Not Before Midnight (Sheriff Bud Blair Oregon Mystery Series Book 5)

by Rod Collins

  Sonny nodded. AR-15 in hand, he shouldered his daypack and said, “Lead on, Deputy BeBe. Lead on.”

  Four minutes of stealthy single-file walking back down a deer trail led them to within forty yards of the little cove where BB’s canoe, water up to the gunwales, gently rocked to the rhythm of breeze borne ripples.

  The pop of a dry limb stopped BB in midstride. He carefully eased his right foot back to the ground. He turned to Sixkiller, pointed his index finger at his own chest, and then pointed to his left. He stepped between two trees and out of sight behind a thicket of small lodgepole.

  Sonny moved to the right, found an open lane in the timber, and eased forward, alert, listening, wanting to hear the bad guys before they heard him.

  Another limb broke directly ahead of BB, and he heard a man with a raspy voice whisper, “Ah, shit. This won’t work.”

  A low-pitched voice off to BB’s left said, “That you, Turkey?”

  “Yeah. It’s me. Where you at?”

  “Over here. Hell, that helicopter flew ‘em out of here. This sneaking around in the woods is just bullshit. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Okay. I’m coming. Don’t shoot me.”

  BB circled deep and turned into the breeze, following the smell of marijuana smoke.

  He heard one man say, “I’m telling you, Starbucks ain’t gonna like this.”

  The second man said, “To hell with him. Let him do his own chasing. I’m done with this.”

  His AR-15 tight against his shoulder, finger on the trigger, BB eased into the little clearing where he found the two men, rifles leaned against a pine tree, sucking on marijuana joints. He said, “You know, you shouldn’t smoke when the woods are so dry.”

  Then Sonny shouted from behind them, “Hands in the air! Do it! Do it now!”

  BB picked up the rifles and broke the stocks on the trunk of a tree. He glared at the men and said, “Bikers! They be sending us dope-smoking bikers!”

  He shook his head in disgust, then asked, “How many people did you bring?”

  The smaller man, a lean forty-something wearing black cargo pants, a dirty denim shirt with the sleeves cut off, and thick-soled black boots decorated by clunky chains, took a last drag on his joint and said, “Piss off.”

  BB slapped him hard enough to spin the man halfway around. The joint flew from his mouth, and he grunted in surprise at both the suddenness of the attack and the power of the blow.

  BB rubbed the joint out with the toe of his shoe and glared at him. “One last time. How many of you assholes are out here?”

  The man spit a little blood from a cut lip and looked at Sonny’s uniform. “Cops can’t beat on people. I got rights!”

  “Ah, hell,” Sonny said. “They aren’t high enough on the food chain to know anything. We’re wasting our time. Let’s just shoot em. We can always say it was self-defense. Or we could just let the coyotes and the buzzards pick their bones. You know, like we did last time.”

  Turkey, the smaller of the two, sounded incredulous when he said, “You can’t do that! We got rights!”

  BB wrinkled his brow like he was thinking about it, then nodded. “Of course, we could just arrest the one who cooperates and shoot the other one.”

  Sonny glared at the bikers and said, “Enough of the bullshit. Cops get really pissed when assholes shoot at other cops. The woman you injured is an FBI agent. When that happened, you brought the wrath of God down on your heads.

  “I don’t know what the sentence is for attempted murder, assault on a federal officer, trespassing, and killing a canoe – not to mention the extreme aggravation of getting within smelling distance of you dirty, unwashed assholes, but I’ll bet it comes close to the rest of your lives … without parole.”

  BB nodded at Sonny, pointed his rifle in the air and touched off three rounds. The two bikers stumbled backwards, panicked by the sudden noise.

  “There we go. Now your partner across the lake – who is about to be arrested or shot by the way – thinks maybe you got us. Or he thinks maybe we got you. He doesn’t know what to do. But I’ll bet he sings like a canary, and you take the rap.”

  Roadkill, the larger man, scalp shaved like his partner’s, bare-chested except for a black leather vest, a big sheath knife hanging from his belt, glanced at his partner and said, “I thought this was stupid from the beginning, Turkey.”

  Turkey looked up at his partner and nodded. “Hell, Roadkill, I don’t believe for a minute these dudes are gonna shoot us. But the man makes sense. Starbucks is gonna sell us out. Go ahead. Tell ‘em what they want to know.”

  Roadkill said, “Can I put my hands down? My arms are getting tired.”

  “Drop the knife with your left hand first. Just ease it out of the sheath and drop it on the ground. And then both of you slip off your boots and take off your pants.”

  Chapter 39

  Starbucks

  BUD NAVIGATED THE CURVE beyond the culvert over Dog Creek, accelerated, and said, “What do you think, Roger? In fast and hard or on foot? BB’s driveway is about two hundred yards long. We might be able to block the road and go in through the trees.”

