The Dream Virgin

by Don Quine

  Question was where to start looking. All they had was assumptions.

  The albino was first seen riding an off-road sport bike with Reimer on Route 3. Later the same night he was found dead with the Athena doctor and his assistant.

  One would assume Reimer was at the scene, contributed to the shooting, cleaned out the drugs from the medicine cabinet, and took off on the motorcycle. Forensics would confirm. One would also assume Reimer went to the doctor because he was wounded during the gun exchange with the loggers. The albino was not wounded in that exchange.

  There was spotted speculation until Leon said, “We can guess twenty ways to Sunday, but the bottom-line is we’re back to square one.”

  “Square one?” Will asked

  “Wait and see,” said Leon, whose cell rang.

  Leon listened for a moment, then hung up and told the team that George said he and Rahim followed the Pigs from the Pendleton jail to the Enterprise Court House where they were arraigned for harboring an escaped felon with a firearm. Bail was set at $100,000 per biker.

  The Pigs had no attorney and were being shipped back to Pendleton, public defender to be appointed.

  CHAPTER 64

  On Pearl Harbor Day Daddy-O would turn seventy-five.

  You’d never believe it. You’d say early sixties at most. Daddy-O attributed it to good genes and a plate of human flesh at least once a year. Daddy-O loved to joke around with his commune, play with the slave kids, tickle them, then lick his lips and say, “Those cute little ribs look good enough to stick on the barbie.”

  The slave kids would giggle at the ribbing, didn’t have a clue. But it made Daddy-O feel good when he kidded around and had fun with them.

  The slaves looked up to Daddy-O who was 6’3” and weighed in at two-ten. All muscle except for a small potbelly that was hard as a rock.

  For a monster, Daddy-O was good-looking in his olive uniform with his Game Warden badge and firearm. Leave Nature Untouched stitched on his shirt pocket.

  You could see how Reimer and Fred could be related to Daddy-O and Mommy-O with their cold-blooded eyes.

  Difference was that Daddy-O had never taken a mind-altering substance in his entire life, like Mommy-O did. No booze or drugs of any kind. Nothing. And he saw his family physician in Boise twice a year. Plus he took two grams of Vitamin C four times a day to ward off cancer. It was probably the main reason why Daddy-O was alive and Mommy-O was dead.

  Reimer and Fred got their crazies from both parents, but Mommy-O had an addictive personality that caused her to get emotional sometimes and not be too objective in her decision-making.

  Daddy-O’s insanity was totally on the natch, which is why he felt no remorse when he killed his parents on a camping trip when he was twelve. Pushed them over the cliff and waved bye-bye as they tumbled down into the stony canyon and broke their necks. No more of their bitching about his abuse of pets from the neighborhood that needed to be taught a lesson.

  At the funeral, the family friends said Daddy-O’s young heart must be crushed. He was good at putting on the teary-eye routine. Being an only child, born and christened Matthew Jordan Caulfield, Daddy-O got to live in the family’s Chicago townhouse with his mother’s aunt that was blind. A thousand dollar a week allowance tided him over until he was eighteen and inherited the seven million dollar estate.

  But by the time he was eighteen, Daddy-O was already worth over a million from having taken over the drug gangs at four Illinois colleges. He had to kill two gang honchos; thought they were smart and bad, but didn’t know shit, and died like wimps when he slit their throats.

  Almost ten years later, when he was twenty-seven, Daddy-O ran gangs in Illinois, Ohio, and Michigan that netted him close to a half-million a month. He was able to work out at Gold’s Gym three times a week with personal instruction, and had killer guns. Won every arm-wrestling contest he entered at the Billy Goat Tavern. Daddy-O was in good shape when he decided it was time to disappear and move out west where Mommy-O lived.

  Daddy-O met Mommy-O at a slave auction Daddy-O was invited to attend by a hitman he met when he was on vacation in Barbados to see Wayne Newton. The auction was at a mansion in the suburbs of Boise owned by some Ali Baba guys. Daddy-O didn’t know much about the slave trade, but Mommy-O did. She knew how to pick out and buy the youngest and best-looking kids, outbid the competition, and her sexy commanding voice made Daddy-O and the other bidders in the luxurious living room where they sold the slaves know she was going to get what she wanted.

