“We are the first line of defense of the American people.”
Kempton Dautry seemed a different man than he had in the middle of the night, more polished and civilized. Jennifer had woken to a breakfast of bacon, eggs and hash, served at the same table she’d stood in front of the night before, and he had appeared just as she was finishing, dressed in neat jeans and short sleeved shirt. He had settled into a chair with a cheerful “Good morning,” and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“We are all U.S. Military veterans who have seen governmental corruption and abuse first hand, and we are committed to protecting the constitutional rights that our brothers and sisters fought and died for, no matter what it takes.”
Jennifer thought. “And that takes money,” she said.
Dautry nodded. “Lieutenant Amini’s mission was to recruit local help to raise operational funds in a manner that would not point to us.” He shrugged. “We are not common thieves,” he said. “The money you helped raise comes ultimately from government insurance funds and will be used to fight that very same government’s illegal actions.”
Jennifer’s eyes glittered. “Fight how?”
Dautry paused, assessing her. “We stockpile the weapons that the President and Congress are trying to take away. We train soldiers for the inevitable revolution. We identify critical targets and develop plans to take them out when the time comes. We offer refuge and escape to people such as you who are unjustly persecuted.”
Jennifer barked a short laugh. “Unjustly?” she said. “I’m pretty sure they’re within their rights to track us down for bank robbery and murder.”
“And for shooting down your brother? Were they within their rights then?”
Jennifer’s face turned grim. “They’ll pay for that. They will damn well pay,” she said fiercely.
Dautry leaned forward. “I think perhaps we can help each other, here,” he said. “I can give you the weapons and training you need to really make them pay, if you’ll coordinate with my operation. Join my Army, Jennifer, and we’ll make them pay together.”
Clipper stepped into the Chief’s office to bring Chief Norris and the City Manager up to date on the investigation.
“We’re looking for a couple of college kids; Jennifer Ennis and a guy named Kashif Amini,” he said. “We’ve got arrest warrants, but they’re on the run, so I think the fireworks are over for the moment. I’m standing the division down for the weekend. They’ve all worked more than a hundred and fifty hours in the past ten days, and they need a break.” Clipper could see an argument brewing in the Chief’s eyes, but the Manager simply nodded tiredly. “Good work, Clip,” he said, closing the discussion.
At four o’clock, Clipper joined the Chief, the Fire Chief and the State Police lead investigator for a press conference in the station lobby. He and the State detective recounted the events of the past week and the investigation to date, stressing the interagency cooperation. Clipper passed copies of Jennifer’s and Kashif’s student ID photos they had received from the University. “We have obtained arrest warrants for Jennifer Ennis, age twenty-one and Kashif Amini, age twenty-four, for the robbery of the Bangor Savings Bank and the murder of its manager, Stanley Miles,” he said. “The investigation into their involvement in other robberies and criminal actions is ongoing.”
“Are these the same people that killed the deputy in Winterport?” shouted a News reporter.
The State detective leaned into the microphone. “We have reason to believe the cases are related,” he said. With a promise of more information when it was available and a plea for public assistance in locating the fugitives, Clipper closed the press conference.
Afterward, Clipper went back to the Criminal Division and stood in the bullpen for a moment surveying his listless crew. “Everybody go home,” he said. “Eat, sleep and relax, and tomorrow afternoon, the beer’s on me at my place. One o’clock, and bring your appetite.”
Chapter 17
Saturday morning dawned clear and warm, and by eight o’clock, Clipper and Janice were well into party preparation. Janice was boiling potatoes and eggs for potato salad and cleaning off the back deck when Clipper left to go shopping. He hit a couple of wholesalers and the Hannaford’s supermarket before returning home with a quarter-barrel keg of Miller draft, a case of water and two cases of assorted soft drinks as well as steaks, hamburger and hot dogs for the grill and forty pounds of ice. He got out two large galvanized washtubs he kept just for this purpose, put them in a shady spot on the deck and filled one with ice and soda and the other with ice and the beer keg. Then he scrubbed the big gas grill and went to find extra folding lawn chairs. Clipper’s restored and only slightly modernized farmhouse sat, along with his getaway woodworking shop, on a five acre lot on the edge of town and often served as the default gathering place for division get-togethers.
