Helix

by Dave Balcom

  She nodded, and I could feel her trembling a bit, so I asked, “You okay?”

  “Just pissed, that’s all; I’ll handle it.”

  I knew from past experience that was true. I was familiar with the razor-sharp anger in her voice, and it calmed me to realize once again just how strong her will was, and how she had focused that will on enemies in the past. I gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to see if I can trace Truman’s search of the house.”

  “I’ll sit here and plan my revenge.”

  I found her Colt Mustang in the snazzy little purse holster hanging in a spare bag in her walk-in closet. I knew one reason for Art’s tour would have been to ascertain our preparedness, and I knew he’d have found that weapon. I quickly broke it down and found the firing pin had been removed. Otherwise the gun was loaded and appeared ready for action.

  I went to my gun safe in my writing room and used my key to open the door, knowing Art hadn’t left even a scratch to indicate his entry. All the weapons in the cabinet – shotguns, rim fire .22s, and an old Browning 1911 .45 pistol had also been rendered harmless by snapping off the firing pins. The only missing weapon was the Winchester .308 elk rifle with the 3-9x variable scope. I checked, and a box of 180-grain Core Lokt loads were missing as well.

  I then started a room-to-room search for listening devices. I didn’t completely buy Art’s claim that he was cutting me slack for an ancient donation of blood, and knowing how he was trained, I figured he had some way of keeping track of me.

  I found the first transmitter – a self-contained, voice-activated unit stuck to the back of the headboard on our bed. It appeared to be Vietnam-era technology, self-contained, with about a mile line of sight range. That would mean he had a receiver – probably a voice-activated tape recorder – stashed somewhere on the property.

  I didn’t find anything in my work room, or the bathroom. I carried Jan’s colt downstairs and continued the search. I found another transmitter stuck to the back of the coffee maker. This was smaller, newer, and probably more powerful. I had no clues to how any of this would work, and even wondered if they were there simply to be found, thereby providing me with a false sense of security. I didn’t even remember what secure felt like, so I kept moving.

  I completed the search in the garage with Judy shadowing me, her eyes tracking me as I searched for a needle in the mess of a haystack that describes my outbuilding.

  When she followed me into the kitchen, I gave her a second look. She seemed subdued somehow, cowed. I knelt to her, and she stuck her face into my hands so I could gently knead her behind the ears. Her stub of a tail was normal; her nose was cold, but she was holding something back.

  “What’s with yo...” I stopped. I ran my fingers along her collar, and felt the transmitter, a tiny thing that fit right under the buckle. I couldn’t help but smile. I patted her gently and kissed her between the eyes.

  I took a roll of masking tape from the kitchen “junk drawer” and with a marker put big bold “B”s on three pieces of tape. I stuck one on Judy’s collar; another on the coffee maker and the third on the headboard of our bed upstairs.

  I took Jan by the hand and pointing at Judy’s collar, I put my index finger over my lips. Her look of disgust sent the silent message, “Is nothing sacred?” I showed her the other two bugged locations before leading her out of the house, and up the road to Jack and Shirlee Nelson’s; our only neighbors.

  I left Jan and Judy on the patio, found Jack making coffee in his kitchen. Shirlee saw me from another room, “Hello! What brings you around today?”

  “Just visiting. Jan and Judy are outside, but before you go out, let me brief you on our day.” When I’d finished, both of the Nelsons were wearing looks of concern, “So, don’t say much around Judy. She’s wearing a bug on her collar. I don’t want to disable it yet...”

  “Just general conversation? Weather, roses, like that?” Shirlee asked with a smile.

  “Right on.”

  Jack had listened to my spiel and had put the coffee pot down and was mixing Martinis in a beaker, “Most days I stick with coffee,” he said without looking up, “but this is no longer just another day. What can we do to help?”

  I put Jan’s Colt on the counter. “I’d like to trade this for Shirlee’s version.”

  He picked up the automatic, worked the slide and ejected the clip, then racked the chamber empty before looking a question at me. “There’s no longer a firing pin in it,” I explained. He worked the slide open again and examined.

  “Pretty cagey. Who’s the all-star dropping bugs and tinkering with your weapons?”

  “Long story that won’t mean a thing to you, but I do need a favor.”

  “Shirlee’s pistol? No problem, you know that.”

  Jan had made a present of a duplicate of her weapon to Shirlee in honor of our beloved neighbor’s 80th birthday, and then had accompanied Shirlee to the classes and the range where she qualified for a carry permit that she never used. “I’m just not the rough-and-ready type,” she tried to explain away her distaste for the idea of violence, but she had become proficient at making little holes in targets, and took great pleasure at being Jan’s practice partner.

  “I would like you to take Jan’s weapon to Harold’s over by Pilot Rock. He can fix it. If he has any questions, show him Jan’s permit,” I said as I handed the paper to him. “If he can wait, I’ll pay for it when I pick it up; if he needs to order, you pay and I’ll reimburse. Will that work for you?”

  “I’ll make it work. This Harold; a friend of yours?”

  “Good guy; not prone to curiosity or gossip. Good guy.”

  “Tomorrow okay?”

  “Of course. Thanks.”

