Jones just sat there, it was obvious he was at a loss. A couple times during that long-winded diatribe he had opened his mouth, only to shut it again. I'm guessing he hadn't done his research on me, or it hadn't been thorough, one or the other. You know, I probably wouldn't have given the guy such a ration of shit on a normal day, but damn, that was the most obvious attempt at bribery I have ever seen. Finally he recovered his cool enough to talk. "All right, we fucked up. I see there's no way to keep you from nailing someone on this, so I can only request that you just get the guys involved. I know we're going to take some major heat over this, but could you at least try to limit it to the guys that did it and the ones that gave the orders, not the whole fucking agency?"
Well, I finally got through to the guy. When they break out of corporate-speak, and start talking like a real human being, you know you've reached them. "Now that, I can do. So, how do you propose to give us a hand in keeping the FPI away from the boys in the woods?"
"We have a few mages on staff." Well gee, there's a surprise. "If you can send your partner out with something of yours, we can make it look like it's both of you together, freeing you up to go after them for real. Or you can be bait, and let your partner do the search, either way. Oh, and we have a phone we can give you."
"Let me talk to Pete about it, he's out making nice with the local timber guys, in hopes of getting a clue, and thanks, but I already have a phone."
"Not one of these you don't...Iridium STU 6 satcom in a cell. I won't say we can't listen to it, but we would have huge problems, and no one else is going to be listening in, except maybe the NSA. Not enough bars? Thing of the past. If the FPI doesn't know you've got it, they won't be looking for it, so they're not going to be able to listen to it even if they get the NSA warrant."
"Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?"
After that, we talked in general detail about the possible size of the group up in the woods, and what I might expect to find. Mr. Jones suspected that there might be four or five, maybe as many as six guys from the Vietnam era up there. For anyone earlier than that, he had no clue. We also talked about the types of smells that I had run into. He confirmed that at one time they had a LRRP Marine who was a tiger, who may be one of the guys, and that they were also unable to locate a former Green Beret who was a wolverine.
Oh, just fucking ducky. Before he left, I mentioned that something about Bourgeois was just plain odd. I talked about how he seemed to just not hear or see some things, and Jones said that he would look into it.
Chapter Eleven
Pete and I talked when he got back from glad-handing the local timber guys. He didn't want to be the decoy any more than I did, plus there was the whole swim buddy thing. SEALS work as a team (Hel, we even call ourselves "the teams", you want to tell a poser? He'll say "I was in the SEALS." A SEAL says "I was in the teams." We never work alone, always at least two of us.) But he had to admit that I could take him three out of five falls, and that the Baresark thing gave me a serious advantage in the "survive if it all goes to shit" department. We also agreed that informing Lieutenant Murphy would just worry her unduly, which was never a good idea.
That evening I gave Mary a call, and she pointed out that Thanksgiving was three days away. Well, so much for going out to the woods before Thanksgiving. I know I'm not going to get anything useful done in three days, and missing Turkey Day after saying I would go is a real non-starter. We talked about everything under the sun, and by the time I looked at the clock on the forward bulkhead it was after midnight. That's significantly after this kitty's bed time, so we kissed each other through the phone and I went to bed...alone. Sigh...
The next morning Pete and I got up as usual and did our morning ritual, then headed into the office. I took care of a few more paperwork things, and put everything in order for the Thanksgiving holiday. It was possible that we would get a lead while I was gone, but I doubted it. I think the boys in the hills were in a deep hole right now and pulling it in after them. Especially when you consider that the FPIdiots were going to be out marching around in the woods. Pete said that he would hold down the fort on an on-call basis while I was gone, and he had my new cell if something big went down.
I called Mary and asked her if she wanted to pick me up this evening, explaining that I would leave the boat and the department vehicle here for Pete to use while we were with her family. She said that she would be in town in about four hours to get me, and to meet her at the Tanngnost. We were just buttoning everything up when Alex stopped in at our little corner of the building and asked if we had any plans for Thanksgiving. I begged off, not without an internal sigh of relief that I wouldn't be in town to be tempted. She is quite the hottie, and temptation like that I do not need. Pete doesn't have any living blood relation, so he took her up on her offer. Hey, there's the ticket, maybe Alex will go for Pete, and get me off the hook.
They exchanged information about the dinner, while I finished closing up shop. I remember when I took the detective slot that I thought I would make out like a bandit. More time off, set my own hours...well, the set my own hours part was right; but I've worked more, with less time off, since that damn promotion, than at any time since I retired from the Navy. So, all in all, I wasn't going to feel too badly about going away for a few days.
After we closed up, Pete and I drove back to the boat. I packed a few days' clothes, and was ready to go. The weather was inclement for the area and time, which is to say, nice, so I headed up to the parking lot at the head of the pier and milled about smartly waiting for Mary. In a little while, I heard the sound of a big power boat coming in. Most of the yachtie types were done for the season, so I turned to see who was so hardcore. Motoring around the corner was The Kidd, with Mary at the helm. I grabbed up my gear and ran back to the head of the pier to handle lines.