Dautry spent a half-hour after breakfast walking Jennifer around the compound, pointing out the buildings and defensive positions in the central clearing which was a rough circle about sixty yards across, flat and utterly devoid of any vegetation except for tall trees close to each structure. Like tunnels in the forest, well defined paths radiated out from the perimeter, which he explained led to various training areas. “We’re damn near invisible from overhead,” Dautry said gesturing at the trees, “but open enough on the ground that no one gets in undetected.” He opened the doors to the pole barn and showed Jennifer four identical Ford crew-cab pick-up trucks that had been painted flat black. “Motor pool,” he said.
After Jennifer had seen the compound, Dautry led her back into the main house and down into the cellar. He unlocked and pulled open a heavy metal door. “This is our armory,” he said, stepping inside a cement walled room that was so big, Jennifer realized that it must extend underground well beyond the cellar. In the center of the room was a line of three wooden racks. Two held twenty black rifles, ten standing upright on each side, and the other holding twenty military-style shotguns. Wooden tables with cleaning supplies lined one wall, while the other was stacked with various-sized wooden crates.
Dautry strode to the back of the room and opened a metal wall locker. “We maintain continuous firearms training, as well as escape and evasion, demolitions, hand-to-hand combat, first-aid and combat tactics,” he said over his shoulder. “Kashif says you’re a passable rifle shot, so maybe we’ll make a sniper out of you.” He turned from the locker with a black rifle case, which he laid on a nearby table. He opened the case and Jennifer could see an exotic looking rifle nestled within. “The M4-A1 rifle,” Dautry said. “Normally, this is a fine assault weapon, but this one has an upgraded scope, bipod and sound suppressor, which makes it a very specialized medium range sniper rifle.” He looked her in the eye. “Yours, if you want it.”
Jennifer nodded and reached for the rifle, only to be blocked by Dautry’s steely grip. “You don’t have to sign in blood,” he said, “but you will do this my way, or you will pay in blood.”
Fully aware of the pact she was making, Jennifer gave him a hard stare and a curt nod before brushing his hand aside and reaching to caress her new weapon.
Later, on the range, the ungainly looking rifle balanced easily on its spindly bipod legs as Jennifer snuggled the black plastic stock back into her shoulder. She looked through the small telescopic sight attached to the top of the carrying handle, and was amazed at how easy it was to keep the crosshairs centered on the target. She was lying on her stomach, aiming at a black man-shaped silhouette target, positioned two hundred yards away. For the past ten minutes, Dautry had been drilling her in assuming the prone position and holding and aiming the rifle. Now, standing behind her, he said, “Take a breath, let half of it out and, gently squeeze the trigger. Concentrate on the sight picture and keep up a gentle squeeze until it fires.” The metallic ‘click’ of the firing pin was loud in the quiet forest.
“Oh,” said Jennifer, startled.
Dautry smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “It should surprise you every
time. You ready to try it?”
At Jennifer’s nod, Dautry squatted down and inserted a magazine into the rifle. He showed her how to tap the bottom to insure it was well seated, and reminded her of the selector switch settings, then stood up and stepped back.
Jennifer turned up on her side to pull back on the charging handle and let it snap forward as she had been told, and then relaxed back into the prone position. Her thumb found the selector switch and rotated it up to ‘fire.’ She pulled the rifle tightly into her shoulder, placed the crosshairs at the center of the target’s chest and started a gentle trigger squeeze.
