Mac took a deep swallow of coffee, felt somewhat renewed.
“According to the locals, he owned the property, built the cabin, used it for the aforementioned hunting and fishing during the seasons. Each year for decades, he expanded the buildings, did more work on the place. Moved here permanently after his wife died. That was probably about five years ago, when I left the SEALs and landed up here. Don’t see much of him except on Fridays, when he does his weekly errands in town, then heads for the diner. Churlish on occasion, but never a problem.”
“Churlish?” Chandler chuckled as he scrolled through screens on his handheld satcom unit. “Hold the phone. Check this out. He was an engineer all right, but not exactly the bridge-building kind. Explosives Engineering Specialist in our own United States Army. Interesting.”
He flipped through more screens. “Instant intel. Ain’t technology grand. Looks like Bernard Smith could build or defuse just about any explosive device on the planet.
Meritorious medals out the whazoo, all sorts of commendations for putting his life on the line for the good ol’ U. S. of A. Looks like his health took a nosedive after 9/11—he spent time at ground zero. Medical discharge not long after. Hmm.”
As MacBride opened his mouth to respond, a Special Agent Bomb Technician in full gear trudged up, pulled off his helmet to suck in clean mountain air.
“We have an issue.” He looked pointedly from Chandler to Mac.
“Take it easy, I’ll vouch for him.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know too many guys who are going to have clearance for this.” The SABT looked at his feet, shook his head.
“Sheriff, I understand you were a SEAL explosives specialist, right?” He waited for Mac’s nod. “You’re familiar with the Larsson case?”
Another nod. Mac’s expression changed to a thoughtful squint as he recalled the details. “John Larsson, demolitions specialist. Killed in a freak bomb blast about two or three months ago. Sporadic intel chatter at the time suggested it was an al-Qaeda op, but no one came forth to take credit for the job. The bomb signature was not previously identified. Appeared to be a timer within a timer.”
“Yeah, well, it might be identifiable now.” The agent had the attention of both men. “We won’t be sure until our squints check the photos and get actual samples back to the D.C. lab, but the components look familiar. The timer on the Larsson device had a peculiar set-up. That’s why I remembered it.”
Chandler shook his head. “The next question: what was our little ol’ bomb maker doing in the middle of moose country Maine, followed closely by who ordered the device to be built? So far, his profile does not point to a man who didn’t love his country.”
Mac headed for his vehicle. “People’s politics have been known to change. More to the point, where is the bomb maker himself, so we can ask him those self-same questions? I need to call this in, get an APB out on Smith.”
He glanced at Chandler’s man. “Your secret is safe with me. The last thing our little town needs is a bomb panic during the height of the fall tourist season.”
* * * * *
Thursday
Two days later, Game Warden Abigail O’Connell left a brief message on the sheriff’s satphone. “Meet me at these GPS coordinates a.s.a.p.”
An hour after that, Mac, O’Connell, Collins, Deputy Medical Examiner Thomas Blake, and Jack, the M.E.’s assistant, stared at the raggedy human remains at the bottom of a cliff.
“Are you sure?” Mac gazed up the nearly vertical rock face as he directed his question toward the M.E., but he didn’t particularly care who answered.
Abigail responded immediately, shifted her stance. “Yeah, it’s him. Even with the scavenger damage, that’s him. His hair, his clothes, his old military ID in the front vest pocket. He mentioned a time or two that he still had all his own teeth, so Army dental records should do the trick. Or maybe DNA testing?” She turned to the M.E. “Right?”
“The identification and autopsy will be complete, Abigail, not to worry. Mr.
Smith’s death was probably accidental, considering where the body came to rest.
Landing at the bottom of a hundred-foot rock face would account for the skull trauma and broken cervical vertebrae, but I certainly won’t rule anything out until I do the postmortem examination.
