The Dark Trail

by J. C. Fields

  Both men nodded. Knoll said, “I take it we aren’t going to enlist the help of the local FBI Field Office?”

  “Not right now. Joseph told me the president wants our task force to accomplish this by ourselves. Why, I wasn’t told. But for now, we keep it within our little group.”

  Chapter 20

  Laramie, WY

  Numbers swirled within the mind of Dorian Monk as he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. Quadratic and Polynomial equations were his relentless companions during these occurrences, blocking out all other perceptions and thoughts. In more lucid moments, he knew one day the equations would take over and he would succumb to their allure. The episodes were becoming more frequent and longer. When they happened, he remained catatonic. Once they passed, the agony of the headaches left his eyes bloodshot and his body exhausted. Sleep an impossible occurrence.

  A knock on the apartment door went unanswered as he watched the equations speed across the ceiling. The time was 4:23 in the afternoon and the visitor eventually went away.

  After sunset and darkness prevailed, Monk sat on the side of the bed, exhausted and nauseous. He held his head with both hands as he leaned over trying not to retch. Tears streamed from his eyes as every neuron in his brain felt consumed by flames.

  His distrust of doctors kept him from seeking professional help—plus he did not want to be placed under sedation for fear of revealing his identity. He would live with the agony for now. If, and when, it got worse, there was always the option of placing the Glock 30 under his chin and pulling the trigger.

  ***

  Jimmie Gibbs walked through the parking lot of the Castleberry Arms Apartment complex. With the sun past its zenith and tenants going about their day, his interest in the vehicles parked around the buildings went unnoticed. He wandered nonchalantly among the parked pickups and SUVs looking for anything to identify their quarry. To his surprise, parking slots were assigned to the individual apartments. Sitting in the slot for apartment A3 sat a white 2008 Chevy Equinox with a Wyoming plate. After checking the VIN plate visible through the front windshield, he confirmed it was the one purchased in Cincinnati. He took a picture of the license and sent it directly to JR. With this accomplished he continued his casual walk around the parking lot.

  Ten minutes after finding the SUV he sat in the passenger seat of a GMC Denali with Sandy Knoll behind the wheel. Gibbs stared at the message just received from JR.

  “Got him. License is registered to Dorian Mathews with an address in Cheyenne.”

  Knoll nodded. “Okay, now the fun begins. We wait.”

  Gibbs glanced around, looking for an inconspicuous location to park. “Where?”

  The area to the south of the isolated apartment building offered only an empty field for half-a-mile before turning into a small subdivision of single-family homes. To the east lay a large industrial building with few cars in the parking lot. Across the street, the land to the west held manufactured homes behind a privacy fence. A track of modest single-family ranch-style homes were north of their location.

  Twisting his head in several directions, Knoll shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

  Without a good solution to their problem, Knoll parked the rented Denali on Venture Drive next to the apartment complex. Ten minutes later, Gibbs watched a silver 2013 Chevrolet Silverado pull into the parking lot and stop in the slot next to Monk’s Equinox. A tall, slender man in jeans, cowboy boots and an untucked white polo shirt walked toward Monk’s apartment. The man’s stride held purpose as he approached.

  Both Knoll and Gibbs watched as he pounded on the door. After knocking several times, the man placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. He then looked in the window next to the door. A few moments later, the man returned to his truck and drove away.

  “Now what do you suppose that was all about?” Knoll had placed his massive arms on the steering wheel and rested his chin on them.

  With a grin, Gibbs said, “Don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Why don’t you follow the Chevy and I’ll check Monk’s apartment?” He slipped out of the SUV and walked toward apartment A3.

  Knoll waited until the truck passed him to put the Denali in gear and follow.

  Extracting a slim metal shim out of his billfold, Gibbs opened the cheap door lock on the apartment in less than fifteen seconds. When he was inside, he stood still and listened. The only sound he heard came from a refrigerator in the small kitchen next to the living area.

  Darkness prevailed as the only illumination available came from the window by the door. Cheap plastic blinds were closed and covered by a light-blocking curtain. But enough light seeped through the crack where the two panels met for him to see a hallway leading to the bedrooms. The apartment was small and orderly. The only furnishings in this room were two reclining chairs with an end table between them and a table lamp on top. Gibbs noted the absence of a TV. The kitchen was likewise sparsely furnished with a small wood dining table and two chairs. He spotted one of the objectives of his home invasion on the kitchen table—a cell phone.

  Gibbs silently walked toward the hallway and stopped before going farther. The sound of a man breathing hard and fast could be heard. He withdrew the Sig Sauer P226 from its holster at the small of his back and held it in his right hand.

  The light from the front window barely penetrated the apartment gloom, but there was enough for Gibbs to determine someone lay on a bed in the first bedroom. The breathing sounds came from this individual. As Gibbs’ sight adjusted to the gloom, he could see the eyes were opened but unfocused. The man’s chest moved up and down with rapid breaths. They would stop every once in a while and then commence again several moments later, only harder.