  After the bidding, when Mommy-O’s bodyguards were putting her young slaves in a big Winnebago, Daddy-O told Mommy-O she looked extremely desirable, that her voice almost made him cum in his pants.

  Mommy-O bit her lip, found herself turned on by this handsome stranger who looked intelligent and dangerous. She could feel his energy, and invited Daddy-O to follow her home.

  Besides being a bundle of dynamite in bed, Mommy-O was smart and ruthless. Even smarter than Daddy-O about certain things which Daddy-O respected. It was Mommy-O who started calling Matthew Daddy-O right after they got it on.

  Daddy-O was the name beatniks called somebody who was cool, someone like James Dean who was in Rebel Without a Cause. Mommy-O had a big crush on James Dean.

  Daddy-O didn’t know James Dean, but he liked horror films a lot and liked Mommy-O calling him Daddy-O, even though the idea of being a father was disgusting. So after a few weeks of banging each other’s brains out, Daddy-O and Mommy-O decided to hook up and go into business together.

  Since Matthew Jordan Caulfield had made plenty of enemies back east, Mommy-O thought it would be a good idea to eliminate him before Daddy-O moved west.

  Mommy-O told Daddy-O that’s what she had done when she was Alicia Tomkins from Pacific Palisades in Southern California and her human trafficking business made her too many enemies.

  She offed herself.

  Daddy-O liked the way Mommy-O did herself in and worked it out so a single-engine private plane that he hired to fly him from Madison to Montreal burst into flames and went down over Lake Superior.

  Just Matthew and the pilot, no human remains found. Same as Mommy-O’s accident in the Pacific Ocean, out past Catalina that she called her Amelia Earhart.

  Made it out to be a tragic accident with a quick funeral held at his parent’s gravesite and before you could say rest in peace, Matthew Wayne Caulfield was history. In debt when he died, millions squandered.

  Most of the people at Matthew’s funeral were gang leaders and the law. Most of them doubted Matthew was dead, but they couldn’t prove it since there was no body.

  Over the years, Daddy-O and Mommy-O became too many people to count until they closed a deal with a gang of bikers in Casper and decided to celebrate by taking a road trip to Colorado.

  It was breathtaking splendor being in the Rocky Mountain forests, and after less than a week there they decided to put together a slave commune, semi-retire, run operations from a distance, and take business trips when called for.

  It was more than thirty years ago when Daddy-O told Mommy-O to wait in the city until he got things set up for them, figured it to take a year or so to put it all together.

  Daddy-O set it up so he became a game warden with a small office cabin near the entrance to a trailhead leading into hundreds of privately owned acres butting up to a federal forest in the South Western San Juan Mountains, one of the most remote wilderness areas in Colorado.

  Daddy-O had it worked out so if someone got off the beaten path up in the isolated woods and Daddy-O happened to be in the land management office cabin for Protect The Blessed Earth, the Christian conservation foundation that hired Daddy-O, then he’d welcome them into the private preserve office with photos of local wildlife and posters with biblical quotes: I form the Light and create Darkness; I bring prosperity and create disaster. I, the Lord, do all these things. Isaiah 45:7<
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  Above the office sofa bed a poster: Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Peter 5:8.

  An unexpected visitor only occurred once when Daddy-O was building the office cabin and introduced himself to the Hinsdale County folks, the Lake City locals, ranch owners, Hunt and Fish clubs, the Marshals and Forest Rangers, and chatted with them about the multiple fourteeners and how the continental divide crosses the county twice.

  The DEA agent was bored and had better things to do than check out some God-fearing game warden who had a cordial smile and firm handshake, who made no hesitation in showing him his Spencer W. Hollister Colorado driver’s license, game warden certification, his NRA membership card, and was proud to wear an EPA eagle patch on his shirt.

