The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2)

by Martin Roy Hill

  NCIS Southwest Regional Headquarters

  Naval Station San Diego

  2200 Hours

  "HOW'S SHE DOING, LIN?"

  Schag looked up from the small, gray, military notebook in his hand. He had spent another thirty minutes talking with Yolanda, then stood outside Tom Riley's office, jotting down notes from the conversation. He was concentrating so much, he hadn't noticed Riley walk up to him.

  "Oh, ah, she went to the ladies' room to . . . you know." Schag circled his pen around his face. "Makeup stuff."

  "Crying?"

  Schag nodded. "She's scared," he said. "She's worried to death about Bill."

  Riley gestured to Schag's notebook. "She said anything that can help?"

  "Not really." Schag shook his head. "Well, you might say it may help us understand what Bill's going through. She's afraid Bill had some kind of mental breakdown. Problems at work and at home. And he was hearing things."

  "Hearing things? Riley repeated. "Like voices?"

  Schag nodded.

  "Was he taking drugs or medications?"

  "Not that she knows of." Schag slipped the notebook into his jacket. "But Lieutenant Commander Clarke said one of the symptoms of agueloquine psychosis is hallucinations. I assumed she meant seeing things, but I guess hallucinations could include hearing things. I'll check with her later. Anything new on Bill's whereabouts?"

  Riley pulled his own notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through the pages. "I got a call from the sheriff's. Some gate guard reported he saw someone who looked like Butcher drive into a yacht club in a pickup truck similar to the one stolen from the ASW base. The guard said the man in the truck claimed to be a diver there to clean a boat hull." Riley shrugged. "I guess boat hulls need to be cleaned? Who would have thought? I mean they're in water all the time."

  "Barnacles attach to the hulls of boats," Schag said. "They need cleaning off periodically or they build up and slow the boat down."

  "Since when do you know so much about boats?" Riley asked.

  Schag looked at Riley with raised eyebrows. Riley knew Schag not only spent most of his time aboard Navy ships, but he had also attended the Naval Academy at Annapolis.

  "Oh, yeah. Never mind. Anyway, the local PD is checking it out, but the guard said this diver was there for thirty or forty minutes, then drove out the same gate."

  Schag rubbed his hand against his jaw and felt the bristle of a five o'clock shadow. He looked at his watch and for the first time realized how late it had gotten.

  "I can't imagine why Bill would go to a yacht club," he said.

  "Maybe he wanted to steal a boat and make a get away," Riley offered, shrugging. "Likely nothing to it anyway. Just a rent-a-cop trying to be helpful." Riley licked his thumb and paged through his notebook. "Anyway, a highway patrol chopper pilot spotted a pickup truck matching the one stolen from the ASW base heading eastbound on Interstate 8 toward Alpine. It was getting dark and the chopper was low on fuel, so he had to break contact. Homeland Security is sending up their drone. It has forward-looking infrared and what they called a 'longer loitering capability.'" Riley made air quotes when he said the last words.

  "Alpine?"

  Both men turned to find Yolanda standing behind them, her makeup refreshed, her brow knitted in thought.

  "The highway patrol reported a vehicle matching the description of one Bill may have stolen heading into the mountains," Schag said, reaching out and touching her shoulder. "Does that mean something to you, Yolanda?"

  "Yes," she said. "Bill's parents used to have a cabin up near Alpine. We stayed there two, maybe three times."

  "Do you remember how to get there?" Schag asked.

  "No, it was quite a while back," she said, shaking her head. "Bill always did the driving up to it. When his parents died, they left it to Bill and his brother, Peter. Bill was still with the teams, and we were having some money problems, so he sold his half to Pete. We haven't been back since."

  "Could you call Pete and get directions to the cabin?" Riley asked.

  Yolanda pulled her cell phone out, looked through its directory, and selected a number. She listened for a few minutes, then shook her head.

  "No answer," she said. "It's going into voicemail." After a moment, she said into the phone, "Pete, it's Yolanda. I guess you've heard about Bill. I'm with the NCIS in San Diego, and they need to know how to get to the cabin in Alpine. Can you call me when you get this?" She cleared her throat, stifling another sob. "Thanks, Pete."