  Medical training as a Navy Seal allowed him to recognize the man was having a seizure of some kind. His first inclination was to help, but after taking one step into the bedroom, he remembered the purpose of his intrusion. Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he backed up, steadied himself against the door jam and took a low-light picture of the figure on the bed.

  Without making any additional sounds, Gibbs returned the Sig Sauer to its holster and went back to the cell phone on the kitchen table. He attached a small device to the charging port and counted to ten, just like JR instructed. When he was done, he put the device back in his pocket and slipped out of the apartment.

  As he passed the SUV parked in the slot marked for A3, he placed a device in the rear driver-side wheel well. With this accomplished, he made a call to Sandy Knoll.

  “Our door knocker just entered a biker bar on the northern city limits. What’d you find out?”

  “Monk’s having some type of seizure.”

  “Should we call an ambulance?”

  Gibbs was silent for a few moments as he debated the pros and cons. “If we do, he’ll know someone was in his apartment and will probably disappear again. When I was going through EMT training with the Seals, we were taught that most seizures subside after a while and generally do not cause damage. If he had been convulsing, I would have called one, but he wasn’t.”

  “So, you’re saying, leave him alone.”

  “Yeah, guess I am.”

  Knoll chuckled. “I just heard from Clark. He’s in town.”

  “Okay, I’m going to hang out here for a while and keep an eye on Monk.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on Slim and have Clark join you.”

  “Sounds good.”

  ***

  As dusk turned to night, Gibbs opened the door of the Ford Fusion and sat in the passenger seat. Ryan Clark nodded and pulled away from the curb. “Good to see you again, Jimmie.”

  Clark wore his dark brown hair longer than FBI standards with the gray at his temples more prominent after each haircut. Now in his mid-forties, his handsome face held deep worry lines around his eyes which betrayed his lengthy career in law-enforcement.

  At one time, a detective with the Arlington, Virginia, Police Department, he and Kruger became acquainted during several join
t investigations over the past two decades. Their friendship strengthened when they were teamed up on the Beltway Sniper case in October 2002. In 2016, they found themselves, once again working together, to chase a team of assassins across the United States. It was during this operation, while protecting then-Congressman Roy Griffin, that Clark was shot with a bullet meant for Griffin. Kruger then lobbied the director to make him an agent and after his recovery he joined the FBI. Since then, he had made a name for himself within the agency.

  “Likewise, Ryan.”

  “Now what?”

  “I’ve got a GPS tracking device on his SUV. He hasn’t left the apartment and I haven’t seen any lights or signs of activity since this afternoon. He’s still there.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s Sandy doing?”

  “He’s still sitting on the guy who knocked on the door. He wants you to go into the bar and see what’s going on.”

  “Why me?”

  “He said you fit in with the bar’s clientele better than he does.”

  “Great. What about you?”

  “I’ll go back and watch the apartment.”

  ***

  Dorian Monk seldom felt the pangs of hunger. Normally, he ate small amounts of food off and on during the day and rarely, if ever, prepared a large meal. As the effects of his most recent migraine faded, he stared inside the small refrigerator and saw nothing he wanted to eat. He glanced at the clock on the stove and saw it was past nine. He turned his cell phone on and dialed the number of a local Papa John’s pizza delivery.

  ***

  Clark watched the young lady approach apartment A3 with the pizza box in hand. The door opened before she could knock. The gloom from the interior failed to illuminate the individual handing the money to her. After the pizza boxed disappeared inside, the door closed and the delivery person walked back to her vehicle. The transaction took less than fifteen seconds. When the college aged girl drove away, Clark sent a text message and waited for the return call. It came thirty seconds later.

  Before Clark could say anything, JR said, What’ve you got, Ryan?”

  “Monk just had a pizza delivered. That would mean he called it in or ordered online.”

  “He didn’t order online, and I would have received an alert if he used the phone. Unless…”

  Clark waited.

  JR came back and said, “The phone must have been turned off when Jimmie tried to compromise it.”

  “And that means?”

  “We still don’t have access to this phone, only his internet activity.”

  “Jimmie’s not going to like that.”

  “He’ll have to try again.”

  Chapter 21

  Laramie, WY

  The headache from the seizure still lingered and sleep eluded Dorian Monk until four in the morning. The lingering odor of onions from the pizza added to his sense of nausea.

  After numerous cups of coffee, he turned his cell phone on and checked text messages. Two new ones appeared. The oldest one admonished him for not answering when his contact had knocked and the second one told him to be in the apartment at noon.

  He checked the cell phone clock and found the time to be ten-thirty-seven in the morning. He returned the message and told the sender he would be at the apartment all day.

  ***

  Three FBI agents were now keeping tabs on the activity around Monk’s apartment in shifts and separate vehicles. Knoll, after taking the night watch, remained at their hotel to get a few hours of sleep. Clark kept tabs on Slim with the Silverado and Jimmie watched the Castleberry Arms apartment complex from across the street with a clear view of apartment A3’s front door.

  Gibbs’ cell phone vibrated. “Yeah.”

  “It’s Clark. Slim appears to be headed your way.”

  “Where’d he stay last night?”