“Can’t be certain until the bugs attached to the remains tell their stories, but he probably died the same day he went missing. Thankfully for us, he landed in the shadow of the cliff. With the temperatures dropping, the remains stayed cool enough to delay decomposition. Now, all of you need to skedaddle. Inspect your accident scene while I get to work on our victim.” The M.E. motioned for Jack to haul over the body bag.
When they reached their vehicles, Abigail turned to Mac. “We have a problem.
Or, rather, you have a problem, since this is your jurisdiction.”
Mac cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“I found Smitty by following crow sign. They were circling overhead, which meant something died on the ground. That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that I didn’t find his Jeep.”
“Really.”
“Really. But I did find his hunting rifle and his fishing pole.”
“So, what’s strange about that? They were missing from his cabin.”
“Yeah, well, I would have expected the rifle and fishing gear to have fallen close to Smitty’s point of impact. Providing he slipped off the mossy edge of the rock face.”
“Abigail, I already have a blasting headache. I’ve been chewing aspirin like Jujubes. Where are you going with this?”
“Mac, work with me here. Smitty had his favorite fishing spots. His body is at least half a mile from the nearest water source. He’s nowhere near where he usually parked his Jeep when he fished, or even when he hunted. I’d run into him every few weeks, so I have a fairly good idea where his favorite sites were. No Jeep between here and there. As a matter of fact, no Jeep anywhere. Now check out the markers I laid down for his rifle, rod and creel, and backpack.”
She pointed to an area about forty feet from the body, where several yellow plastic crime scene markers had been placed within a corral of crime scene tape.
Mac was relieved to see that she’d secured the vital elements as soon as possible, but not surprised. O’Connell was a hell of an officer, even if she wasn’t one of his.
She swept her arm in an arc, from the position of the body to the nearest of Smith’s belongings. “There’s no way those items should have landed so far from his body, if they went over the edge when he did. The ground is too soft for any serious bounce and ricochet effect. Animal activity could account for some movement of the backpack and creel, if they contained food or fish, but I’d hazard a guess that coyotes or foxes didn’t move his rifle or fishing pole.”
He had a feeling his headache was about to get worse. “Shit. Anything else?”
“Yeah. There are tire tracks near the top edge of the cliff. Then they disappear in the pine needle ground cover. Since his Jeep isn’t anywhere to be seen, I’d be making tire casts before the tracks are lost due to weather or animals tracking over them.
“Care to make an educated hypothesis?”
Abigail gave half a headshake. “Best guess? Either he flung them over the edge, then jumped to his death—highly unlikely—or his gear ended up being tossed over the edge after he was pushed. Or thrown.”
Her blue eyes flashed. “Mac, I’m thinking our accident isn’t an accident.”
“Damn it to bloody hell, Abigail. We don’t need this right now, with tourists bustling in and out and all over for leaf-peeping and craft fairs.”
“I know. I know.”
She leaned against her Land Rover’s hood, kept her voice low. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Blake that might influence his investigation, not that I think he’d do anything less than his usual best. I’m just saying, I think this whole scene is hinky. It looks staged.”
“Abigail, what is that smell?”
“Ya gotta be more specific, chief.”
“Sort of sweet, like perfume.” He turned toward her, then sucked in a deep breath. “Are you wearing perfume?”
“No, not me. I don’t wear perfume when I’m on the job. Screws with the wildlife.”
She closed her eyes, sniffed the air like a beagle. “That’s wild honeysuckle. It’s all over the damned place. The flowers are dying off now, but you should smell it when it’s in full bloom. Grows like a bushy weed. Why?”
“No reason. Reminds me of something, but I can’t recall what, at the moment.”
He straightened up, scanned the woods.
Abigail nodded. “Research has proven that scent can be the most potent time-machine.”
Time machine. Good explanation. Then he got it. The last time he’d smelled honeysuckle, his bristly cheek had rubbed against the soft throat of the ebony-haired beauty in his hotel suite. She’d laughed, said the stubble tickled. He’d slid down the length of her body to see what else he could tickle. Damn.
“Mac, you okay?”
“Yeah, no worries. Just tired.” And frustrated. Why did Green-eyes take off before I could find out her name?