  Roger said, “I like stealth.”

  Bud’s cell rang and he hit the hands-free button. BB’s voice boomed through the speakers in the big pickup. “We caught ourselves two little pigs, but the big boar is still at my place. What’s your location?”

  Bud said, “About to pull into your driveway.”

  “Watch yourselves. We’re across the lake bringing these guys in. It’s going to be another twenty minutes before we get there. They say this is a three-man killing team.”

  “Thanks, BB. Sonny with you?”

  “Yes. And we’re both fine. I did shoot three rounds off to make their buddy, the one at the house, think they had gotten us.”

  ***

  After BB’s rifle shots, the big bearded man known as ‘Starbucks’ kept his binoculars sweeping the far shore of Dog Lake.

  He muttered, “What the hell is going on? This is making me nervous. First the big black dude gets his friends ashore and out of sight. Then the lady, whoever she is, starts shooting back. Then the helicopter lands and takes off again.”

  He shook his head. “We didn’t sign up for this. This was supposed to be an easy job. Walk in and shoot a preacher. That’s all.

  “And where the hell are Road Kill and Turkey? They’re supposed to walk back to the lake and wave. Let me know they got ‘em. Ten minutes, and then I’m gone.”

  ***

  Bud eased the big pickup off the pavement into BB’s driveway and blocked the road.

  He muted the radio, activated his whisper mic and said, “Control, this County One. We’re at the BeBe residence. Send officers Beltram and Tusk as backup.” When he heard Nancy say “Copy,” he pulled his 10-gauge shotgun loose from the Velcro straps, and stuffed a handful of 00 buckshot shells in his jacket pocket. “If BB’s right, there are only three bad guys. He and Sonny have two. That leaves one, assuming the perps are telling the truth.”

  Roger stepped to the ground, pulled the slide back on his pistol to make sure a round was chambered, and then slid it back in the holster. He pulled his .308 rifle free of the gun case, chambered a round, and said, “Okay. I’m ready.” They each stepped into the trees on opposite sides of the driveway and started a slow, watchful walk to the big log house.

  They were within thirty yards of the red crew cab Ford F-250 parked beside TJ’s rental car, when the sounds of footsteps brought them to a halt. Bud raised his shotgun to his shoulder and waited.

  A barrel-chested man carrying a black AR-15 rifle in his right hand and binoculars in his left walked around the corner of the garage. When he saw Bud, he stopped dead in his tracks. The big bore of Bud’s shotgun was pointed straight at his head. Bud shouted, “Drop your weapon! Now! Hand’s in the air!”

  Starbucks looked startled, but he didn’t need any further instruction. He dropped the rifle and the binoculars and raised his hands.
Roger moved in from the man’s right and said, “On your knees. Hands on your head.”

  “Shit,” was all the man could say as he sank to his knees. Roger circled around and kicked the man’s rifle out of reach, and then handcuffed his arms behind his back.

  Bud said. “I’ll check the perimeter.” A careful search of BB’s house and the outside yard convinced Bud the man was alone. He walked back to where Roger had the man sitting on the ground.

  “Who are you?” Bud said.

  “I ain’t talking,” the man snarled. “I want a lawyer.”

  “How many are with you?”

  “I said, I ain’t talking.”

  Bud looked disgusted and moved closer to the man, the bore of the shotgun looking bigger with each step. “I want to know how many people you brought with you. And you might as well talk. We have two of your asshole buddies in custody. I’m sure one of them will sing to save his ass. And whoever sings first … you know the drill. I want to know how many people you brought, and I want to know who sent you.”

  The man just shook his head.

  Bud shrugged. “Your funeral.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Starbucks, whose driver’s license read “Gary Gentle” and listed a Klamath Falls address, was safely confined in the cage in Bud’s pickup. He had been properly Mirandized and arrested for attempted murder, assault on a federal officer, trespassing, and whatever else DA Howard Finch decided on.

  Deputy Beatrice Tusk, with Deputy Lonnie Beltram riding in the passenger seat, drove the county’s white pickup down the open driveway and pulled up next to Bud’s rig.

  He was on the phone when Beltram and Tusk walked up. They heard him say, “Dutch, the way we see it, a bigwig Muslim from Portland put out a contract to this biker gang … The Romans … I think that’s what they call themselves. Then they subcontracted with their Klamath Falls chapter. That’s what Gary Gentle called it … the K Falls Chapter.

  “That means the people who took TJ’s computer found directions to Dell BeBe’s place on Dog Lake and figured TJ might be with BB.” Bud paused to listen and then added, “I don’t have an update on Special Agent Wright. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. I’m hoping we can trace back from Gentle’s phone and find out who ordered the hit.”