  “Hotel on the north side. He registered under the name Frank Smith. The Silverado is owned by an LLC called Freedom Rains.”

  “Have JR check it out.”

  “Already called him.”

  “You headed this way?”

  “Yeah. See you in a few minutes.”

  Gibbs watched as the Silverado pulled into the parking lot and stopped next to Monk’s SUV. The man sat in the truck for a long time, staring at the apartment building. When he got out, he wore a caramel-colored Carhart jacket with his left arm straight and held tight against his body. His casual pace toward Monk’s apartment door belied his intentions.

  Gibbs reached for his Sig Sauer and quickly exited the car. This was a move he had seen before. Now in a full sprint, he ran toward the man who now stood knocking on Monk’s door.

  Stopping twenty yards away, Gibbs pointed the Sig Sauer at the man and screamed. “FBI—FBI! Get your hands away from your body.”

  The man in the Carhartt jacket slowly turned around and smiled at Gibbs. He did not raise his hand, but quickly brought the sawed-off shotgun to a level position pointed in the young FBI agent’s direction. Without hesitation, Jimmie pulled the trigger of the Sig Sauer twice. The man with the shotgun staggered as the shotgun went off.

  ***

  Ryan Clark pulled into the parking lot and saw Gibbs, gun in hand, running toward the apartment. Extracting his Glock from its holster, he sprang out of the car and ran toward the coming confrontation.

  He saw Gibbs plant himself firmly, point his gun at the man near Monk’s apartment door and identify himself as an FBI agent. As the man turned to look at Gibbs, he brought up a small shotgun. Clark planted himself and aimed his Glock at the man just as Gibbs fired.

  The whole incident lasted less than five seconds.

  Clark shot a glance in Gibbs’ direction and saw him advancing toward the man now lying on the porch in front of apartment A3. Clark reached for his cell phone and called 911.

  ***

  The shotgun lay several inches from the prone man’s grasp, so Gibbs kicked it away. The man’s open, unseeing eyes were fixed on the cloudless sky above. Satisfied the cowboy did not pose a threat, Gibbs shot a quick glance at apartment A3. A man stood behind the window staring at him.

  Clark appeared beside Gibbs and said, “I’ve called for backup. How’d you know he had a shotgun?”

  “The guy must have served in Iraq or Afghanistan. He had a jacket on in this heat and his left arm was straight, holding a concealed weapon. I’ve seen this type of crap too many times while I was over there.” He paused and looked at Clark. “Monk’s been staring out the window. He now knows he’s being watched by FBI agents. Better get Sandy over here.”

  Clark pulled his cell phone out again. As he waited for the call to connect, he stared at Jimmie. “You’re bleeding.”

  ***

  By the time Kruger arrived in Laramie twelve hours later, Dorian Monk was being held in protective custody and the identity of the man Gibbs called Slim was known. The local police and sheriff’s department continued to complain about three FBI agents being in town and not informing their respective departments.

  Albany County Sheriff, Bud Wilkins, glared at Kruger. “Protocol demands that FBI agents announce their presence to local law enforcement, Agent Kruger.”

  “I agree, Sheriff.”

  “Then why didn’t they?” Wilkins looked over his glasses at Kruger, his brow furrowed. He wore a neatly pressed long sleeve uniform shirt, faded jeans, dusty cowboy boots and was fence-rail thin.

  Kruger smiled. “Because I asked them not to.”

  Wilkins blinked several times, his mouth slightly open. “You asked them not to? Am I hearing you correct?”

  A nod from Kruger was his answer.

  The sheriff pushed his black rim glasses up his slender nose as his face reddened. “Care to explain why?”

  “Sheriff, Dorian Monk is suspected of being a serial killer. We don’t have any hard evidence against him and the last time we tried to arrest him, he vanished for two months. We suspect he has a remote cabin in the area, and we were trying to determine the locatio
n. The incident that occurred at the Castleberry Arms apartment was totally unexpected. We had no intention of arresting anyone here in your county. We were here only to observe and follow Monk.”

  The sheriff was silent for a few moments. “So, you had no idea he was mixed up in this militia nonsense?”

  Shaking his head, Kruger answered, “Wasn’t even on our radar. But it is now.”

  “I’ve been dealing with them ever since I took this job ten years ago. They’re not really a militia—they’re more of an organized crime gang. They operate in the shadows and no one knows who belongs to the group.”

  “What about the cowboy with the shotgun?”

  “Never seen him before. We think he was imported.”

  Kruger picked up the sheet of paper with the man’s criminal history. “Billy Ray Washburn, twenty-eight, did a tour in Afghanistan with the Army, Dishonorable Discharge for assault of a superior officer, since then numerous assault charges and petty burglaries. Last known residence was Billings, Montana.” Kruger looked up. “Nice guy.”

  With his face returning to its normal hue, Wilkins crossed his arms. “So, your team was only here to determine where this Monk fella disappeared to?”

  “Yes, he just rented the apartment last week. We lost track of him in Covington, Kentucky over two months ago.”

  “He could have been in a hotel.”

  “He could have, but we have ways of checking. He wasn’t.”

  “I won’t ask how.”