By one o’clock, Clipper’s back yard was filled with people. Two tables were groaning with food, the grill was hot and Clipper had turned the cooking duties over to John Peters, who was the division’s acknowledged grill-master. Clipper was relaxing with his first cold beer and watching the start of a pick-up softball game when Dave Adams approached. “Hey, LT,” Adams said. “We got so busy, I forgot to give you that cold case stuff you asked about. I left it in my lab, but I can tell…”
“Oh, no,” Janice said, stepping up behind them. “No shoptalk. You guys are off duty.”
Clipper turned. “Oh, this isn’t our case,” he said with a grin. “In fact, I believe it’s yours. You two should probably spend some time together.” Clipper wandered off, leaving Janice and Adams looking at each other in confusion. Later that night, Janice murmured a quiet, “Thank you, Clip.” just before they dropped off to sleep.
Sunday morning brought gray skies and the sound of a steady rain that tempted Clipper to stay in bed. He finally rolled out at eight o’clock and, after a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a black tee and headed for the kitchen to make pancakes. When breakfast was done, he left Janice working on the computer and drove to the station. He checked with dispatch and learned Jennifer and Kashif had not been spotted,before he retreated to his office to catch up on a week’s worth of reports and follow-ups. By eleven-thirty, he’d had enough and headed home for an afternoon in his shop.
Janice spent a couple hours piecing together all she knew about the 1975 disappearance of Eleanor Gaylord and the death of her sister-in-law, Annie White, a year later. Dave Adams had been able to fill in some gaps, including the fact that Annie had died of a cerebral hemorrhage and her husband and son had left the area a few weeks after her death. Adams had promised to get all the reports he’d found to Clipper on Monday morning.
Janice Googled the names Walter and Chester White and, after some searching, found them both living in Portland according to the 1990 Federal Census, but neither one showed in the 2000 census, and she could uncover no further references.
Chapter 18
On Monday morning, Janice got to the Gaylord Mansion early. She let herself in and wandered slowly from room to room, sipping her Cleo’s coffee and imagining living in such opulence. She gravitated to Annie’s room, as she had come to think of the small second floor den, and had actually seated herself at the antique writing desk before she noticed the envelope bearing her name on its leather surface. Wondering why Kathy might have left her a note instead of just calling, Janice opened the envelope and froze, staring in disbelief.
The envelope contained a single piece of stationary with a few eerily familiar hand-written lines in black ink.
‘Dear Janice,
What son would kill his mother, just to keep his father strong,
then hide her body far away to cloud the dreadful wrong.
A sword found in the attic and hidden there once more,
may be the proof that’s needed to open wide the door.
The decades pass uncaring and the memories fade away
but Eleanor stills cries for peace and you must lead the way.
Annie’
Clipper stared at the note through the clear evidence bag. He had grabbed Dave Adams and rushed to the mansion at Janice’s frantic call. She’d met them at the front door and led them to the upstairs den, mutely pointing to the note on the desk. Adams bagged the note and its envelope, and then began dusting the desktop for fingerprints, while Clipper read and reread the message.
Setting the note aside, Clipper took Janine’s hand. “Who had access to this room over the weekend?” he asked.
Janice blinked in confusion. “No one was supposed to be in the house,” she said. “I suppose Kathy could have stopped by, but, but…” Janice took a deep breath. “That’s Annie handwriting,” she said, voice quivering. “We can compare it to her diary, but I know it’s hers.”
“Janice,” Clipper said gently, “Ann White’s been dead for forty years. Someone got in here and left this. Help me check the doors and windows, and let’s see if we can figure it out.”
By the time Clipper and Janice had checked all the conceivable ways into the mansion, and found them all secure, Adams had finished with the desk and was anxious to get the note back to his lab. Clipper tossed him the keys to his truck. “I’ll go home with Janice and pick up that diary,” he said. “Meet you at the station.”
Billy Zick read the note a second time before passing it back to Sebastian without comment. The two were alone in Sebastian’s office. “I found the damn thing on my windshield,” Sebastian fumed, red-faced and pacing. “I pay you and your so-called security team to keep people from getting that close. What the hell were you doing, sleeping? Was anyone even on duty?”
