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

by Rod Collins

  “Uh, huh. You be careful Deputy BeBe. You might catch the Western fever.”

  “God forbid that should ever come to pass. It’s bad enough just living in a log cabin.”

  “Some cabin,” Bud scoffed.

  “Where you headed?”

  “I want you to run me out to the house so I can get my rig.”

  “Honeymooning?”

  Bud laughed and shook his head. “You know, BB, every time I think I have this business with Nancy lined out, life gets in the way. We have reservations at the Hyatt Regency in Portland for tonight and tomorrow night – for which I will be charged, no doubt – and I can’t even get a call through to cancel.”

  “So, you’ll just have to rough it at the cabin, I suppose?”

  Bud laughed. “I guess so. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to do it.”

  A short ride later, BB pulled into the driveway of Bud’s single-story house and parked. He reached across the seat and held out his hand. “Bud, I love you like a brother. Here’s to all the happiness you deserve. Congratulations.”

  Bud shook BB’s big hand and felt a lump in his throat. Voice a bit husky, he said, “I’m glad to have you for a friend BB. Now get your ass out of here.”

  ***

  A big bouquet of flowers rode companion to a small cooler loaded with T-bone steaks stashed behind the front seat. Bud’s mood improved with each mile he drove to Dog Lake. By the time he crossed the big culvert feeding Dog Creek to the desert, he felt as content as he could remember ever feeling. Without realizing it, he started whistling the old happy melody to Heartaches.

  The weather gave blessing to Mister and Missus Bud Blair, inviting them to linger over a tender, grilled T-bone and a glass of wine. A big vase of red roses graced the middle of the picnic table. As the evening shadows edged across the lake, a mourning dove treated them to her plaintive song. Nancy leaned against Bud’s shoulders and kissed his cheek.

  “I think I’ll go take a shower, Bud. See you in a little while.”

  Chapter 81

  Ketchikan

  SPECIAL AGENT LEROY WILCOX shared a happy grin with his old partner as the big Coast Guard helicopter lifted off from Sea-Tac airport. They tried shouting over the roar of rotor and engine noise, until a young guardsman pointed to headsets hanging beside each of their seats and mimed putting them over their ears.

  “That’s better,” Wilcox said, his voice a bit tinny sounding through the microphone. “How you been, Douglas?”

  “Fine. How’s your new job?”

  “I don’t know … I think I like fieldwork better than I like sending people out to do the fieldwork. You don’t suppose Dutch knew that?”

  Brandt shook his head. “I’m beginning to think Dutch can be devious at times. I’m sure he thinks Miranda needs some time in the field. And maybe he’s right. It might make a better analyst out of her.”

  Wilcox shrugged, then said, “How are you and Jenny doing?”

  Brandt shook his head. “Well, I don’t know. We were going to meet for lunch … then the fuss in Portland started.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  Brandt shook his head. “Not much beyond what you can get from the TV. I do know Dutch plans to arrest a prominent imam – some dude named Osama.

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “No. Dutch really means it.”

  “No. Not that. The name.”

  “Coincidence.”

  Wilcox grinned. “Shame on me, but I like it.”

  “By the way, Leroy. Do you have any idea where this rattletrap helicopter is taking us?”

  “Yes. We’re headed for the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. A Navy plane will give us a ride to Ketchikan. The Coast Guard reported seeing Butler’s yacht tied up to a mooring buoy just south of there. They’ll keep an eye on him until we arrive.”

  “Think about it, Leroy. Given the tools we have, you really can’t hide. You can run, but you can’t hide. As an FBI agent, I like it. As a private citizen, it scares the hell out of me.”

  ***

  A nervous Brandt watched carefully as the Learjet dropped low over the Tongass Narrows. Through the porthole window, he saw patches of evening fog on the shipping channel and houselights slipping in and out of view. The Navy pilot eased the C-21 down smoothly on the runway, braked hard, and taxied to the terminal.

  Brandt took a deep breath and unbuckled his seat belt. “You know what I hate about flying, Leroy? You can’t see out the front window.”

  “What difference does that make, Douglas? You can’t fly this thing anyway.”

  “Yeah. I know, but I like to see where I’m going.”

  The steward, whose name tag read ‘Seaman John Perry,’ grinned at the exchange. “Spoken like a true ground-pounder.”

  “Amen to that,” Brandt said. “Armor. That’s more my style.”

  “I notice you gentlemen don’t have any luggage.”

  Brandt, whose beard was beginning to show, shrugged. “Snatched from the jaws of victory by a rooftop helicopter. No time to pack.”