  Chapter 17

  We each had a second “Mart” with the Nelsons, begged off on staying for a third or dinner, and then made our way back to our house in silence.

  We were still silent as Jan brought BLT sandwiches, chips, and salsa to the table on our deck. She came back with iced tea, sat beside me and broke the silence, “What are we going to do?”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait? For what?”

  “There’s a shoe poised somewhere; count on it.”

  We ate in silence.

  As I was stacking dishes to clear the table, she put her hand on mine, “How long will Judy have to be in quarantine?”

  “She can be with either of us when we’re alone, but it’s too risky to be talking around her right now. She’s quite comfortable in her hut. I have no idea what’s coming; I just know something is coming, okay?”

  She squeezed my hand in answer.

  We watched the sun slip away and counted the first stars that ushered in night. My phone rang just as full darkness fell.

  I could see it was Pete Boyd calling. “Peter, what’s up?”

  “Tough news, Jim. Ahmed Barnes, from the soup kitchen, was shot tonight over by Meacham.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “He was hit, and would have died there, but a 9-1-1 call came in right away. Caller even had GPS coordinates. A medevac helicopter headed from Baker to Pendleton was in the area, and made an emergency landing right in the road where the van was sitting. EMTs stabilized him, loaded him on the chopper, and flew to St. Anthony Emergency with both patients.”

  “The caller stay on scene?”

  “No sign of him.”

  We both went silent. “Jim, I think you should be careful, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Any ideas about this?”

  “I’m just guessing, but I will be surprised if the shooter policed his brass. Was the weapon left at the scene?”

  “Why? You know something about this?”

  “I don’t know anything, but how many shots were fired?”

  “Three. Looks like the first two were wide right; third went through the lower abdomen; missed heart and lungs... actually pretty fortunate for Barnes. Doctor says he’ll pull through without undue or permanent damage.”
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  “And the brass?”

  “Found all three casings, they’re at forensics.”

  “And the weapon?”

  “Lying by the side of the road. What do you know about this?”

  “That’s fortunate; it means he’s done with it.”

  “He? Done? C’mon, man, give!”

  “Again, I don’t know anything, but I’ll bet the brass will be from 180-grain Remington .308 Core Lokt with my fingerprints all over them. And I’d love to know somebody’s watching Elmo and Grace 24-7 TFN.”

  “What? You have to tell me what you know.”

  “I know the shooter is a guy who would never need three shots with that weapon at any of the ranges available in these mountains. I know that shooter hasn’t missed a sitting duck shot in more than 40 years.”

  “I’m on my way...”

  “Sit tight; I’ll come in and see you in the morning.”

  “Hell, Jim; the way you’re talking you might be the shooter!”

  “Don’t be an ass, Pete. Call Jensen, tell him his visit stirred up the fire out here. Jan and I will be there when you want me tomorrow.”

  “I’ll call with a time.”

  I didn’t hear him disconnect.

  Chapter 18

  My Remington .308 was lying on the table in the OSP meeting room the next morning when Jan and I entered. Mike Rhodes and Pete Boyd were at the table along with an older man in a business suit sitting behind an open brief case.

  Pete introduced us to Mark Belanger, Umatilla County District Attorney.

  Rhodes hadn’t warmed up to me, but was all gentleman with Jan. “Mrs. Stanton, I’m Mike Rhodes with the FBI. Ray Jensen spoke to me this morning while I was flying over here, and he wanted you to know how badly he feels about all this, and hopes we’ll clear it up in a hurry.”

  “Jim,” Pete started, “I think you need to tell us exactly what you know about all this.” He shoved a tape recorder into the middle of the table, hit Record, and went through the rigamarole to establish a recorded statement as admissible in court.

  I told the story of my meeting with a man I knew from my military experience as Arthur Truman, his story about his life after the service and how he had been actively involved as a volunteer in white supremacist activities up until around 2005 when he decided to become an “independent contractor.”

  “He told you all this where?” Belanger asked.

  “Great Pacific. We had coffee together.”

  “And he told you all this voluntarily? Why?”

  “Said he had a debt to me that he didn’t want to pay with a bullet. So he wanted me to sit on the knowledge and he wouldn’t hurt Jan.”

  “He threatened Jan?”

  “She was in his custody at the time we had coffee; but I didn’t know that or suspect that until he told me.”

  “And you took him at his word?”

  “Oh, yeah. I did. The Art Truman I knew back in the day didn’t bluff.”

  “You say he served with you in the military? In what branch did you serve?” The prosecutor asked.

  Rhodes interceded at that point, “All due respect, Mr. Belanger, suffice it to say that Mr. Stanton’s service to this country has no bearing on the current events and, frankly, remains classified still today.

  “So, Jim, tell us what he had on you?”

  “He had Jan.”

  “He threatened her?”

  “He told me he knew where she was, and if I decided to behave like a juvenile Boy Scout, I’d never see her again.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “What I was told. I had a cup of coffee in Hermiston, resisted an urge to call Pete here, and then drove home where I found Jan, as promised, unhurt and alone in our home.”

  “What else did you find?” Pete asked, having jumped ahead in the story.

