Deviations

by Mike Markel

  “The Reverend Barry mentioned you help him out here, is that right?” Ricky just nodded, slowly. “You keep yourself in pretty good shape, I see. You lift?” The fat head nodded. “I’m guessing you can bench … what, two fifty?” Come in low, let him correct me.

  “Three twenty-five.” He seemed to relax a little.

  “You help out with some of the chores around here?”

  “Yeah. I cut wood for the stove. Repairs, things like that. Help out around the church any way I can.”

  “You do security for the Reverend, too, I guess?”

  “Me and a few other guys. He’s never more than twenty feet from one of us.”

  “That’s a pretty important job. I imagine that there are some people who would want to hurt the Reverend.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Ricky said, slowly, shaking his head to underscore the point.

  “Good meeting you, Ricky.”

  He didn’t say anything as I walked down the steps and started across the meadow toward the entrance gate.

  * * * *

  Walking across the compound, toward the entrance gate and my car, I took stock of where I was. I glanced back at Reverend Barry’s house, not sure what I expected to see. Fat Ricky wasn’t standing on the steps, nobody was peeking through any curtains. From the look of things, I hadn’t disturbed any of the local flora or fauna during the last ten minutes.

  But I’d learned something. Reverend Christopher Barry might be a nicotine addict with some nasty opinions about Jews and blacks and Muslims, but he wasn’t senile and he wasn’t stupid. He knew what case I was working on, and he didn’t seem surprised that Weston was raped, even though that information wasn’t public. He was aware I was out of my jurisdiction. Our little chess game ended in a draw, unless I could prove that the murder happened out here in Lake Hollow and the guy moved Weston’s body back to Rawlings. But that seemed unlikely because the murderer was into symbols—putting the 1488 on her chest—and he didn’t signal that he grabbed her in Rawlings and brought her out to Lake Hollow to kill her. And there was no reason to think Weston had been hanging around out here in the woods before her murder.

  Christopher Barry was pretty smooth in asking if I was staying someplace around Lake Hollow. That way, if I was becoming a serious pain in the ass, he could send a couple of guys to pick me up and knock me off the game board—or, if necessary, put me in a lot more trouble. I made a mental note to see if I was being followed as I left the compound.

  I was pleased that I hadn’t revealed anything I didn’t want to. I didn’t mention Willson Fredericks or his pen pal BC, didn’t mention the 1488. Didn’t really mention anything that wasn’t public, except the rape. As a result, I came off kind of dumb—after all, what exactly was the purpose of the interview?—but coming off dumb was better than coming off smart. You want to keep expectations low, so in case you do get an idea it might surprise them. Still, it was anybody’s guess whether Barry would get on the phone and contact Willson Fredericks or take some other action that I might be able to pick up back in Rawlings.

  As I made it to the guard booth, the quiet Nazi stepped out, his rifle across his chest, his finger stroking the trigger guard, and handed me my pistol.

  I nodded, he watched me nodding.

  I walked toward my car, got in, and drove off. When I got to 53, I turned west, away from my motel. There was a long straightaway, well over a mile. I checked my mirror for a tail.

  Nothing.

  I pulled into a Tastee-Freez and parked on the far side of the building, out of sight of anyone heading west. I sat there for five minutes. A pickup, an RV, and a sedan swept past me, but no Fat Ricky or other rough boys.

  I waited a few more minutes, then headed back to the motel.

  On my way to the room, I stopped at a little machine outside the office to grab a copy of the Central Montana Gazette. Maureen didn’t look up from her magazine. I folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm. I unholstered my Colt as I entered my room, doing a quick sweep to be sure it was just me, the silverfish, and the swirling pubes. The place was clear. I sat down at the little desk to see how the world had gotten on without me for the last eighteen hours. Holy shit. Page one, bottom right corner.

  CMSU History Professor Found Dead

  Cause of Death Unknown

  Rawlings, Montana, May 12—Willson Harrison Fredericks, long-time history professor at Central Montana State University, was found dead late last night in his condominium near campus.