  Yolanda put away her phone and looked at Schag and Riley. "Sorry."

  Schag shook his head. "No, problem. County records should have a copy of the deed. All I need to do is go by and search for a piece of property owned by Peter Butcher." He turned to Riley. "Yolanda's ready to go to the safe house. I can run by the county administration center and check their records."

  Riley looked at his watch and shook his head. "Too late. They're closed by now. It can wait."

  "Okay, then I'll get on the phone and wake someone up," Schag said. "For that matter, the information might be online. I can check it out in the bull pen."

  Riley held up his hand, stopping Schag before he could move.

  "Look, Agent Schag," Riley said, suddenly officious. "It's getting late and we need to get Mrs. Butcher to the safe house before it gets dark. I don't want her or our agents walking into a dark house. Remember, it's not our case. Our responsibility is to Mrs. Butcher's safety."

  Riley pursed his lips and knitted his brow. "So, I want you to follow Mrs. Butcher and her guard detail to the safe house. The only people who'll know where she is will be the agents assigned to her detail, you, and me—and the only reason I'm letting you in on it is because of your relationship with her. Make sure she's comfortable and safe, then you go get yourself some rest. In the meantime, I'll call the sheriff's department and let them know about this cabin, and they can go do the footwork to find it. Understood, agent?"

  Riley looked at Schag with expressionless eyes. Schag stared back, bewildered. He looked at Yolanda. She, too, looked confused. Then Schag nodded. "Fine," he said. "Understood."

  "Good," Riley said, smiling. "I'll go make that call and see you bright and early in the morning." He turned and shook Yolanda's hand. "I'm sorry we had to meet like this, Mrs. Butcher. But I assure you we will do everything to keep you safe—and try to keep Bill safe, too."

  Riley strode into his office, leaving Schag and Yolanda exchanging questioning looks.

  ☼

  Linus Schag stood on the balcony of his hotel room, sipping a drink, and staring at the ocean. He had followed Yolanda and the agents to the safe house, a small bungalow-style home in Kensington, a small neighborhood in San Diego. Entering first, Schag searched each room, weapon drawn, then the back and side yards. He went back inside and checked each cabinet, drawer, and closet. When he was confident the house was safe, he waved the guards and Yolanda in. He helped her settle in, turning down the bed, unpacking her small overnight bag, and ensuring the kitchen was adequately stocked with food. When he felt content enough to leave, he stood by the door and looked at her. Her deep dark eyes were wide with worry and glistened with tears. He wanted to tell her he would stay with her, but he couldn't. Instead, he put an arm around her, and she fell into his embrace like a scared animal seeking the safety of shelter.

  "Look," he said, "you'll be okay here. I'll call tomorrow morning to see how you're doing. And if I can, I'll come by."

  He felt Yolanda's head nod, felt her body sob. Uneasy, he stepped back, holding her at arm's length, and looked at her.

  "You're strong, Yolanda," he said. "Bill wouldn't marry a weak woman, would he?"

  Yolanda smiled feebly and used a finger to wipe a tear from her eye. "You're right," she said. "Bill would be pissed if he saw me right now."

  "Bill would be holding you and comforting you if he saw you right now," Schag corrected.

  Yolanda smiled again, more brightly this time.

  "Thank you,
Lin," she said. "Thank you for everything." She reached up and took Schag's face in both hands, pulled him forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  Back in his hotel room, Schag tried to forget about that kiss. There was nothing emotional about it, nothing erotic. Just a quick, almost motherly peck, but it stirred in Schag feelings he didn't want, something he thought best left buried as deep as possible. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to push it back down, it kept resurfacing, forcing him to look at it.

  He had always liked Yolanda, admired her, and thought Bill lucky to have found a woman like her. She was everything Schag's ex-Wall Street wife hadn't been—caring, thoughtful, passionate, and strong. Staring out at the star-speckled night hovering over the dark, open sea, Schag had to accept the truth he had always avoided, always denied.

  He was in love with Yolanda Butcher.