  “I found that Art had planted listening devices in two places in my home and on my dog’s collar, and that he had disabled every firearm in our house and had taken my elk rifle and ammunition for it.”

  Belanger was reading from a printed memo, “You told Sgt. Boyd that this Truman was a crack rifle shot?”

  “I did.”

  “And the last time you saw him shoot?”

  “Forty-four years ago or so...”

  “And that was?”

  Again Rhodes leaned forward, “Really, Mr. Belanger, don’t go there. It’s not relevant. Trust me, Mr. Stanton and this Truman guy were part of a classified military unit and Mr. Truman’s records, if we can find them, will certainly substantiate Mr. Stanton’s estimation of marksmanship.”

  It was obvious Belanger wasn’t happy being reined in, but he shrugged it off, “Then why do you think he wasted three shots at Mr. Barnes?”

  “I think he wanted to make sure police found the brass and make sure, or at least improve the odds, that my fingerprints would be on the brass they found.”

  “So that was your weapon and ammunition used at the scene?”

  “I’m guessing. I see this weapon here on the table has a scratch on the forearm that looks just like the scratch put on my rifle two years ago...”

  Pete reached over and picked up the rifle, “Of course; that time you shot that elk over by Tollgate, and I knocked the weapon off the 4-wheeler when we were loading up to drag the bull back to camp. I’d forgotten it.”

  “Why,” Belanger went on, ignoring the interruption, “do you think a hired assassin would borrow your weapon?”

  I studied Rhodes for a long two-count, and then shrugged, “He needed a weapon and left all his at home?”

  “Do you know where in Troutdale this Truman lives?”

  “I do not; and, based on what he told me today, I doubt there will be any property in Troutdale under that name.”

  “There isn’t,” Rhodes murmured.

  “You really have no thoughts as to why he would want to implicate you in this attack or some future attack connected to your rifle?”

  “Oh, sure, I have thoughts, Mr. Belanger, but I don’t know anything; it’s not as if Art and I sat up late planning how to screw me over, threaten my wife, or shoot somebody I just met and really think a lot of.

  “Look, I’m being as open and honest with you as I can, but I had no idea Barnes would be shot; I was focused on keeping my wife and me safe. For me, the Barnes attack is out of left field.”

  “You use the word ‘attack’ as if it wasn’t attempted murder,” Belanger said.

  “It wasn’t attempted murder, Mr. Belanger. If Truman had wanted Barnes dead, he’d be dead. It wouldn’t have taken three shots no matter what distance it had required.”

  “You make this Truman sound like some kind of super hero or something.”

  “I don’t mean to make him sound heroic, I just want you to understand how competent he is; how competent our government trained him to be. He was...”

  Rhodes’ hand went up in the halt sign, “That’s enough, Jim; nobody in this room has any need to know. We’ll take your word for it, he’s not a smash-and-grab thief. He’s a cold, calculating killer who was trying to make a statement – to you as well as to the people at The Table of Grace.

  “We understand, Jim; now you need to go home and guard yourself and Jan just in case this nut hasn’t finished with you.

  “Meanwhile, the Bureau, in conjunction with the OSP, Umatilla County, and Pendleton law enforcement agencies and staff will make every effort to ensure the safety of those whose only fault is trying to feed hungry people...” He paused, reflecting before he muttered, “What a hell of note this is.”

  Chapter 19

  “So what are we going to do?” We were back home, and Jan was watching me in that careful way she has when she’s dreading my answer.

  “We’re going to sit tight here and wait for the forensics guys from Portland to come and debug our dog and our house, and then I’m going to go find Mr. Truman in his home and see how much he like
s it.”

  “I knew you were sitting over there hatching something like that, and I just hate it when I’ve read you so clearly.” She had been sitting at the foot of the stairs to our second story, and now she was over me as I was lying back on the couch with my hand over my eyes. I sensed her movement rather than heard or saw it.

  “Jim?”

  I moved my hand just in time to have her lips meet mine and to feel her full weight on top of me. “Oof!” I said softly.

  “Get used to it.”

  “I think I could; what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m lying here until Boyd and buddies show up to put you in protective custody.”

  “C’mon, Jan. I can’t just twiddle my thumbs while Truman builds a plan for us. I have to beat him to the draw; it’s our only chance.”

  “Don’t care.”

  I picked her up with one hand on her chest, the other at her waist, rolled out from under her and gently laid her back down.

  “You need to start watching those carbs, dearie,” I mimicked her voice, “I used to do that without so much effort.”

  “Probably has more to do with your aging muscle tone than me... Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to use my phone,” I said as I picked up the device and headed out onto our deck.

  “Hello?” I heard Norma Truman answer on the first ring.

  “Norma? This is Jim Stanton in Pendleton, you remember me?”

  “Of course. Have you heard yet from Art? He said he’d be calling you.”

  “Yes, thank you, I did hear from him. I wanted to drop him a note, could you give me his mailing address?”

  She didn’t answer, and at first I thought she might have put the phone down to retrieve the address, but then, “I don’t have that information, Mr. Stanton.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, and I can’t tell you why I don’t, but it just never came up... That’s strange, don’t you think?”