  Fredericks, 63, was one of the longest-serving faculty members at the state university, having joined the staff of Central Montana Junior College in 1983. He earned an international reputation for his research on the Nazi period in Germany in the twentieth century.

  The author of seven books, Fredericks focused his recent research on the militia movement and the patriot movement, both of which have some ties to the original Nazi movement. Fredericks was a frequent speaker at professional conferences and was known as an excellent lecturer.

  CMSU president Robert Billingham issued a statement today. “Dr. Fredericks was a fixture on campus for many years. In important ways, he exemplified the ideal of the professor: an active, critical researcher and a dynamic lecturer. He loved his students, and he sought, above all else, to help them make the transition from curious high schoolers to active, questioning, committed professionals and members of society. In this way, he truly worked to create a better society, not only here on campus but wherever our students located after graduation. Today we have lost a pillar of our university community.”

  In addition to serving on many important committees throughout the university, Fredericks served for six years as the faculty adviser to the gay students’ association.

  Details of a service honoring Professor Fredericks will be announced by the university in the next few days.

  I wanted something to break loose. Well, something just broke loose. I pulled my cell out of my bag and dialed Ryan.

  “Hey, Karen, you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ve been trying you at home and on your cell, but I’ve been going straight to voicemail.”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan, I was feeling pretty crappy. Didn’t get any sleep last night, so I turned the phones off this morning.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I’m good. Hey, I just saw the story on Fredericks. What’ve we got on that?”

  “Hold on just a second, Karen.” I heard a pause, then a little electronic click, like he was switching me to Speaker. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “He died last night, in his condo.”

  “Got that from the article. Natural causes? Homicide or suicide?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “What do you mean we’re not sure yet?”

  There was a pause. “The chief is thinking about getting a judge to authorize an autopsy.”

  “On what grounds?” I said.

  “Age and general health. He seemed fine and had no serious medical problems. Plus, the fact that we were looking at him in connection with the Weston case. If we get the authorization, Harold can open him up later today. At this point, there’s no signs of homicide, so we’re thinking natural causes or suicide. There’s a lot of drugs that can kill you without leaving any trace. The tox panels are going to take a little time.”

  “Who found him? Did someone call it in?”

  “Details are a little fuzzy still. He didn’t show up for a night class. The students called it in, and the university contacted the police. We sent two unis to his condo around eight pm. They got the manager to let us in, and he was there lying on his bed.”

  “No note?”

  “Not that they could find.”

  “Okay, what are you doing now?”

  “Just a second,” Ryan said. I heard a click again, like he was turning off the Speaker. “Okay, sorry, I’m back.”

  “What’s going on
, Ryan?”

  “Nothing, Karen, just a lot of people around the bullpen here.”

  “All right, has Nick shown up today?”

  “Still out. Not sure where.”

  “The chief give you an assignment?”

  “He told me to try to find out where you are and to stay here. He’s meeting with the judge, then he’s meeting with the university president, Billingham, to see if we can get at Fredericks’ records for any leads on tracking this BC guy down.”

  “Okay,” I said, not liking this at all.

  “Are you coming in tomorrow?”

  “I’m gonna try,” I said.

  “Keep in touch, will you? The chief’s not your biggest fan right now.”

  “I understand. All right, see you.” I was lying: I didn’t understand. First, Ryan said the chief is considering getting a judge to authorize an autopsy. Then, he said the chief was meeting with the judge. It wasn’t like Ryan to get sloppy like that. And I didn’t like the electronic clicks I was hearing on the phone.

  In a broader sense, though, I think I did understand what was going on. I understood that if I was going to figure out who killed Dolores Weston—and Willson Fredericks?—I was going to have to do it on my own. The last guy I thought would freeze me out was Ryan. But that is what had just happened: he was the last guy, since the chief and Nick Corelli had already frozen me out. Now Ryan was freezing me out.