“Yeah, well, don’t be too tired to call me if you or Blake come up with anything interesting.”
“Will do.”
Abigail paused as she opened the door to the Rover. “Hey, I hear the Three Musketeers are back.”
“You heard right.”
Yes, they’re back, so I can set Lucian on my mystery woman’s trail. Before I lose my mind.
* * * * *
Evening fell by the time Mac caught a break to call Special Agent Chandler.
Chandler picked up on the second ring. “Good timing, Sheriff. I planned to contact you in the morning after I grabbed a couple hours shut-eye.”
“Let me know how that sleep thing works for ya.”
Chandler snorted. “I’ll be sure to do that. I’ve had about enough of sleeping upright in the seat of a moving vehicle. Anyway, confidence is high that the signature of the bomb components has the same characteristics as the device that took out John Larsson. The good news is that the top expert on that particular device—the only expert—will be landing in Boston.”
Mac heard Chandler shuffling papers. He could imagine the chaos of files that probably covered the agent’s bed at the Cata-Lodge Hotel. His desk occasionally looked the same way.
” Ahh, here it is. Damn, either my penmanship is really deteriorating, or my eyesight is finally history. I already know my brain cells are gone. And the phone connection wasn’t the greatest. Sounded sorta like K-something Holo-something. I’m guessing it’s Kyle Holloway, maybe.
“Anyway, Holloway apparently worked closely with Larsson. Our D.C. office didn’t have time to divert him, so he and his second-in-command are winging their way to Boston from the West coast as we speak. State Police will snatch them up, then toss them on a red-eye shuttle. They should arrive at the Catamount Lake regional airport in the wee hours, morning after next.”
“Saturday morning. That’s the soonest they can get here?”
“Yep, that’s it. They’re civilians, not government employees—we can request, not order. They’ll be arriving at Logan on their regularly scheduled flight, but they had two stops in between. We’ve been chasing him across the country, always half a step behind.
Hey, count yourself lucky, we’re picking up the tab on this one. Larsson had gone independent, but he was still one of ours. One of the good guys. We want whoever targeted him, and we need to know why. Give Holloway all the cooperation you can, then let him do his job.”
Mac cleared his throat. “Something you should know about Smitty.”
Chandler sighed heavily over the phone connection. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Probably not. It sure fucked up my day. Our game warden found him. Well, found his body. She doesn’t think it was an accident. I agree with her. My deputies processed the crime scene without our input, then reached the same conclusion.”
Chandler kept silent for a moment. “Shit. Number one, how reliable is the game warden? Number two, can she keep her thoughts to herself?”
“You won’t find a better investigator. She doesn’t miss much. Neither do my boys. And their sense of discretion is absolute.”
“When will your M.E. be finished?”
“Best estimate, a couple or three days. We usually deal with out-of-control vacationers who party too hard, occasional break-ins. A domestic disturbance or two, usually beer-induced. Tourists who get lost in the thick woods and mountains.
Homicide is not a problem up here—which is why I accepted this job. The M.E. should be able to give the body his undivided attention.”
Chandler sighed. “I suppose we shouldn’t get all sorts of nuts until he finishes his report.”
“Works for me. Sweet dreams, Chandler.”
“Bite the big one, MacBride.”
Mac grinned as he disconnected.
The next morning, Deputy Collins cocked his head after Mac finished relaying the news. “Let me get this right. The Fibbies are babysitting our bomb, now we’re parking our butts on the sidelines over Smitty’s corpse, which is probably a homicide and also in our jurisdiction.”
“Yep, appears so.” With a heavy sigh, Mac headed out of the office into the fresh air and sunshine, turned toward the Hungry Bear Café with its high-octane coffee.
And I’ve been awake all night, haunted by recurring memories of having had the hottest sex with the hottest woman any red-blooded man could ever imagine. So, suck it up and deal with your disappointment, partner. I’m fresh outa sympathy.