  He poured another Scotch, happy for the first time he wasn't aboard a dry U.S. warship, and gulped half of it down without tasting it. A row of lights out beyond Point Zuniga, the breakwater that marked the eastern border of the harbor's main shipping channel, drew his attention. It was a ship anchored in the stream, the open ocean outside the channel. Taking a small set of binoculars from his bag, he focused on the lights and could see the unmistakable outline of a large oil tanker.

  That was strange. San Diego Harbor had no oil refineries; those were farther north in Los Angeles/Long Beach Harbor. Huge crude carriers like the one at anchor rarely if ever made side trips or port stops other than the oil terminals where they loaded cargo, or the portside refineries where they offloaded it. After watching the tanker for several minutes, Schag shrugged, finished his drink, undressed, and went to bed.

  Six hours later, the buzz of his Blackberry woke him. He slipped on his glasses and stared at the caller ID. Tom Riley again.

  "Schag here," he answered.

  "Lin," Riley said, "they've found Bill Butcher."

  "Who?"

  "The sheriff's," Riley said. "He's dead, Lin. Bill Butcher is dead."

  CHAPTER 10

  MONDAY

  Cuyamaca Mountains

  San Diego County, California

  2330 Hours

  BUTCHER SAW THEM COMING.

  He expected them. Or, rather, he expected someone. Earlier in the day, he had noticed the highway patrol helicopter patrolling the interstate as he drove into the mountains. Later, he noticed navigation lights of an aircraft high overhead running a search pattern over the forest. The spacing of the lights looked too narrow to be a regular aircraft, the altitude too high for a manned aircraft to search from, and Butcher assumed it was a drone with night vision or infrared capabilities, or both. He knew they were looking for him, and it was only a matter of time before someone stumbled onto his old family cabin.

  He had ditched the pickup truck in the woods, and retrieved his own car from the copse of trees where he had killed Hector and incapacitated the bald Gideon operator. The car was parked on the side of the cabin, in plain sight of the men he watched moving in the dark. Too late to use it to escape. By his count, there were at least five of them, possibly more, dressed in dark fatigues and heavily armed. He couldn't be a hundred percent certain, but he didn't think they were cops. Law enforcement wouldn't come sneaking in the dark with so few men. They would come big time, with lots of people and lots of noise. Butcher figured they were from Gideon.

  Butcher moved to the rear of the cabin and, looking out, saw no one. No doubt, they were planning to make a frontal assault, thinking him asleep. More amateurish tactics, he thought to himself. Still, running out the back door wasn't an option. There was too much open space between the cabin and the woods. His father had created the firebreak to protect the cabin from the frequent wild fires that plagued these mountains.

  Butcher walked back into the small, darkened front room. His foot bumped into the bundle on the on floor. He eyed it as if he hadn't seen it before. A thought came to him. Fire. Fire destroys. It blinds. It hides. He glanced back into the kitchen, at the propane stove sitting there, and the decision came to him in a flash. No matter what happened to him, he was determined to take as many Gideon men with him as possible.

  Moving quickly, he entered the kitchen and fired up two burners on the stove. Stepping onto the back porch, he found two more full propane tanks in the storage locker, and carried them inside, one in each hand. Without any effort, he lifted each one onto one of the lit burners. Back in the front room, he pulled his Glock 26 from its ankle holster. He studied the pistol closely, his mouth tugged down into a frown, then touched its barrel to the side of his head. No, he thought, not there. He tried it again on his forehead but, no, that wasn't good either. He placed the barrel into his mouth—cops called it "eating your gun"—but that didn't feel right either. He tucked the barrel under his chin and realized, yes, that was the proper place. He sank to the floor and, sitting cross-legged, waited.

  ☼

  A single shot. The Gideon operators froze, waiting for the sound of a bullet impacting something or someone. Nothing happened. They looked at each other, shook their heads, and waited. Still nothing. The leader used hand gestures to order men to the right and left of the cabin while he took the front. They moved silently, their boot steps muffled by the snow. Once in place, they peered cautiously into the darkened windows.