  Chapter 17

  Maureen looked up at me as I walked into the little office. If she was a cartoon character, she’d have an empty thought bubble sitting on top of her black hair with its blonde roots. I placed the key on the counter. “My plans have changed. I’m not going to be staying in Room 6 after all. Not asking for my money back or anything. Just letting you know you can rent it again. I didn’t mess it up.”

  She looked at me. Some people can say so much with just a look. Not Maureen. “Okay, I’ll be heading back home. To Rawlings.” Just in case a tubby white boy with a swastika tat and a ponytail stopped by and asked her, “Did she say where she was headed?” No telling how a conversation between Maureen and Fat Ricky would play out, but I figured there was no harm trying to feed her a few facts to fit in between the lengthy pauses. She might remember “home” or “Rawlings.” Probably not, but she might.

  Driving east toward Rawlings, I saw an army-navy store on the south side of 53. I pulled in, parking behind the store so my car wouldn’t be so obvious. I pulled a slip of paper out of my bag, grabbed a pen from one of the cubbyholes on the dash where I shove candy wrappers, and started to make a list. A good way to make a list, I’ve found, is to visualize what you need to get the job done. Problem here was that I didn’t know what the job was and therefore couldn’t quite visualize myself doing it.

  All I knew was that I wasn’t going back to Rawlings. What would be the point of that? To sit at my desk while Ryan and the other boys met in some room to do what detectives do? Since Ryan wasn’t even telling me what he knew about what had happened to Willson Fredericks—even whether he croaked, got croaked, or self-croaked—there was no point. Up until a few minutes ago, I thought it was me and Ryan trying to solve the case by following the leads and dodging whatever bullshit the chief and Nick Corelli threw at us. But that phone call with Ryan was a real eye-opener. Or, to be more precise, a real eye-closer. I was as good as dead to the Rawlings Police Department. And, of course, I was as good as dead to the Reverend Christopher Barry. Good as dead to just about everyone. Good as dead. Dead. Good.

  If I went home to take care of my non-existent sickness, I wouldn’t be able to do anything except look at some stupid videos of white morons shooting their moron rifles or making moron speeches. Which wouldn’t make anything happen. Plus, sitting at home would make me kind of an easy target for any creeps—with badges or without—who wanted to take me out. No reason to head for Rawlings.

  So, I’d spend the night out here in God’s country. Not at Silverfish Manor, thank you. Somewhere else. I’d head out toward the Montana Patriot Front compound. This time, I wouldn’t go straight up to the gate and get another patdown from the terse Nazi. This time I’d hang out in the woods, out behind the Reverend Christopher Barry’s little white house. And from there I’d be able to … I’d be able to … I’ve shown you some scary examples of how I “think,” so this should come as no surprise: I didn’t have the tiniest turd of an idea about what I could accomplish from out behind the Rev’s little white house.

  But I was convinced that Lake Hollow was where the action was going to take place. Everything pointed in this direction: Willson Fredericks working with BC on the party preparations, now Willson Fredericks suddenly up and dying—or, to be more precise, down and dead—under mysterious circumstances. Mysterious to me, at least, if not to the Rawlings Police Department. And Christopher Barry with his chain-link fence, his guard towers, his uniformed Nazis, and his Fat Ricky. Yes, this would be where it would happen—whatever it is. So here I would be. And maybe that would help make it happen.

  I walked into the army-navy store. The guy sitting at the register looked up, smiled a crooked-tooth smile, and gave me a “Good afternoon. Let me know if I can help you find anything.” He was mostly fur. It started with a thick brown mat at the top of his head that morphed into a comb-breaking beard that spared only his nose, his two surprisingly green eyes, and a short shelf of a forehead. The beard headed south, tunneling down under the collar of his red and black flannel shirt, resurfacing on the backs of his hands and terminating at the knuckles. He looked like what would happen if Grizzly Adams hooked up with Sasquatch.