  The steward pushed on a handle to open the cabin door and a set of steps unfolded. He said, “Here comes your Coast Guard escort. I’m told we are to wait for you to conduct your business, then return you to Sea-Tac tomorrow. Please let the Coast Guard dispatcher know if those plans change.”

  Brandt filled his lungs with cool, sea-scented air and exhaled slowly. “Doesn’t that smell good, Leroy?”

  “Does what smell good? Dead fish, jet fuel, and rotting seaweed?”

  “You have no romance in your soul, Leroy. You should at least be grateful for another good landing. We survived to walk away.”

  A white Chevy Suburban pulled to a stop, its doors emblazoned with the Coast Guard emblem. Brandt studied the gold shield with crossed anchors, red-white-and-blue center circle, and the words “Semper Paratus” around the edge of the circle. A young officer slid from behind the wheel and walked to meet them.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Lieutenant Harrington. I’ll get you over the ferry to the Coast Guard station on the main island. The commander said he would meet you in his office. He wants a little more information, before we launch a boarding party. May I please see your ID?”

  Wilcox fished his badge wallet from the inside pocket of his dark blue blazer and held it out for Harrington’s inspection. “I’m Special Agent Wilcox, FBI, and this is Special Agent Brandt. Thanks for meeting us.”

  “Luggage?”

  “We didn’t have time to pack.”

  “No problem, sirs. We can fix you up, but we’d best get moving. We don’t want to keep the commander waiting.”

  Brandt couldn’t help himself and said, “Hard-ass?”

  Harrington held the rear door open for them, then smiled and shook his head. “Not really. Just busy at the moment – with trespassers. Our big cutter is scheduled out of port in the next hour.” Seatbelts fastened, Harrington started the engine and headed to the ferry boarding area.

  “Trespassers?” Brant said from the rear seat.

  “Yes. Foreign ships fishing within our maritime borders.”

  Wilcox was interested. “Does it happen often?”

  Lieutenant Harrington nodded. “Every season. They just got the jump on us this year.”

  ***

  From the ferry dock on Revillagigedo Island, it was a short drive to the Coast Guard base just south of town.

  When Wilcox said, “That didn’t take long,” Harrington nodded and smiled back at them in the rearview mirror. “Nothing is very far away in Ketchikan.”

  A clutter of service buildings and a square, white, utilitarian-looking administration building, dating back to maybe the 1950’s, stood sentry over a sheltered cove, home port for the Chandeleur, a sleek one-hundred-ten-foot interisland cutter.

  A tall boathouse served as home to a second, smaller cutter, and several black and red Zodiacs were moored on the port side of the pier, subject to wind and weather, ready for the next missi
on. Busy place, Brandt thought.

  Harrington stopped in a “No Parking” zone and hopped out in time to open the back door, just as Wilcox reached for the handle. He said, “This way, gentlemen,” and led them into a foyer with an armed guardsman sitting behind bulletproof glass. Brandt and Wilcox signed in, and the guard pushed the “Pass” button. Inside he handed them each a visitor badge that clipped to their jacket pockets.

  Commander James Madison claimed a second-floor office with a view of the Coast Guard moorage and the green waters of the Alaska Marine Highway. Compact, energetic, a man who seldom sat still, he came around from behind his desk, hand outstretched, blue eyes searching the faces of the two FBI agents ushered in by Lieutenant Harrington.

  “Welcome to Ketchikan, gentlemen. I’m Commander Madison. I run this place … or maybe it runs me. Which of you is Wilcox and which is Brandt?”

  Wilcox held out his hand. “I’m Special Agent Wilcox, and this is Special Agent Brandt.” Madison shook hands with each of them.

  “Have a seat. Let’s talk a bit about the situation that brought you here. Harrington, how about getting us three cups of fresh coffee?”

  When Harrington closed the door, Commander Madison backed up and sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “Your fugitive’s yacht is about five miles south, tied to a mooring buoy just around Mountain Point. What do you want to tell me about this guy? Is he dangerous? Desperate? Pushing drugs? What?”

  Brandt glanced at Wilcox and then looked back at Madison. He said, “Winslow Butler is not actually a fugitive. There have been no warrants issued for his arrest. But we need him to testify before a federal grand jury. And that’s about all I can say. We don’t believe him to be dangerous. What we need is a ride to his boat, so we can talk him into coming back with us.”

  “And if he won’t?”

  “Then our orders are to detain him as a material witness.”

  Madison nodded and fished for more information. “This must be a big deal, given the trouble you’ve gone to.”

  Disgust in his voice, Wilcox nodded. “When foreign nationals kidnap young women and then ship them to the Middle East as sex slaves, it is a big deal. Butler has information that will help us put the ringleader away.”

