Whack Job

by Mike Baron

  The watchman opened the gate, waved them through followed by Otto. As Otto passed, he saw that the watchman was holding the boxed Complete Detonator DVD set. In his rearview Otto saw the man shut the gate and gone back to his Jeep.

  The road was smooth and black as a licorice whip. Soon they were surrounded by towering Ponderosas and the sound and scent of the breeze through the open car windows. Two miles down the trees fell away and they entered an open area in front of the main lodge, a three-story log cabin with a great peaked gable looming over the main entrance like the prow of an ocean liner. The logs were massive. An apron of flawless blacktop flowed from the main structure, fresh yellow paint demarking parking spots gleaming in the sun. The big lot was largely empty save for a half dozen pick-ups, vans, and 4X4s parked in the far corner, obviously those of the staff.

  Otto pulled up behind the black Infiniti that had come to a stop in front of the main entrance. Otto shut the engine off and stepped out. He wore a Broncos ball cap he’d found in the Denali, sunglasses, short-sleeved knit sport shirt and khakis. Before Goldfarb could reach the broad stairs the double front doors burst open followed by a human tank--blue blazer, tan slacks, sunglasses, crew cut, broad as an ox. Bob Casey.

  Witherspoon followed gliding on long legs, arm extended, wearing black knit wool trousers, a white dress shirt and a dark green sport jacket with a theatrically long tail and “Pawnee Grove” embroidered in gold over the breast pocket.

  “Ralston,” the caretaker boomed. “So good to see you again! And this is the famous Gabe Winner.”

  Otto hung back. Witherspoon appeared simultaneously vigorous and withered, in that way some thin men achieve in their later years. His skin was taut over high cheekbones, a hooked nose, thin lips, lank hair falling straight down from a balding skull, a cross between Ebenezer Scrooge and Uncle Creepy. He and Winner shook hands and exchanged small talk. Witherspoon used the Double Hand Clasp to signify special meaning. Winner turned to Otto and motioned him forward.

  “Otto, Emil Witherspoon. Otto’s a retired Special Agent who’s helping me write a screenplay.”

  Witherspoon’s spade-sized mitt completely enclosed Otto’s hand. Up close, Otto saw that Witherspoon’s eyes were close together and deeply set, an arctic blue that made him feel there was something behind them watching, something that couldn’t or shouldn’t be revealed. “Very pleased to meet you,” the caretaker said.. “Why don’t you come inside, we’ll have coffee, or something stronger if you prefer. The boys know where to take your luggage.”

  The tall man turned and led them into the lodge.

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “Farouk”

  Monday morning.

  Farouk Ben Fakir had been born Robert Weinstein in Evanston, IL. While attending Northwestern he had become radicalized by the Muslim Student Society, dropped out of school, went to Pakistan to attend a terrorist-training camp, and changed his name to Farouk Ben Fakir.

  Farouk had majored in computer science. He was an autodidact who could build his own computer out of the bits and pieces of others. Al Qaeda set him up in Pakistan with a network and urged him to wage cyber-war on the Great Satan. Three years ago Farouk succeeded in invading the computer-run coolant pumping station at the Birch Bay Nuclear Power Plant in Upper Michigan.

  Fortunately, the redundant safety system noticed the intrusion long before the reactor was in any danger of meltdown. Civilians wearing radiation-proof suits manually corrected the pumps while the Cyber Warfare Unit tried in vain to track the source.

  But.

  A high-level Libyan minister defected during the first week of the insurrection supplying intel that led directly to Operation Firebrand. Farouk was fast friends with Malik Ghaddafi whom he met at a meeting of the Pan Arab Conference.

  Hornbuckle had set up the sting operation that lured Farouk to Abu Dhabai, leading to his arrest. He’d baited his trap with a totally fictitious twelve-year-old Arab beauty named Farrah, complete with photos, who promised to fuck Farouk’s feathers off.

  Hornbuckle made the arrest and conducted the initial interrogation. Farouk copped to the cyber-attack but knew nothing about the other matter for which Hornbuckle was tasked.