  Bud looked up to see Deputy Sixkiller and Dell BeBe prod two scruffy looking men around the corner of the house. Their hands were cuffed behind them, and they wore nothing but their shorts and socks. Bud chuckled and said, “Gotta go, Dutch. My guys just brought in two more bikers.”

  Bud raised his eyebrows as Sonny told the men to sit against the garage door. Sonny shrugged. “They got lippy, so we made sure they couldn’t run. Skeeters loved ‘em.” And then he laughed. “But we know who orchestrated this. Some guy called Starbucks.”

  Bud nodded. Loud enough to be heard by the two bikers leaning against BB’s garage door, he said, “Yep. Roger is talking to Starbucks now. He’s singing like a bird. How about those two?”

  Chapter 40

  A New Winslow

  BUTLER LOOKED at an older Toyota pickup on a used car lot in Astoria, list price three thousand dollars. The tailgate wouldn’t open, the rear bumper was sagging from a blow that had to have come from a sturdy pole or a tree, the seats were dirty, and the passenger window was cracked. About the only thing in good repair was a fairly new set of tires. But the engine still sounded strong, the tags were current, the spare tire held air, the lights all worked, and the oil was clean. So, he bought it. The owner of the car lot was only too happy to take cash.

  Butler stopped by a small convenience store advertising bait, fishing tackle, beer, and fresh seafood. He bought a paper carton of warm clam chowder and drove back to the marina. He lit the stove in the small galley to re-heat his chowder, listened to the chatter of commercial fishermen on the CB radio, and made a mental list of what gear he needed to take with him. Soon after sunset, a gentle rain dimpled the black waters of the marina, raindrops dancing in the pools of light from lamps spaced along the docks.

  He pulled the curtains on the dockside of the main cabin and gathered the gear he thought he might need. He rejected the rifle as too conspicuous and settled on his .9mm service pistol. “I’m not going to shoot anyone if I can help it, anyway,” he mumbled to himself and then realized he spoke his thoughts aloud more and more often. “Symptom of living alone too much, I guess.”

  He pulled a small, olive-drab daypack from a storage locker and began to fill it. He zipped night vision binoculars in a front pouch, stowed a penlight in a side pouch, stuffed black, packable rain gear in the main compartment, and added trail bars, a water bottle, and a bottle of buffered aspirin in a side pouch. The last item was a personal portable radio with an ear bud. “In case I need to call in the cavalry.” He changed out the batteries for fresh ones.

  He set out a pair of black Gore-Tex ankle high hiking boots. “I think that’s all I’m going to need. Now…to shave or not to shave…that is the question. Beards are in. All the Hollywood stars seem to think two-day stubble is the way to go. Okay, Winslow, stubble it is.”

  At 10:00 he watched a local news channel, gratified there was no public alert for a rogue FBI agent, or a copy of his picture on national or local television. He lifted a whiskey bottle from a cupboard and started to pour a nightcap. He hesitated, held the amber liquid up to the light and grimaced. “Hell, whiskey is what got me in this mess in the first place.” He opened the cabin door and threw the bottle into the night.

  At 10:30 he went to bed and killed the light. And then he did something he hadn’t done in years…he prayed. Tears spilled down his cheeks from the burden of sorrow and guilt he carried, and he said, “Lord, I know I’m beyond salvation, but please help me do the right thing. Help me save those young women, if nothing else.”

  Five a.m. saw the Toyota pickup, headlights cutting through a light layer of fog, speeding upriver, back towards Portland, the driver filled with a new sense of purpose.

  Chapter 41

  Cleaning House

  SPECIAL AGENT BRANDT rounded the corner of the Portland Office of the FBI and saw Cletus slide out from behind a tall Irish yew, one of two dozen lining the east wall of the big building. Cletus brushed dead yew needles from his closely-cropped curly hair and stared daggers at Brandt.

  “Took you long enough.”

  Brandt grinned and shook his head. He turned his wrist and glanced at his watch. “Yep. Twenty-two seconds.”

  “Felt like an hour.

  “I’ll bet it did.”

  “You know, Special Agent Brandt, I bet I’d be safer if I was an FBI Agent. Carry a gun. Wave my badge around. Scare the bad guys off.”

  “Come on, little buddy, let’s get you off the street.”

  They walked back toward the front entrance and Brandt asked, “How did you get out here?”

  “In a cab.”

  Brandt nodded. “Good thinking. Even if they got a cab number, they won’t come looking for you here.”

  “Yeah, just some white chick who is already here.”

  “We’re getting that sorted out as we speak. How do you feel about spending a couple of days with your Uncle George in Seattle? We’ll take you up there and provide security for all of you. And I don’t think this will take too long. Couple more days maybe.”

  Cletus nodded and blinked back unwelcome tears.

  ***

  Wilcox trotted down the hallway and back to Special Agent Richard McDonald’s office. He ignored McDonald’s secretary who said, “He’s busy.”