Chapter 32
“It was basically a fake bomb.”
Members of Bangor’s bomb squad had pried open the distorted back door of the seafood truck, and the supervisor was making his report. “There was a small amount of explosive and a bunch of empty boxes and C-4 containers. It probably looked like a real bomb, and if those containers had all been full, we’d be standing in a pile of rubble right now but, for some reason, it was a fake.”
John Peters scratched his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why go to all this trouble if they just wanted to blow up the airport?” He and Ricky Fowler were standing in front of the Federal Building watching an ambulance attendant examine Clipper’s hands.
The agent shook his head. “I think maybe somebody set up the bomber for us, but we’re about to find out for sure. The warrants came through.”
Fowler selected his assault and conducted a final brief on the Militia compound, but Clipper and Peters left for blast site on Union Street. They found out that despite the total destruction of the fuel tanks and a nearby house, there had been no injuries, and the Fire Department was on top of the situation. Clipper left Peters to begin the investigation and drove to the police station where he dug out his old model 1911 A1 .45 his grandfather had once carried onto Normandy Beach. He took a few minutes to update the patrol commander and dispatchers on both scenes before heading across the river to catch up with Fowler. He drove down Main Street to the I-395 Veterans Bridge, and was just pulling onto the entrance ramp when his radio exploded in a frenzied garble of calls.
Ricky Fowler had expected resistance from the Infidel Army camp, but he was stunned by the sheer amount of firepower that exploded out of the dark woods around him as he led the way into the compound. He ducked beneath the dash of his Suburban as its windows shattered in a hail of full automatic fire, and then dove out the door, scrambling for cover in the thick underbrush beside the road. He popped up and triggered rounds at the muzzle flashes he could see, trying to make sense out of the cacophony of sounds around him.
There were nine militiamen committed to the last stand at Camp Freedom. Their orders were simple; engage the cops and hold until Dautry and the rest of the troops arrived to close the trap from the rear. Unfortunately for them, Dautry, his son Raymond, Neville Fuller, and Jennifer were preparing to transport the weapons, Kashif was dead and, with only one other exception, the remainder of the Infidel Army had opted for the better part of valor. Emboldened by the advantage of surprise and fully automatic weapons with unlimited ammunition, the nine had elected to forgo the temporary safety of fortified building and, were instead spread out in a ragged skirmish line across the front of the main clearing they hoped would offer the option of a stealthy retreat if things got too hot.
And that was their undoing. No stranger to armed assaults, Fowler had taken the basic precaution of deploying six State Police sniper teams, fanned out three to each side of the road, who moved forward into position in a line with his Suburban. Armed with heavy rifles and night vision optics, it took them only moments to acquire their targets once the shooting started.
Fowler had fired six quick shots when a ragged volley of large caliber rifle shots rang out from his flanks and the hail of incoming fire slowed dramatically, then died away completely, replaced by the sound of furtive scrabbling movements from the front. The heavy rifles spoke again from the flanks, and silence claimed the night.
As the Infidel Army was making its last stand, Dautry and Jennifer were in his SUV trailing the seafood truck as it lumbered onto the north-bound entrance to the Veterans Bridge. Under the cover of darkness, they had made their way via back roads to Route 15 south of Brewer, then drove north to cross at Bangor, waiting at a small riverside turnout for the call from Camp Freedom that would confirm that the law enforcement forces were engaged there. A special ops militiaman had made that call just before his head exploded from the impact of a thirty caliber bullet.
Clipper pulled slowly onto the bridge as he listened to Fowler’s group reporting in by radio. It was clear that the action was over, so he accelerated unhurriedly, casually scanning the oncoming traffic. The seafood truck had just passed going in the opposite direction when it came together in his mind. He could see the log with its two seafood truck entries…each with a different registration number. He briefly registered Dautry’s features behind the wheel of the following SUV before mashing the accelerator and wrenching his truck into a tire-smoking U-turn across the three southbound lanes.
Running north on the wrong side of I-395, Clipper fumbled his blue dash light into position as he pushed the truck past eighty. The Main Street ramps flashed by, and Clipper slowed a little to fishtail through a utility cross-over and get into the northbound lane. The SUV was a quarter mile ahead when he found the microphone and called it in. ‘Bangor 705. I’m in pursuit of terrorist suspects, northbound on 395, passing the Route 1 exit, headed for the interstate. Suspect vehicles are an Atlas Seafood truck and a silver SUV.’ Clipper tossed the mike onto the seat and increased his speed, listening as the dispatcher tried to get units in front of the pursuit. It would help that they were running past the west side of the airport where many officers were already in place for traffic and crowd control. With his quarry’s speed limited by the laboring seafood truck, Clipper was gaining easily when Jennifer’s first rounds struck his windshield.
Clipper jerked the wheel right and left in small movements that had his big Chevy floundering dangerously on its suspension, but didn’t slow down. Jennifer had climbed into the back of the SUV, and shot out the rear window. She was crouched down firing steadily through the opening, but had shifted her aim to the larger target of the truck’s front grill. Through the steering wheel, Clipper felt the impact of several .223 rounds, and an explosion of steam gushed back into the slipstream as mangled fan blades tore through the radiator hose.