  White had been in the right place at the right time. For anyone else it would have been the wrong place and the wrong time. But White had damnable luck. His survival of the missile attack was one in a million.

  It was nine-thirty when Hornbuckle turned his Jeep into the entrance to the Florence Supermax, a long, low beige structure on the high plains east of Colorado Springs and the repository of the worst of the worst. It was here Farouk was serving his thirty-six year sentence. Hornbuckle would have come earlier but for the past six weeks Farouk had hovered between life and death in the hospital due to some bug he’d brought back with him. A bug with a delayed reaction time.

  Finally Farouk was well enough to answer questions.

  Two massive concrete silos with gun turrets on top framed the main gate, flanked on each side by a ten foot double hurricane fence topped with concertina wire. The guard examined Hornbuckle’s badge and picture ID and waved him through. Hornbuckle drove to the administration building and parked the Jeep next to a series of bland sedans belonging to prison guards and administrators.

  Inside the main entrance he surrendered his cuffs and pistol and submitted to a pat-down and a wand search.

  “You know the way to the Warden’s office Agent Hornbuckle?” a guard the size of a dumpster said.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Hornbuckle followed a green linoleum trail down the disinfectant-smelling hall and turned into a suite of offices with a secretary seated at a desk in front of a wall bearing the Seal of the Great State of Colorado and flanked by American and Colorado flags. She was young enough and good looking enough to remind Hornbuckle that people made bad decisions everyday.

  “Agent Hornbuckle?” she chirped, indicating a door to the left. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

  Hornbuckle pushed the heavy walnut door open and stepped into Warden Cruz’ commodious office. Cruz was putting into a plastic hole. He was a stocky man in gray slacks, white shirt and gray and red argyle vest sweater with a full head of black hair and a dust mop mustache. He leaned the putter against his desk and shook Hornbuckle’s hand.

  “Thanks for setting this up,” Hornbuckle said.

  “No prob. Anything for our friends at the Bureau. What’s it about?”

  “I need Farouk’s expertise in ferreting out another cyber-terrorist.”

  “Good luck with that. Let me walk you back and if you don’t mind, stop in before you go.”

  They entered the prison through a steel portal similar to those used in old-fashioned photography studios, a fat cylinder with a revolving door. Cruz accompanied Hornbuckle to the unit’s desk, manned by two uniformed guards.

  “Bring Farouk up, would you boys?” Cruz said. He slapped Hornbuckle on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

  The guard unlocked the interrogation room, a cold white cubicle with a beige linoleum floor, a stainless steel counter bisecting the room. Another door behind the barrier led to the cells. The steel chairs were bolted to the floor. Seconds later the inner door opened and the prisoner entered wearing a day-glo orange jumpsuit, legs and wrists shackled to a chain that went around his waist. Farouk Ben Fakir wore a buzz-cut and round steel-rim glasses. He looked pale and thin with dark circles and red dots. He had learned to keep his face immobile, betraying no emotion. It was very un-Arab.

  Farouk sat in the chair opposite, chains jingling.

  “Good morning,” Hornbuckle said. “I need your help.”

  Farouk stared at the wall.

  “If you cooperate it may result in a reduced sentence.”

  Farouk barked mirthlessly.

  “I’m trying to catch a right-wing hacker. A white supremacist.”

  For the first time Farouk looked at him, his gray eyes bereft of hope but not without interest. “Who?�
��

  “Black Widow.”

  There was no recognition in Farouk’s eyes. He’d been in Supermax for eighteen months. No TV. No newspapers. No internet. Let out of his cell one hour every twenty-four when he was permitted to work out beneath the sky in solitary.

  “What did they do?”

  “First off, this is mostly one guy. Randall Kleiser from Arvada. I have every reason to believe he’s in the area. He invaded the FBI’s central computer system and shut it down for forty-five minutes.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “He used robot computers to overload the system.”

  “You have domain names for the rogue computers?”

  “We’re on top of that. What I need from you is insight.”

  “Tell me about this guy. What’s his tag?”

  “Calls himself Black Widow. Blames the government because his girlfriend died in a terrorist incident.”

  “What happened?”