  Commander Madison nodded. In his career, he had seen the seamier side of human nature, so the thought of sex trafficking wasn’t new. The Coast Guard sometimes interdicts shipments of people coming into the US, but it’s rare to find people being smuggled out.

  He said, “Okay. We have eyes on him as we speak. One of our guys is an avid fisherman, who just happens to be fishing for salmon a short distance from The Runaway. He tells me it doesn’t look like there’s plans to go anyplace soon. Your guy dropped a crab pot over the rail, and it looks like he’s fishing for halibut. Last report said lights are on in the staterooms, and his mooring lights are lit. I’d say he’s camped for the night.

  “You two look crapped out. Why don’t you let us keep an eye on his boat tonight and then go pick him up in the morning? Go get something to eat.

  The two hungry FBI agents looked at each other and nodded. Brandt said, “Sir, we’ll take you up on that.”

  “Good. Lieutenant, take these gentlemen to the chow hall, and get them fixed up at the BOQ.”

  Chapter 82

  Sunrise

  THE WIND PUSHED their new Gore-Tex rain parkas hard against their bodies as the open Zodiac sped south on through the Tongass Narrows. Icy sea spray convinced Brandt his new parka was worth every penny. Wilcox, a cold hand holding the peak of his hood in place, turned and grinned at his smaller partner. “Douglas,” he shouted over the roar of twin outboards and the noise of the wind, “we got to get ourselves one of these.”

  One Coast Guard crewman looked back and grinned. “That’s why I’m here. I love boats and being on the water. Most days are just plain fun.”

  Ten minutes later, Chief Jones, skipper of the three-person crew, retarded the throttle and the big Zodiac slowed from forty miles per hour to a more sedate twenty. He brought the throttle back further, toggled a switch on the dashboard to shift the engines to quiet mode, then pointed to a high-prowed green and white Krogen tied to a mooring buoy about a half-mile up the sound. “There’s your target.”

  Even though Brandt and Wilcox were convinced Butler was not a threat, the briefing prior to launch was specific about safety precautions. Chief Jones insisted the FBI agents armor up and wear life jackets. “That’s required for all boarding parties. Semper paratus,” the Chief said. “Always ready.”

  ***

  Winslow Butler, former FBI agent, sipped hot coffee and watched through the wheelhouse window as the red Zodiac slowly eased up to The Runaway. With something akin to admiration in his voice, he muttered. “Damned if they didn’t find us.”

  He slid the wheelhouse door open and stepped out on the deck, coffee mug in his hand. He leaned on the rail and took another sip of coffee. Might be my last one as a free man. Better enjoy it.

  Brandt pulled his hood back and looked up at Butler. Even though Butler had grown a beard and was wearing a watch cap, he was still the same gaunt figure he had always been. “Good morning, Winslow. You got the pot on?”

  In spite of himself, Butler smiled. “How did you find me?”

  Brandt stood up and said, “We didn’t. Miranda did. Or more to the point, she found the moorage for The Runaway.”

  “Well, damn. And the Commodore ratted me out?”

  “Why don’t we come aboard,” Wilcox said. “We can talk about it over a cup of coffee. It’s cold out here.”

  Butler set his coffee mug on the deck and walked to a boarding ladder tied to the rail halfway down the length of the boat. He unclipped a section of deck rail and slipped the pins of the boarding ladder in holes engineered for that purpose. “Come aboard,” he said.

  “I’m Chief Jones, United States Coast Guard,” the wheelman from the Zodiac said. “May we come aboard to inspect your boat?”

  Butler slowly let his breath out. He nodded. “Okay. Do your job, but let me wake Milly up first. She’s had enough fright to last her a lifetime.”

  Brandt climbed the boarding ladder and stepped on deck. “Milly?”

  Butler said, “A lost soul I found and sort of rescued … or so I thought.”

  “You lead, we’ll follow,” Brandt said.

  While Chief Jones and his crew inspected The Runaway, a trembling Millicent, Butler, and the two FBI agents sat at the galley table and talked.

  Wilcox looked at Butler and said, “She’s kinda young, don’t you think?”

  Millicent became defensive. “He saved me, but he won’t even have sex with me. He’s a big prude.” And then she smiled. “I love him.”

  “Like a father, I hope,” Wilcox growled.

  Brandt studied her. Mussed hair, no makeup, acne scars and all, and thought that with a little makeup, she would be pretty. And Butler treats her like a daughter. Okay, I’ll buy it. He moved Butler up a notch on his approval scale.

  “So, what happens now?” Butler asked.

  Wilcox nodded at Brandt, giving him the lead, since Brandt was who Butler placed a call to in the first place. Brandt said, “We want you to testify to a federal grand jury in Portland. You will be in a witness protection program after that.”