  The DEA guy said, “Sorry, Warden. We have to check out any phone calls about possible pot-growing operations; obviously this caller was ill informed. Appreciate all your good work, sir; protecting Mother Nature.”

  The Fed agent got in his car and drove off.

  Right after that happened, Daddy-O went out of his way to befriend any local who mattered. He let them know any time they wanted to go river rafting on the Lake Fork River; his Sea Eagle Explorer was ready. Borrow one of his big game rifles any time. Daddy-O made sure he was a pillar of the Hillsdale County community. A decent man you could count on.

  But the locals knew the warden valued his privacy, which is why he sold his successful security company, and took the game warden job. For peace and quiet, so he could study nature and write down his thoughts about the steady influx of illegals that were destroying America’s national parks.

  The remote county residents respected his work and privacy and didn’t have a clue when Daddy-O moved Mommy-O and the slaves into the forest and set up the commune, cared less if the warden disappeared into the Weminuche Wilderness for weeks, and sometimes months at a time to go exploring matters, do important research for his writings.

  Slaves, cash, drugs, weapons, equipment, and goods arrived at night in luxury motor vans at a special spot for unloading and transporting up into the commune site.

  And almost everyone in Hinsdale County knew absolutely nothing.

  The few who did either worked for Daddy-O or disappeared.

  It had been a good full life, but without Mommy-O it wasn’t the same, so after twenty-three years of being on his own, Daddy-O craved freedom from the responsibilities of the commune and the crime business.

  He had begun to consolidate; sold off the Arizona trafficking operation with its paid-off border cops. He was looking to sell off more operations and close down the slave settlement.

  Daddy-O was tired of sitting in the Protect The Blessed Earth office cabin at his hand-carved desk, earbuds plugged in a cell, dealing with bad reception.

  The Rocky Mountain high had worn off. Daddy-O was ready to retire.

  CHAPTER 65

  The sun was starting to set by the reception tower at Buckhorn Rim where Reimer stood on the observation deck that looked out over the glistening Snake River and the Seven Devils Range.

  He’d been in the cave five days since the bad night, now he was back in the wild where he could hunt, fish, and trap, where he felt at home, not a care in the world except for Loudmouth.

  The voices began after Daddy-O cross-branded him on the head for chewing a virgin slave’s little titty without permission. Good voices most of the time, voices Reimer could talk with and they’d listen, only spoke up when someone gave Reimer shit or he was running low on drugs. If things got really fucked up like they were now, that’s when the Loudmouth voice showed up and the good-buddy voices backed off.

  But when Loudmouth started in this time during the second night outdoors with “Bend over, numb-nuts!” which was right after the timber wolves checked out the cave and Reimer gave them his bear growl, clanked his blades and chased them off, that’s when Reimer finally had enough. He sat down and put his 14” bush machete up to his neck and drew blood.

  Reimer told Loudmouth that he’d cut off his fucking head. No big thing if Reimer had to loose his, too. You reach your limit.

  “Think I’m kidding? Say one fucking word! Go on. Try me!”

  Reimer drew the blade back and was ready to cut. There was a long spell of quiet. Loudmouth didn’t make a peep.

  It stayed that way for at least a minute.

  Then a voice said, “You showed him who’s fucking who, boss.”

  Reimer lowered the machete slowly.

  Shit.

  He should have stepped up to the throat years ago when Loudmouth bullied his ass into Reimer’s head after Daddy-O told him he had to leave home in Colorado and make his way in the world; Loudmouth yelling at him he was a wimp, not worth worm shit.

  Reimer should’ve put the blade to Loudmouth right then and there. Would have made life lots easier. Because now Loudmouth’s dumb-ass voice turned into a nice smart one that told Reimer he’d be glad to offer constructive ideas to consider when Reimer had to make important decisions, like what he might want to tell Fred when he called her. Obviously, he couldn’t keep putting it off, she’d be upset he waited this long; Reimer should form an idea on what to say to her and it should sound important.

  Reimer was impressed with Loudmouth’s new tone and told him to keep talking.