Seeing the flashing strobes of police cruisers blocking the Odlin Road intersection ahead, Clipper ignored Jennifer’s fire and the death scream of his engine and pushed harder.
Dautry had never planned on taking the Interstate out of Bangor. He’d intended his little convoy to run straight out Route 2, following secondary roads westward. Neville Fuller knew that, but with the way ahead blocked, he tried at the last minute to make the sharp right-hand exit onto I-95 southbound. He cut the wheel late and tried to feather the brakes as the truck leaned into the turn, but he never had a chance. The trucked tipped up on its left wheels as its heavy load of weapons shifted and then caught the shoulder and rolled ponderously, turning one and a half times before slamming into a huge oak tree with an impact that flattened the cab, killing Neville and Raymond instantly.
Dautry slewed around the turning seafood truck and then stood on his own brakes as it became obvious that there was nowhere to go. The SUV rocked to a stop two hundred feet in front of the roadblock, and both he and Jennifer remained inside, firing on the officers behind their cruisers.
Clipper’s engine had died and as he came up on the SUV, he was down to forty-five miles per hour, coasting without power. Without hesitation, he aimed for Dautry’s front door and ducked down in his seat. The impact spun the lighter vehicle around, and Clipper sat up and looked out to see Dautry pulling himself awkwardly through a shattered window on the side away from the roadblock. He was moving slowly, bleeding heavily from his face and arms. Clipper easily beat him to the pavement.
“It’s over, Dautry,” Clipper said as Dautry struggled to his feet. Ignoring him, Dautry reached back through the window and turned, pistol in hand. Clipper’s old .45 barked three times, slamming Dautry back against the SUV. He fell forward onto his face, dead before he hit the ground. Clipper ducked, belatedly realizing he was standing in the middle of a gun battle, but then realized the guns had fallen silent. He peered cautiously into the back of the SUV where Jennifer still sat behind her sniper rifle. Clipper moved around the vehicle and batted the hot barrel away, pulling the weapon out through the window. Jennifer
stared through him, relaxed in death, her lips curved in a half-smile and a small trickle of blood staining the front of her blouse.
Chapter 33
“It was always all about the weapons.”
It was two days later; Clipper, John Peters and Chief Norris were in the City Manager’s office where Agents Fowler and Sousy were doing a final courtesy debrief. “All of your bank robberies, the Islamic terrorist threats, the whole Infidel Army business… it all was just a just a cover for illegal arms sales,” Fowler continued. “Dautry and Fuller were getting small shipments of weapons from their contacts in the mid-east, and needed a secure place to stockpile them so they would only have to move them cross-country once. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there were some genuine militia fanatics among them, and they were also in the domestic terrorist training business, building their weapons clientele by setting up new militia groups,” he said. “But Dautry and Fuller were in it strictly for the cash.”
Sousy laughed. “Thanks to that nosy old man out by their camp, those new militia groups are being shut down even as we speak.”
Peters frowned. “One thing I don’t understand,” he said, “is who the second tip was from. I can see Dautry eliminating some deadwood or competition by calling in the bomb threat on the Federal Building and using us as a trap, but I wonder who wanted those guns stopped.”
Fowler shrugged. “We’ll probably never know,” he said. “We’ve picked up all the rest of Dautry’s recruits, I think there’s just one unaccounted for, and they all claim they were just playing army. Nobody knows nothing, and everybody we can actually tie to the weapons is dead.”
Fowler stood. Well,” he said, “we’ve got a plane to catch.” Holding out his hand to the City Manager, he said, “You’ve got a hell of a police department, Sir. I’d be proud to work with them anytime.” Clipper smothered a grin at the governmental public relations-speak, but nonetheless winked his appreciation at the agent as he stood to shake his hand.
When the agents had left, Clipper smiled at Peters. “You got the helm, John,” he said. “Let me know what the A.G. says.” With a nod to Chief Norris and the manager, Clipper strode out of the office looking forward to a week or so of mandatory suspension while the Attorney General’s office ruled on the legality of the shots that had killed Kempton Dautry.
Chapter 34
On Wednesday morning, Clipper went shopping for a new truck. He had talked to his insurance agent about the wrecked Silverado, and got the laughing denial of coverage he’d expected. He hadn’t even bothered to try his homeowners for coverage on the ruined Kimber.
He and Janice roamed the air-conditioned showroom at the Chevy dealership and he spent a little time considering a hot looking white Camaro convertible before shrugging a mental shoulder and asking the salesman what he could do with the sticker price on the black, fully-loaded Silverado 1500 that dominated the showroom floor. After twenty minutes of perfunctory haggling, Janice wrote a check, and they left with a promise that the truck would be ready the next day.