  Hornbuckle gave him the rundown.

  Farouk’s eyes focused on the far distance on the other side of the wall. “I know that guy…Spider…met him in a chat room in ‘09…”Hornbuckle’s heart raced.

  “Hangs out in cyber-cafes…” Farouk trailed off, his mouth open.

  “Anything you can remember,” Hornbuckle prompted.

  Farouk gazed into infinity. His chains jingled. “Yeah. Big basketball fan. What’s the team here?”

  “The Nuggets.”

  “Yeah. Spider loves him some Nuggets. Goes to their games, the whole nine yards. He doesn’t like one of their players. Caramel Something.”

  “Carmello Anthony.”

  “Yeah. Says Anthony sucks dead squirrel meat.”

  “They traded Anthony.”

  Unfortunately the basketball season was months away but it was more intel than Hornbuckle had been able to gather since his arrival.

  “What else?”

  “Sci fi…plays Halo…loves movies…Star Wars, Matrix, he loves that Nexus series. He waited in line for twelve hours to see Nexus II at midnight. That’s all I remember. You gonna be able to help me?”

  “I said I would.”

  Hornbuckle stood and signaled for the guard to unlock the door. He looked back. Farouk stared at the wall.

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “A Walk in the Woods”

  Pawnee Grove’s lobby had a soaring, open-beam ceiling, a fieldstone floor, a chandelier fashioned from elk antlers, knotty pine paneling and Teddy Roosevelt’s bear upright and pawing. Other trophies glowered from the wall behind the registration desk. Witherspoon went behind the counter and brought out a heavy leather ledger and a bespoke pen, which he handed to Goldfarb.

  “Gentlemen, if you would register please, and we’ll need a credit card for incidentals and room service.”

  While Goldfarb registered Witherspoon sipped at a can of Mountain Dew and

  produced pamphlets similar to the one Otto had obtained from Crystal giving a history of the Grove with a map in the center spread showing hiking trails. The trails dead-ended well short of the mountain tops.

  Otto registered.

  “Gentlemen,” Witherspoon said, “you’re our first guests today. We will be meeting at five on the veranda for drinks and hors d’oeuvres followed by our welcoming ceremony down by the lake. Dinner will be served at seven. The pamphlet contains a list of activities for the week. Please familiarize yourselves with the rules and by-laws.”

  Witherspoon consulted a laminated map of the property. “I’m going to put you in Zachary Taylor. It’s farthest from the main building so you should have no trouble sleeping. Burt will take you to your cabin.” Witherspoon picked up an old-fashioned telephone receiver and pushed some buttons.

  “Burt, I need you.”

  Winner went up to the bear and read the plaque. “Colorado black bear shot by Theodore Roosevelt, Aug. 19, 1902. Height: Five feet two inches. Weight: 185 lbs.”

  Otto examined old black and white photographs, sepia-toned rustics of manly men in hunting togs glad-handing each other or standing over their trophies. A minute later a man wearing a corduroy jacket with leather shoulder inserts, white shirt and khakis entered.

  “Burt, will you take Mr. Winner and Mr. White to Taylor?”

  Otto looked at Goldfarb.

  “I always stay in the main building. Not so much walking.”

  “We have a dozen rooms but most guests prefer the cottages,” Witherspoon said.

  Burt introduced himself. They shook hands.

  Minutes later, they were dashing through the fragrant pine forest in a silent golf cart atop buttery blacktop. A series of cottages lay on both sides of the road partially concealed by the forest.

  “Welcome to the Grove, Mr. Winner,” Burt said, eyes on the road. “I’m a great admirer of your films.”

  “Thanks, Burt. Call me Gabe.”

  “You were with the agency, Mr. White?” Burt said.

  “That’s right. Retired a couple years ago.”

  Burt slowed way down and then stopped as a fawn wandered from one side of the road accompanied by its mother. Otto looked at a nearby cabin. James Polk. All the cabins were named after presidents.

  “Me too,” Burt said softly so as not to startle the deer. “Retired six years ago. Been with the Grove ever since.”

  “What do you do in the winter?” Winner said.