  The store was a freeze-frame of a tornado tearing through a campground. Inflatable canoes and river boats dangling from the ceiling. Desert Storm-era field jackets, combat boots, stoves, wool hats, aluminum pots, lanterns, cooking stoves, shovels, sleeping bags, fishing rods, blankets, hooks, lures, guns, ammo, and portable toilets pegged to the walls, crammed onto revolving racks, piled high on card tables. If you wanted to eat, sleep, cook, crap, or hook, trap, or shoot something outside, this was your kind of place. I’d have liked to mingle with the four outdoorsy guys drifting around, studying the musty, dusty stuff, but I wanted to think about what I might need.

  I figured a flashlight and extra batteries might come in handy. I grabbed a Mylar blanket and a pair of Bushnell 12 x 50 binoculars, which we use on the job. I like that they’re good in low light. I found a pair of bolt cutters with fiberglass handles: expensive but light enough to carry with me on a long trek. A couple bottles of water. I spent a few minutes considering my dinner options.

  The MREs came in chicken and noodles with vegetables, pasta with vegetables in tomato sauce, spaghetti with meat sauce, chicken tetrazzini, beef stew, and chicken with black beans and rice. The back of the packages offered this advice: “In Case of Auto, Biological, Earthquake, Electrical, Financial, Fire, Flood, Hurricane, Nuclear, Storm, Tornado.” I didn’t quite understand all of this. In case of auto, what am I supposed to do? When financial happens, does that mean it’s time for dinner? But I understood the main point: You’ll want to open this bag Only If Real Bad Shit Is Happening. The package didn’t specifically mention my particular situation, but I thought chicken tetrazzini would be appropriate In Case of Neo-Nazis.

  By this time I had so much survival crap in my arms I was starting to drop things. So, rubbing my two remaining brain cells together, I realized I needed one more thing. I grabbed a camo backpack and walked up to Bigfoot. He looked at my pile of stuff a little funny, as if many of his customers camp out overnight and yet don’t need bolt cutters. But he rang it up, and I gave him $182.34 in cash. He said “Have a good time,” and I said “You bet.” You place that bet, you lose, I thought, but since we were parting amicably, it was one of my better human interactions in the last week.

  Back in the car, I pulled out my state map. The Montana Patriot Front compound was about three miles due north of 53. I hadn’t seen any cameras on the busted-up road leading to the compound, but I co
uldn’t be sure. Besides, there was no way I’d be able to drive partway up the road and stash the car. I’d have to find another way to get to the compound.

  The map showed an abandoned logging road that looped about two miles north of the compound. That would be my best chance.

  I decided to get up there while it was still light. That way, I’d increase my chances of being able to navigate any surprises like streams, which could really mess me up at night. Plus, if I tried to get into position in the dark, I’d have to use my flash, at least sometimes, and that would put me at greater risk.

  I headed out to the logging road, about three miles west of the road that led to the compound. It was just where the map said it was. Maps are good.

  A few hundred yards in, I met my first obstacle: a thick chain barrier attached to a couple of serious steel pipes anchored in concrete. With deep ravines on either side, there was no way to go off-road to get around it. Which would be why they put the barrier there. I grabbed my bolt cutters and managed to snap a link. I drove through, stopped the Honda, and went back to see if I could put the chain back together so it would look okay. The busted link still had enough of its original shape to splice the two pieces of chain.

  Even if you’re forty-two years old, life can offer new insights. I know a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, but if you don’t know there’s a weak link, you won’t test it, which in fact makes the chain stronger than its weakest link. Maybe that would keep me alive, the bad guys not knowing just how weak I was, but I realized I didn’t have the time or energy to think about that. I had some hiking to do. I got back in my car and headed up the road.

  A couple minutes farther on I spotted a little turnoff that disappeared into the woods. It was rutty and full of gullies overgrown with scraggly weeds, but the dirt was packed hard enough for me to drive if I took it easy. A hundred yards in, I parked the Honda and grabbed my backpack full of stuff.