by Jeff Gulvin
‘We’re working on it with the Highway Patrol homicide dicks,’ he said.
‘Already?’ Logan looked squarely at him. ‘Since when was this a homicide investigation?’
‘It’s not yet.’ Reilly pulled a face. ‘But it’s the third militia-linked attack in the last three weeks, Logan. Both the other two ended up as DOAs, so why should this be any different.’
‘Abduction,’ Logan said over her shoulder to Swann.
‘Kidnapping is FBI jurisdiction, because more often than not, it involves the perps going interstate,’ She looked again at Reilly. ‘You got TOCs on-scene in Austin?’
He nodded.
‘What’s the atmosphere like?’
‘I’ll let you guess.’
They drove through New Summit Pass in the Desatoya mountain range and headed down into the sagebrush and scrub once again. Logan explained to Swann that eighty per cent of Nevada was range land of sorts: most of it owned by the Bureau of Land Management and leased to ranchers for grazing cattle and sheep. The state also housed the largest population of wild horses left in the country, but a number of them had been slaughtered by the ranchers during the really bad drought years at the beginning of the decade. Swann looked out of the window as they reached the flat land again and the basin floor stretched into nothingness as far as the eye could see. ‘Even now, you can see how water’s at a premium,’ Reilly added.
They could smell the atmosphere in Austin as they drove up the hill and pulled over at the vacant lot on the westerly edge of town, not far from the Battle Mountain road. The FBI had set up a mobile incident room, using one of the tactical operations centers with the computer link to Washington, as well as a silver-coloured trailer towed by another massive truck. The trailer housed three FBI agents and two Nevada Highway Patrol officers from their criminal investigation division. The area was cordoned off with police tape and two state troopers stood at the makeshift gateway. The town, though, was all but deserted and Swann could sense the air of malice as soon as they drove in.
The state troopers, both white men with grunt haircuts, eyed Logan curiously as they got out of the car. She already had her shield open and propped it in the breast pocket of the short black jacket she was wearing. The trooper nodded and stepped back. Swann followed Logan into the TOC, and one of the support staff, seated at the fold-out computer screen, looked up. He was in his early twenties, suntanned, with slicked-back hair.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
‘Hi. My name’s Logan: terrorism response co-ordinator from D.C. How’re we getting on?’
The young man sat back and rested his palms in his lap. Swann thought he looked a little effeminate. ‘Not good. The mood here is as bad as I’ve ever seen it. Austin always was a rough little town. The population now is only about two hundred. The miners all live out on-site in trailers and they only come in to get drunk.’
‘And the local mood is ugly.’
‘To say the least, mam.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘The media circus is at the top end of town. BobCat Reece is holding a meeting right now.’
‘Reece is here already?’
The man nodded.
‘What kind of meeting?’ Swann asked him.
‘An anti-federal one.’
‘Have we got anyone up there?’ Logan put in.
He shook his head. ‘The local people don’t want us anywhere near the town, let alone their meeting. One agent tried to go up to talk and was told he was violating their First Amendment rights.’
Logan rested her elbows on the edge of the table. ‘Have you got any history on Tommy Anderson?’
‘Some.’ The man reached forward and handed her a paper folder. Swann moved alongside and looked over her shoulder as she read it. The picture pinned at the top left-hand corner showed a rugged-looking, bearded man with a cowboy hat. He had one conviction for assault from his youth, but apart from that his sheet was clean.
Logan pursed her lips. ‘Looks like a regular stand-up guy.’
‘He led the militia on manoeuvres out by Mount Callaghan.’ The voice came from behind them. A young woman in uniform, with a Lander County sheriff’s department badge on her sleeve, was standing there. She was no more than five foot five and the gun on her hip looked incongruous, as if she had to stand at a slight slant to hold it up. ‘He took them out into the boonies to shoot their guns and lay mini-explosive charges. I know because I watched them.’
Logan held out her hand. ‘Cheyenne Logan,’ she said. ‘This is Jack Swann, a cop from London who is giving us a hand.’
She shook hands with both of them. ‘Dorothy Becker. I can tell you all you want to know about Anderson.’