Chapter Two
Saturday
What would have been a five-plus hour drive to Catafuckingmount Lake from Logan International in Boston was only a quick hop by plane. Keko was convinced it took longer to load their luggage than the time they actually spent in the air.
Including the pilot, copilot, and flight attendant, the total passenger list of the sky shuttle boasted five. The FBI had apparently put a rush on their trip. As soon as they touched down at Logan, the State Police ferried them to the waiting puddle-jumper by the State Police and damn near catapulted back into the air.
Keko copped a squat in the single seat row, while Kamaka spread comfortably across both seats of the two-seater row. He snored. She checked files and made notes on her laptop. An occasional glance through her window gave her visions of the Monet-like effects of September’s end, as yellow, orange, and red leaves mingled with the still lush green of the north country. Which means the tourists, the leaf-peepers, will be out in force.
She finally sat back in her seat, closed her eyes. Could it be true? Did the Fibbies actually identify the bomb maker responsible for Dad’s death? In omigod Maine, for chrissakes?
What self-respecting terrorist would hide out in Maine?
The bomb signature had been truly unique, the mechanism so sophisticated that once armed, it couldn’t be disarmed. John thought they’d disarmed it, and so did she.
Seven minutes later, after she’d vacated the post office building where the device had been found, the rearmed bomb erupted in a Vesuvius of shrapnel that shredded John into bloody bits of nothing recognizable.
The number of mourners at John Larsson’s funeral impressed Keko. Included among those paying their last respects were high-ranking military officials, members who represented all the armed forces, his retired SEAL team, and leaders and representatives from other countries who owed thanks to John, in part, for their peace and prosperity.
Keko’s mother refused to leave her artists’ colony in Hawaii, refused to attend the memorial with the “black angels of death” in attendance. Those black death angels included her daughter, as a demolitions specialist who followed closely in her father’s footsteps.
Keko came to terms with being a disappointment to Aolina Hualami years before, so she ignored good ol’ mum’s refusal to attend the memorial service. She had her father’s remains cremated, or what they could gather of his remains, as he’d wished.
She placed the urn with his ashes over the mantelpiece in the living room.
Every evening before bed, she settled herself in what had been his favorite wing chair, and poured two fingers of his favorite bourbon, Old Fitzgerald 1849. No more, no less. Then she shared the day’s events with her dad, while listening to Garth Brooks sing The Dance. John Larsson would rest for eternity in his black, faux Ming dynasty urn embellished with fire-breathing, golden-scaled Chinese dragons that seemed to undulate in the hearth light. She thought he’d like that.
I’d certainly tell him about this trip. She hadn’t yet had a chance to acquaint him with the story of her encounter with the man in L.A., and wondered if the incident was something she should share with her father’s spirit. She decided yes, she would.
In a few moments, the transport would bounce along the regional airport’s weeds-in-the-cracks runway that she could see looming under the shadow of the descending plane. When the warning bell dinged, Keko repacked her gear, leaned across the narrow aisle, swatted her second-in-command in the arm.
“Rise and shine, Makaha.”
He corrected her automatically. “Kamaka.”
“Yeah, whatever. Shake your sorry ass awake.”
He lazily waved a hand in her direction. “Be gone, evil spirit.”
His sparkling black eyes closed again.
Podunk definitely described the little airport. Since they were the only passengers, the lone luggage attendant unloaded their bags and equipment onto the cracked tarmac, left them standing there, then went about his own business.
The crisp chill in the air crawled along Keko’s exposed arms. Damn, it had definitely been warmer when we landed at Logan and made the transfer. My jacket would be useful, if it wasn’t crammed into my luggage.
Inside the terminal, Keko took possession of a wheeled luggage rack to transport her equipment and single roll-along suitcase, plus Kamaka’s pair of oversized, florescent, fuschia bags with their fancy tandem wheels. Really. How many Aloha shirts, Hawaiian shorts, and pairs of Birkenstock sandals does one fat man need to survive a trip from Massachusetts to Hawaii and back?
Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three Page 2