  Loudmouth told Reimer that torturing and killing was fine with him, he just wanted to be sure it was done right, that emotions were in check so not to blur the objective. Loudmouth explained that tactical savvy and experience in the field was essential; was part of being a professional.

  Reimer and Loudmouth spoke a little more and reached an agreement.

  They’d work together; respect each other’s opinion as long as Loudmouth agreed that Reimer had the last say.

  One thing though.

  Loudmouth said he’d prefer it if Reimer called him Sgt. Slaughter instead of Loudmouth, because he wrestled with death. Knew the best takedowns. He was, please don’t forget, the one who put the Loudmouth in a chokehold and an end to his nasty mockery.

  Reimer popped a Dilaudid and a Vicodin, and said, after a minute or so, “Long as you know who’s boss, Sarge.”

  What neither Reimer or the Sarge seemed aware of was not only did their voices have different registers and inflections, they spoke out of both sides of their mouth.

  Reimer preferred the right side.

  Fred was sitting at her kitchen table trying to open a can of tomato paste with a stop-and-go electric can opener when the Doctor called.

  Reimer running around killing people so close to home, it was just too much for the Doctor’s blood pressure and he told Fred that he and Archie were going to take a vacation. Fred understood why the Doctor wanted to get out of town and agreed with him it was a good idea. Reimer was getting to be a problem. Fred told the Doctor to have fun in Fire Island; they’d get back to business when things calmed down.

  Fred hung up and wanted to call Daddy-O, but not until she heard from Reimer, wherever the hell he was.

  Maybe the shoulder wound turned ugly; maybe he was dead.

  But maybes were worthless to Daddy-O. Only the facts mattered.

  Fred stirred the baby heirlooms, onions, garlic, red bell peppers, the sweet Italian sausage, sprinkled it with oregano, turned the pasta sauce to simmer, and was straining the fettuccine, thinking about what to do about her brother, when the phone rang.

  She picked up her cellphone from the drain board and saw it was Reimer. Fred said to him, “Jesus! Where in the hell are you? You had me worried half to death.”

  CHAPTER 66

  Marsha listened respectfully while Daddy-O explained the only reason he hadn’t dealt with her gang’s late arms payment was the Oregon Pigs couldn’t get up to Vancouver to settle matters; got caught with their pants down. But Daddy-O would be okay with Mar
sha taking over the gang’s turf now that the three top dogs were eliminated along with the Russian gang who tried to move in and take over.

  But Daddy-O wanted to be paid for his weapons now. Marsha said she was sorry to hear about the Pigs getting busted, but she had the $130K, plus a ten grand late payment if that sounded fair. Should she drop the money off at the same place?

  Daddy-O said that was fair and told Marsha he had the Oregon Pigs cop a plea, paid off the D.A., that they’d be out in six months and he’d be moving an outfit in from Utah to handle things while the Pigs were locked up. If they didn’t get their shit together when they got out, he might talk with Marsha about expanding her business. Might want to offer the state to her for the right price.

  Marsha said she appreciated Daddy-O’s confidence, and she’d let him know when they were ready for their next shipment of semis and silencers.

  Daddy-O hung up, called a Vancouver Joe to pick up the payment.

  He handled a few more calls, was about to close shop, leave the office cabin, and head up to the commune for dinner when Fred called.

  Fred told Daddy-O that Reimer finally checked in.

  And he was out of his fucking mind. Totally crazy.

  Daddy-O listened to Fred tell him Reimer told her that he was in the great outdoors and was glad people were waking up and realizing Bigfeet were poisoning America’s water supply, pissing in the rivers and streams and lakes; just a matter of time before the Snatchaneatyas had your brains for breakfast, so time to round up the rats and bring the cheddar back home.

  “He said that Sgt. Slaughter smelled a Bigfoot near the cave.”

  Long pause. You could hear a sigh from Daddy-O before he said, “It was just a matter of time before he went over the edge, but seeing and knowing it was coming, doesn’t make it any easier to bring peace to the matter. What did you say to him, Fredericka?”