Logan looked over her shoulder at Swann. ‘Sense in a small town,’ she said. ‘Female.’
The three of them walked the short distance up the road to a diner. The two women sat down at a window table and Swann ordered coffee for all of them from a bald-headed, short-order cook, who scowled consistently at him. ‘Goddamn G-men ever’where you turn your head,’ he muttered. ‘Should be looking at Washington D.C., not here. Only for goddamn show, anyways.’ Swann paid him, took the coffee and sat down.
‘The people think the government is behind the kidnapping?’ he said.
Becker nodded. ‘Three Asians showed up in a black Chevy Suburban, two days before Anderson was taken. They had a good look round, as if they were casing the place.’
‘Did you speak to them?’ Logan asked.
‘No, mam. The sheriff did. They told him they were businessmen who were considering buying out the mine.’ She poured a packet of sugar into her cup and stirred vigorously. ‘They stayed the two days, then headed for Carson City. A day later, Tommy Anderson’s truck is found—out on the Battle Mountain road and there were signs of a fight. The Chevy is found the same afternoon, just east of the Yomba Indian Reservation. That’s south of here; and what look like helicopter skids are located about fifty yards the other side of the road. Two Indians from the reservation will swear under oath that they witnessed a black, unmarked helicopter coming in low over their land the day before.’
She broke off as the bell tinkled above the door and two men in baseball hats walked in. They eyed the table coldly, particularly Logan. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she said.
They looked beyond her to Becker. ‘Deputy,’ one of them said, ‘you’re hired by the county. You shouldn’t be hanging out with scum.’
‘Hey, Earl.’ Becker jabbed a finger at him. ‘Who I hang out with is my business. And you ought to think about some manners before you get much older.’
He snorted phlegm into his mouth and eyed Swann then. Swann stared evenly back at him, arms resting on the back of his chair.
‘You’re fraternising with the enemy, Dorothy,’ Earl went on. ‘Not good in a time of war.’
‘There ain’t no war, Earl. Don’t be such an asshole.’
Earl snorted again and looked at Logan with a sudden curl of his lip. ‘Maybe there ain’t yet,’ he said. ‘But there’s gonna be.’ He looked at Becker again. ‘You better think about that, sweetlips. Figure out whose side you’re on. Sure ain’t gonna be no prisoners taken.’ He opened the door again and looked across the counter at the cook.
‘Sorry, Udal,’ he said. ‘You got a bad smell in here.’
‘Don’t you think I know it?’
They moved outside once more and stood on the sidewalk. Becker eased her gun higher against her hip. ‘The meeting’s up the street, if you wanna see what’s going on.’
Logan felt for the snub-nosed .38 housed under her armpit. ‘Yeah, why not,’ she said.
The three of them wandered up the hill, with the church on the right-hand side and the road winding like a snake into the foothills of the Toiyabes. The town was old, comprising just one street, with wooden sidewalks and skinny pillars holding up the porches of the buildings that overhung the street. Some were rickety in places, their paint stripped by the sun. They passed a bar on the left-hand side an
d Swann took in all the media trucks parked in a long line. He noted ABC, CNN, Fox, CBS, NBC. ‘They’re all here, then,’ he muttered.
‘Oh yeah.’ Becker lifted her eyebrows. ‘Regular circus. This is real big news after Hope Heights and Daniel Pataki’s death.’ She glanced at Logan. ‘Who’s running the investigation in Oregon?’
‘The state police.’
‘They come up with anything yet?’
Logan shook her head.
‘It’s the New World Order. One hundred thousand Hong Kong troops to take away our guns.’ Becker made a face. ‘I read somewhere that Billy Bob Lafitte’s rifle was taken from his truck the night before his brake lines were cut.’
‘That’s right.’
They paused on the corner of Hope Street, which ran up to the church. A great scrum of people were gathered outside the building. Reporters, cameras, monitors and cables were everywhere.
‘What d’you figure is really going on, Logan?’ Becker asked her. ‘What’s the federal angle?’
‘We don’t have one yet.’ Logan made a face. ‘But it looks like everything they talk about in their conspiracy theories is coming true, doesn’t it?’