  "Anyone see anything?" the leader whispered into his wrap-around mike

  "Roger," someone replied. "I see a body on the ground. It looks like Butcher."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Roger that. He's big, bald and . . . Jesus, it looks like he put a gun in his mouth."

  "Roger," replied the leader. "We still need to make sure he'd dead. Everyone stack up on me and we'll go in."

  Within a minute, the five men had formed a tight stack to the right of the front door. The leader aimed a tactical shotgun at the doorknob and fired a solid slug into it, shattering the lock and a good chunk of the door. The team leader kicked the remainder of the door open and rushed through, followed closely by the others. They each peeled off left or right, crouching, weapons to their shoulders, peering over the sights. The leader hovered over the body on the floor, his shotgun aimed at the figure. The others cleared the bedroom, and started to clear the kitchen. As they entered the kitchen, the leader heard one of his men say, "Oh, shit."

  It started with a shriek, then another shriek—the pressure relief valves on the tanks trying to vent the building pressure. Two simultaneous blasts formed massive fireballs that flowed through the cabin with the speed of quicksilver. The flames held deadly shards of metal from the tanks and whatever debris the blast wave picked up. Fire engulfed each of the Gideon men in turn, the shards ripping through them, the flames searing them. The blast first blew out the windows. Next, the walls of the cabin came apart. Then there was only the crackling of flames consuming what was left of the cabin and the smell of burnt human flesh.

  ☼

  "We think we found your man," said Travis, the lead technician on the sheriff's crime scene team. He wore a blue Tyvek hazmat suit. An N-95 respirator mask hung beneath his chin, and his safety glasses rested atop his head. The hazmat suit did not breath, and despite the frosty winter mountain air, he was sweating heavily. "At least he looks like he fits the description despite being badly burned. And he's the only one not carrying a long gun."

  Alerted by the Border Patrol, sheriff and fire units raced to the scene only to find little left of the Butcher family cabin. Only one wall remained standing, the fireplace providing support for its charred timbers. To the side sat the remains of a scorched sedan, its windows shattered by the blast, and its body battered by the debris of the explosion. Inside the ruins lay six corpses, covered by blue tarps. Travis's CSI team and technicians from the coroner's office, all dressed the same as Travis, milled around the remains, still searching for anything that could be evidence.

  Schag, Riley, and Parker had sped up the mountain road after rendezvousing at the naval base. Despite using their lights
and sirens, by the time they arrived on scene there was little to do but watch the firefighters pack up their gear and the crime scene investigators unpack theirs. They had spent hours sitting and watching TV helicopters orbiting like vultures waiting for the chance to snatch a quick carrion meal. It was an apt analogy, Schag thought.

  "Can you determine the cause of death?" Schag asked.

  "For your man? It looks like he took himself out," Travis said. "We found a Glock still gripped in his hand, and a good portion of his face and head are missing."

  "And the others?"

  "Killed by the explosion. It looks like your guy wanted to go out with a blast." Travis noticed the sour looks the NCIS agents gave him. "Sorry, I didn't mean that as a pun. He intended to blow the place up. From what we can tell so far, it looks like he placed two, maybe three, full propane tanks on the stove, and lit a fire under them. Then he shot himself. When the other people came in, the tanks blew."

  "Like giant pipe bombs," said Parker.

  "Bigger than that," Travis said. "Technically, it's called a BLEVE—boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion. The heat increases the contents of the tanks to the point the container can't withstand the pressure and ruptures. All that heated propane spills out and forms a cloud of explosive vapor. And when that's exposed to flame . . . boom. It's more like a thermobaric explosion than a pipe bomb, agent."

  "A thermo what?" asked Parker.

  "Thermobaric explosion," Schag answered. "Air gas mixture they use to clear jungles to make landing zones for helicopters."

  "Creates a blast wave that knocks everything over—" Travis nodded toward the devastated cabin. "I think this is your man coming out now."

  The three NCIS agents turned and saw two Tyvek-cladded coroner technicians carrying a litter loaded with a black, sealed body bag. Travis waved the litter bearers over. "Someone's got to do an eyes-on identification sooner or later," he said. "Want to look at him now?"