From the dealership, Janice drove Clipper out Broadway to Gunsmoke, the gun shop and firing range where he had bought his Kimber the year before. The owner, Phil Holland was a friend and offered him a good deal on a new .45 caliber Eclipse Pro II, the newest model available. When Clipper nodded his interest, Holland took him out back to the range with a used model of the same gun and let him try it out. When they got back to the sales area, Janice was talking with an elderly man who Holland introduced as his father, retired Army Master Sergeant Douglas Holland. While Clipper was waiting for the records check and paperwork to be completed, the old gentleman asked him what he’d bought, and they chatted about the long history and dependability of the old .45acp round. When the Kimber was ready, Janice paid again, and Clipper took the new pistol in its box. He would not carry it until he’d had a chance to check it thoroughly.
“Ok,” Janice said as they left the gun shop, “I’ve spent enough money on you. Take me somewhere and feed me, and then we’re going to figure out how people are getting into Gaylord Manor.”
Sebastian Gaylord was a caricature of the successful businessman and urbane politician who had fended off Clipper’s questions five days earlier. He had been living in his Mercedes, the interior of which had taken on the look of a college freshman’s road-trip beater, and he still wore the same clothes he had worn that day. A small, rational corner of his mind recognized his deterioration, but animal instinct had the ruling hand, and he was single-minded in his mission. For four days, he had alternated between watching the Manor and following Janice Owens, sleeping in short, feverish catnaps and eating without tasting the fast food calories. He had figured out where Janice was getting her information, and had coldly decided that silencing both her and her informant was the only way to salvage his political career. He would perform for himself the same task he had performed for his father when his mother became a political liability, and then move on to fulfill his own destiny. Gripping the wheel tightly, shadowed eyes glittering in determination, Sebastian watched Clipper and Janice pull into Cleo’s parking lot from his trailing position several vehicles behind, and then continued on past.
Clipper and Janice took their time over club sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea, with Janice tossing out and rejecting ideas of who the note writer was and how he was getting inside the mansion.
Clipper sighed. “Who said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth?’” he asked. “If Sebastian killed his mother, and we accept Ray Wheelers’ theory that he had an accomplice, then it could only have been his sister, Pauline or Ann White’s son, Chester.”
“Unless it was a school chum… someone we’ve never even heard of,” Janice said.
Clipper frowned. “I don’t think so. Those letters are too intense. There’s got to be some kind of family connection there.”
“Well, then I guess we’re back to Pauline. She’s the only one still around, and I bet the locks haven’t been changed in that house since she lived there.”
Clipper shook his head. “We can’t rule her out yet, but I agree with Doc. This feels like a male to me, and I don’t see the passion for it in Pauline’s husband.”
“Or the history,” Janice agreed, pushing back from the table.
Leaving the restaurant, Clipper and Janice drove to Gaylord Manor, determined to find the answer.
Although Dave Adams and crew had long since finished with the crime scene, the front door still bore the damaged police seal and the grounds were deserted. Clipper started by walking the perimeter of the house, much as Janice had done the previous Saturday. He physically rattled every door and window, and closely inspected the sills and eaves for signs of disturbance. And when he was done, he was sure. “Whoever got in here used a key,” he said.
“Or a tunnel,” mused Janice thinking of the hidden tunnel they had found at the State Hospital in their hunt for the hidden Edgewink Gang treasure the year before. Wordlessly, they looked at each other and then stepped around the corner of the house to peer at the old barn standing silent in the summer sun.
Originally built to house livestock, feed, carriages and later automobiles, the barn was large and rectangular of two story post-and-beam construction. There were stalls and small partitioned rooms to either side of an open central corridor on the first level with haymows to either side on the second. The building sat on a massive fieldstone foundation that deepened as the ground sloped away to the rear. The double front doors stood partially open, and Clipper could hear the murmuring of barn swallows high above as he and Janice stood before them. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Janice whispered as Clipper reached for the left-hand door. Clipper nodded and drew his .45 as he slid the door back.
The inside of the barn was cool and dim, lit only by dusty shafts of sunlight streaming through a few upper level windows and ancient gaps in the wooden siding…and it was empty.
Clipper and Janice wandered in a
nd out of the stalls and first floor rooms, and he climbed the ladder nailed to one of the huge support posts to examine the cavernous mows overhead. When they had finished with the main building, Clipper cautiously entered the cellar beneath. He came out covered in cobwebs and shaking his head. There was no sign of a tunnel.
Janice was frustrated. “I give up,” she said disgustedly.
Clipper holstered his pistol. “Let’s check the inside the house again,” he said.
Once inside, they went up to the second floor and Clipper looked down the length of the hallway. “Where does this go?” he asked.
“It leads to the back stairway, down to the kitchen,” Janice said.
Clipper nodded. “You know, I bet you’re right. These locks have probably never been changed, and someone’s still got a key. It’s just that simple.”
“Very good,” said Sebastian from the sitting room doorway. “Now take your gun out with two fingers, and toss it over here.”
Chapter 35
Looking into the barrel of Sebastian’s pistol from a distance of six feet, Clipper slowly drew his .45 and bent down to place it gently on the floor. He slid it forward a few inches with his foot, and then backed away at Sebastian’s angry gesture. Sebastian darted forward and scooped up the .45, then stepped back into the room, his pistol still aimed unwaveringly at Clipper’s chest.
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