‘It sure does.’
Swann looked up the street, then back at Becker. ‘You don’t believe it, though, do you?’
Becker glanced at him and shifted her pistol where it sat in the holster. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t make it any less dangerous.’
They could not get close to the door, but Swann could hear somebody’s voice booming out of a microphone, and the reason the streets were so deserted was because the building bulged with the town’s inhabitants. The TV cameras were rolling and he stood next to one group from ABC and watched their video monitor. A tall, rangy-looking man with dark hair was standing in the pulpit, eyes wild and with fist clenched like the old pastor in Moby Dick.
‘I tell you, good people,’ he said. ‘We cannot take this lying down.’ He banged his fist on the lectern. ‘For years, people have branded the likes of Tommy Anderson a fool. What is it they like to call us? What is it you like to call us?’ He levelled a stiff forefinger at the cameras trained on his face. ‘Conspiracy theorists. Scaremongers. Fools.’ He broke off and wiped a strand of spittle from his lip. ‘Well, Tommy Anderson was such a fool that he’s gone missing, abducted by three men of, shall we say, Asian extraction. Three men in a black Suburban, just like the three seen by hundreds of people in Hope Heights, Oregon, where Billy Bob Lafitte was murdered. And what of Dan Pataki in Missouri? Dan Pataki who’d never been east of Kentucky in his whole life, yet still manages to die of yellow fever.’
He gripped the lectern now with both hands, knuckles raw against his skin. ‘It’s happening right under our noses. It’s been happening for years—the erosion of everything that this country ever stood for. Our Bill of Rights. Our Constitution, written to oppose the very tyranny we’re now witnessing, tossed in the garbage along with all of our rights. No wonder the President was on the tube this year under the pretence of concern about shootings in our schools. I put it to you that those shootings were perpetrated by government agents, the same government agents who are behind the killings in Oregon and Missouri and the abduction of Tommy Anderson. What a perfect excuse for the liberals to take our guns. They’re not content with the Brady Bill and other such Second Amendment infringements, they’re prepared to sacrifice our children to go one better.’
He leaned forward then, clearly aware that his audience was nationwide, and stared into the sea of cameras pointing up at his face. ‘Don’t you see what is happening? We’re not just a bunch of tobacco-chewing Okies sitting up in the boonies. This is going on all over the country. They’re after your guns so they can come and get you, just like they came for Tommy Anderson.’ He stood tall again and shook his head. ‘The FBI will tell you it’s a kidnap, an abduction. But we know we won’t see Tommy again. His wife told me as much only this morning. His sons, just like those of William Lafitte, will be orphaned. Let me ask you this: are we, the free citizens of America, gonna stand by and let this government make slaves of us with their FBI, their ATF and their foreign troops?’ He banged his fist into his chest. ‘I for one am not.’
Swann looked at Logan and then out of the corner of his eye he saw Carl Smylie, heading straight for them. Logan looked up as Smylie pushed his thin face into hers.
‘Well, Special Agent. What you got to say to that?’
Logan drew breath, flaring her nostrils a little. ‘Not a whole lot, Carl.’
‘You don’t think he’s got a point?’
Logan looked at him then. ‘Talk to the Office of Public and Congressional Affairs. I’m not the Bureau’s spokesperson.’
‘No,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘You’re a terrorism response co-ordinator, with her eye on the leg-att’s job in London.’
‘You’re well informed.’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Gotta be, don’t you. If you wanna stay ahead of the game.’
‘So what’s the story here, then?’ Swann asked him. ‘What’s going to happen?’
Smylie shrugged. ‘You tell me, Inspector. But think about it. Old BobCat there has just made a broadcast nationwide. Nobody in his position ever had a national audience like that before. You figure he made the best of it?’
Logan took Swann’s arm and guided him away, but Smylie came after them, trailing like a dog. ‘Logan, I thought you’d be tied up in D.C., what with the Arlington bomber still on the loose.’ He stopped and stood there. ‘I see you in D.C. and I see you in Hope Heights, and now I see you out here. You wouldn’t give me a quote about Dan Pataki, but you’re interested enough to be nosing around here. Now, is that being weird, or is it just me?’