  Burt laughed. “I ski. Between the Grove and my pension I’m pretty much free.”

  The stocky crew-cut Burt looked to be in his mid-forties.

  Taylor was a metal-roofed cabin tucked in among the pine with a winding flagstone path connecting it to the smooth blacktop, which ended ten meters on. Winner signed a boxed Detonator set and gave it to Burt.

  “My kid is gonna love this. See you tonight then.”

  Otto opened the unlocked door. The interior resembled an upscale bunkhouse with bedrooms off the main room, two metal-frame beds in each, a separate bath, hardwood floor covered with Indian scatter rugs and a stuffed wolf head over the stone fireplace. Their luggage had already been placed inside.

  It took them less than five minutes to sort their gear. Otto waited until Winner visited the head. He quietly shut the door to his bedroom, pulled out the Ocelot, opened it and put it to his ear. No problem. The Ocelot relied on comsats, not radio towers.

  Otto slipped it into his pants, went into the living room, sat on the cloth sofa beneath a mounted deer’s head and traded his loafers for hiking boots.

  “Up for a little hike?” he said.

  “One minute,” Winner said from the bedroom.

  He emerged in hiking boots, cargo shorts, short-sleeved shirt and a Chargers cap carrying a small backpack and a big canteen. He tossed Otto a tube of sun screen.

  “Slather up. You got water bottles?”

  Otto nodded, smearing sun screen on his face with special attention to the nose and beneath the jaw. Otto filled his plastic water bottle at the kitchenette sink and looped it over his shoulder. He wore olive-colored cargo pants, a Raiders of the Lost Ark T-shirt and a ball cap, bill forward. He stood in Winner’s door.

  Winner took out his Blackberry in Otterbox and set it on the dresser in his room. “Guess I won’t need this.”

  Armed with their map, they left the cabin and headed counter-clockwise through the forest around the lake. Through the trees, the lake was the color of amethyst, butting up against the gray granite cliffs on the far side. In breaks in the rock they could see snow-capped peaks gleaming like diamonds in the sun. Awed by their surroundings they proceeded in silence. Winner pointed at a big buck picking its way through the trees. A trout broke the perfect surface of the lake and slapped back in, faint echoes whispering across the valley. It was difficult to believe land so beautiful could have anything to do with the killings.

  Within a kilometer, the trail left the woods and followed a granite ridge toward Mt. Pythagoras. They paused at an overlook to take the view and drink. The scenery stunned them
into silence.

  Above the azure lake, Mt. Pythagoras gleamed phosphorescent where the sun struck snow. Winner pointed again. A curved-horn mountain ram plucked greens from a ledge 200 meters above the water.

  The air was redolent of pine and sage. Winner inhaled deeply.

  “If you could bottle this air you’d make a fortune.”

  They picked their way past juniper and prickly pear until they topped a small rise and saw rocks piled in a berm blocking the path and a big black on white sign:

  DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT

  It was accompanied by a red skull and cross bones.

  Winner and Otto exchanged glances. Without a word, they squeezed around the barrier and continued up the trail.

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Red Ball”

  The trail was precipitous but not technical. The jagged granite provided plenty of handholds. As they rose, the land began to stretch before them until they could see across the lake to the lodge where tiny, ant-sized figures were setting up chairs on the lawn. Above and beyond the camp lay the Rockies, with Long’s Peak prominent. Despite the altitude, it was a warm, sunny day and both men were sweating. From time to time Winner would whip out a bandanna and mop his face.

  Halfway up it turned into real work. They were now well above the tree line.

  They paused at a granite escarpment leaning back against the sun-warm rock. Winner pointed to an eagle circling high overhead. He Who Spots the Wildlife. As they watched, the eagle dropped like a javelin piercing the mirror surface of the lake and emerging with a trout in its claws. As the eagle rose, the trout flashed its rainbow, a startling beauty born of nature’s cruel struggle.

  Winner stood with his back to the mountain smiling at the sun. It would be so easy, Otto thought. One good shove. A tragic accident in the mountains. It happened all the time. Otto would have an unobstructed path to Stella.