Billy ignored the tirade. “Janice Owens knows about Eleanor,” he quoted from memory. “What’s that mean? Who’s Eleanor?”
Sebastian calmed only slightly. “Eleanor was my mother. She ran away forty years ago, and people always tried to make a big deal of it to discredit my father. Now this Owens woman is doing the same thing to me.” He crumpled the note and threw it towards a wastebasket as he moved around his desk and settled into his chair. “I want you to speak to Janice Owens,” he said. “Find out what she thinks she knows, and persuade her to keep it to herself.”
“And if she refuses?”
Sebastian smiled his patented politician’s smile. “Why, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said softly.
“Nothing. Looks like it was handled with gloves.” Clipper and Janice were with Dave Adams in his lab. “The paper is standard copy paper, no way to trace it, it looks like generic ball point pen, and there‘s nothing else to work with.”
Janice opened Annie’s diary and set it on the counter beside the note. “Look at this,” she said. “The handwriting’s the same.”
Adams bent and studied the two documents for several minutes. “State’s got a pretty good document examiner,” he said, straightening, “but it looks like a close copy to me. I can see some differences and hesitations.” He looked apologetic.
Clipper snorted. “Of course it’s a copy,” he said. “The questions is, who wrote it, and what are they trying to tell us.”
Janice shuddered. “At face value, it says Sebastian killed his mother and there’s a sword hidden in the attic that will prove it.”
Clipper nodded. “Which may or may not be true,” he said. “It could also be some sort of political attack against Sebastian’s senatorial campaign, or just someone yanking your chain. My biggest concern right now is how they got that note into the mansion, and what they’ll do next.”
Janice patted her purse which contained the little Llama .380 Clipper had insisted she carry when they went to get the diary. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” she said, “but we’ve got to at least search the attic.”
Clipper considered. “If your estate deal’s gone through,” he said, “then the house is owned by the City and the Historical Society, so I’d think we could have a look without a warrant.”
“The papers were signed Friday,” Janice said, picking up the diary. “What are we waiting for?”
The Gaylord Mansion attic was one cavernous room, its huge expanse interrupted only by the intrusion of two massive brick chimneys. Sixty-watt light bulbs in ancient white ceramic fixtures competed with the afternoon
sunlight that flooded through generous dormer windows, defused to a soft glow by a century of window grime. The attic’s contents consisted mostly of dust-covered furniture – tables, chairs, dressers, bed frames – all proclaiming the changing tastes and styles of generations of the Gaylord family. There was organization, as befitted a home of the wealthy, and little clutter although Clipper could see numerous dust-free squares on the floor where boxes and trunks had recently been removed.
“We cleaned out all the family stuff and Montgomery Gaylord’s political papers,” Janice said, “and my staff has been all over this furniture. I know we would have noticed a sword.”
Clipper grimaced. “Well, the note did specify ‘hidden’,” he said, pulling a flashlight from his pocket. “You check the furniture again, and I’ll start around the edges of the room.” He was about halfway down the long front side of the room when he felt a board shift slightly under his feet. He knelt down and swept some dust away, then easily lifted a three-foot piece of dusty pine out of the floor. In the cavity beneath lay a slim, short sword, encased in a dry leather sheath and wrapped in a belt. “Here we go,” he said, half under his breath, leaving the ‘again’ unsaid.
“You found it?” squealed Janice, abandoning her own search.
“Yeah, but let’s do it right,” Clipper said, guarding the find with outstretched arms as she scrambled to see.
Janice found a cardboard box and some newspaper while Clipper went to his truck and got a digital camera. Back in the attic, he took several shots of the floor, with and without the board in place, and several more of the sword in its nest. Setting the camera aside, he gently lifted the sword and placed it into the paper-lined box, and then grabbed the camera again and took a final picture of the empty cavity.
Past Perfect Page 9