Logan looked round at him. ‘I don’t know, Carl. Go figure.’
They walked back down the hill. Behind them, the meeting was breaking up and members of the media were interviewing various townspeople. BobCat Reece came bustling out of the church and was collared by a whole gaggle of reporters, with their cassette recorders and microphones stuffed under his nose. He gave them another interview and Logan watched him from the sidewalk. ‘Leaderless Resistance,’ she said. ‘Each cell doing its own thing.’ She looked at Swann. ‘That’s fine in peacetime, Jack. But in war, you need a leader.’
Back in the tactical operations center, she spoke to Kovalski in Washington. ‘Did you see that, Tom?’
‘Yes, I saw it. Everybody saw it. The Director’s been on the phone down here. He’s had the national security adviser asking him what our response is to this. What’s happening on the ground?’
‘Not a lot,’ Logan told him. ‘It’s much the same as in Oregon. Jack and I will have a look round and then head back. Have we heard anything more from Harada?’
‘Nothing.’ Kovalski sighed then. ‘I put in a request to speak to Tetsuya Shikomoto in jail, but he refused to see me.’
‘He hasn’t said a word since we arrested him. Why should he start now?’ She looked at Swann as she spoke. ‘We don’t know for sure that Harada’s bomb is anything to do with him, anyway.’
‘We don’t know anything about Harada’s bomb,’ Kovalski said. ‘You ever feel like you’re getting the run-around, Chey?’
‘All the time I’ve been working for you.’ Logan laughed and hung up the phone.
Reilly was busy talking to the Highway Patrol detectives and Logan asked him for the use of his car. Then she and Swann headed west once more, out of town, until they came to the dirt road south towards lone and eventually Tonopah. Dust lifted from the tyres as she drove through the afternoon heat. The road was bumpy and rippled with tyre tracks left by 4 x 4 trucks.
Swann sat next to her and sighed. ‘You can smell the powder drying, can’t you, Chey,’ he said. ‘I mean back there, that small town full of hate and mistrust. It’s tangible.’
The people are scared, Jack. And it doesn’t take much from the likes of BobCat Reece to really shake them up. People are scared of what
they can’t understand and they can’t understand this. Two people dead and one gone missing. The one thing they have in common is their distrust of federal government. Not to mention their racist views and probable Christian Identity religion.’ She gripped the wheel with both hands, as the car bumped and lurched over the ruts in the unmade road. ‘What do you think is happening?’ She glanced sideways at him as she said it.
Swann sat back in the seat and thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s baffling. You have a society built on the gun, Cheyenne. Everyone has a gun, or at least has easy access to one. I can’t think of another civilised nation on the planet that’s built on ownership of guns.’
‘I know.’ Logan shook her head. ‘It’s the way it’s always been. Which is why we can’t just ban them. It’s not just because of the Second Amendment, although that presents a nightmare in itself. It’s the very essence of what this country is.’
‘It’s not possible that some government department you’re not aware of is doing this. Is it, Cheyenne?’ Swann looked at her as he said it and for a moment she did not reply.
‘Well, Jack. Once upon a time I’d have laughed at you. But now.’ She twisted her mouth down. ‘Now, I think just about anything is possible.’
The area where the truck had been was still cordoned off, although there was no deputy or state trooper there to keep people away. The land was flat and it stretched grey-green with sagebrush and scrub desert as far as the eye could see. ‘It’s awful hot today, Jack,’ Logan said, as she laid her coat on the seat and got out. ‘Watch where you put your feet, it’s prime rattlesnake country.’
Swann stared at his shoes, partially covered by sand. Rattlesnake country—that was all he needed.
There was nothing to see, just wheel marks and the long flat indentations, which looked like they had been made by a helicopter. Swann wiped his brow with his handkerchief, and suddenly he thought of London, his flat and his children, and how far from this they all were.
Logan’s cellphone rang where it was clipped to the belt on her skirt and she looked down at it. ‘I never knew it could work this far off the tracks,’ she said. She looked at the number, did not recognise it, and answered the phone. ‘Logan.’