Baker raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know. Shouldn’t have touched it. But after I picked it up, to identify it, I figured I’d better hold on to it. So it wouldn’t get lost.”
Baker passed the tusk to Wurst who pulled a plastic evidence bag from her pocket and slipped it inside.
Took another twenty minutes for them to pack the remains into body bags and load them in their van. Cutler watched them drive away, then turned to Clovis.
“You see anything unusual around here lately? Past couple of weeks?”
“Nope. And I’m here pretty near every day.” He waved a hand toward the neat rows of green-leafed plants. “Cotton’s shooting up. Got to keep the bugs away.”
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“You haven’t seen anyone stomping around out here?” Cutler asked. “Maybe in the woods? Or a strange vehicle parked nearby?”
“Ain’t seen nobody.”
She nodded.
“Strange is what it is,” Clovis said. “I mean, who’d drop a body here on my place?”
“That’s the question me and Jimmy’ll have to figure out.”
Clovis pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. “Gonna be a hot one today.”
“Already is.”
Now he swiped his neck. “Well, I better get at it. We’re working my soybean field over by the highway.”
“Thanks for coming over,” Cutler said. “We’ll be clearing out of here soon. Let me know if you do see anyone, or anything out of the ordinary.”
“You can bet on it.” Clovis climbed in his truck and cranked it to life. He rolled the window down. “Let me know if you find out who it is.”
“Will do.”
Clovis drove away.
“What do you think?” Rankin asked.
“I think we got a killer on our hands.”
“You don’t think she was just walking in the woods. Maybe fell and hit her head. Something like that?”
Cutler looked at him. “We didn’t find any clothing, so that’d mean she was out here buck ass naked.”
“I suspect so,” he said. “But folks do some strange things.”
“You mean like getting themselves killed and eaten by pigs?”
He smiled. “Something like that.” He turned back toward the trees. “We got any missing persons around?”
“Not here. They had that school teacher go missing a few weeks ago. Maybe a month back. Over near Lynchburg.”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
“And as far as I know, she hasn’t turned up anywhere,” Cutler said.
“Doubt this’ll be her. All those tattoos. Don’t seem very teacherly to me.”
“Teacherly?”