She pulled in beside the dock and shouted "Jump aboard and let's go."
As I climbed on, I asked "What's up with this, I expected your Mustang."
"Nope, I want a ride in that Lamborghini. I thought you should be the first to drive it, so I drove up to Friday Harbor to pick up The Kidd, then on Sunday I'll drop you back here and go back to get the Mustang." Well, I sort of wanted to see what this Lamborghini was all about too, so I wasn't going to kick. The trip over to Friday Harbor was uneventful, there was about a four-foot swell with three-foot chop on top of it, but nothing obnoxious. We made good time, and pulled into Friday Harbor before dark. This gave me my first chance to see this Italian tank Great Uncle Lars had left me. WOW. I've driven hummers, LAVs, Unimogs, FAVs, MRAPS, some of the former Soviet Union's stuff, and other gear that's even more esoteric, but this thing was COOL. It didn't have a pumpkin ball forward or aft, I'm not sure how the transfer case worked but the lowest thing in the vehicle other than tires was frame members. Ground clearance was about three feet, and this without any "jacking up", no lift kits anywhere on this beast. The best way I can describe this thing is interior by Rolls-Royce, body by AM General (they make tanks) and engine by Prat and Whitney. It's an impressive beast.
The first thing I needed to do was to change the registration, which involved a quick run up to the DMV office. We got there just before it closed, and fortunately Mary had thought to bring all of the paperwork needed to do a change of ownership. Then it was back to the waterfront to the ferry terminal and catch the next boat out to the mainland. The Hammer drove like a dream, which is precisely what you would expect of something made by Lamborghini. Doing the title change was a bit more expensive than I had expected, what with the taxes and the vanity plate. Mary had to remind me that cash wasn't really an issue anymore. Just a hard habit to break; not that I really want to. Being rich isn't something I want to get too used to. We caught the ferry out to Anacortes and had dinner at a seafood restaurant. I love steak, but a change now and then is good.
On the way down to Mary's house, she told me about the plans for the holiday weekend, and a little about the rest of the family. "You've
met Mom, Rebecca White Owl, there's also my brother, Robert Greenwood, his wife Pat and their children Robert Junior, and Samantha. I really have to ask, who did you pick in the Apple Cup this year?"
"Huh?" The non sequitur really threw me for a loop.
Mary looked at me in exasperation. "Oh John, do try to keep up. The Apple Cup. Big football game. They play it every year."
"Oh, I know what the Apple Cup is. Washington versus Wazzu." (I should mention that Wazzu is the local nickname for Washington State University, the east side's big college. Washington refers to the University of Washington.) "I guess I'm a UW fan, but I didn't see the game this year, I've been too busy with this case. Hel, I'm not even sure who won, but what does this have to do with your family?"
"Everything! Look, Mom used to teach law, at the UW and Dad taught law and magic at UW. I teach, as you well know, at the UW. Then my freakazoid brother takes a job at Wazzu, married a Wazzu alumni, and instead of teaching a reputable subject and practicing a reputable discipline the putz practices and teaches in tax law. I ask you, TAX LAW? Furthermore, he virtually refuses to acknowledge the existence of magic, in spite of the fact that he has almost as much innate talent for the gift as I do. His magic manifests as luck, due to the fact that he flat out refuses to learn the work, and doesn't believe in its existence, in spite of all the clinical proof out there. Yet he never waits in line, because a clerk is always just coming on shift. He always finds a great parking space and the number of raffles and such that he wins is just ridiculous. But the worst thing, the absolute pinnacle of depravity is that he is a Cougar fan. His wife is a Cougar fan, and used to be a Cougar cheerleader for God's sake. The family dinners have always been a break-even prospect. Mom and I as Huskies fans, and Robert and Pat as Cougar fans. But now we have them on the run! We outnumber them for the first time since dad died, and I plan to take full advantage."
"Wow, I didn't realize that football was so important to your family. I guess I better know who won the game then."
"We kicked their ass this year. It's not so much football per se that's important. It's the Apple Cup in particular, and it's not life and death." she said with a smile.
"Well that's a relief." I interjected.
"No, it's much more important than that."
"Oh." Well, I thought to myself, everyone is allowed a little insanity in the family I suppose. I must admit I'm just a little fanatical about the Army-Navy game myself.
"I'm sorry John, it's just that Robert's rooting for the Cougars is part of his whole counter-family 'Black Sheep', or I guess in our family 'White Sheep', would be more accurate, method of operating. We embrace our roots, so he goes out of his way to pass as white. We embrace our talents, he denies his...the list goes on and on." she looked at me with an apologetic grin.
"So, you're not so much inviting me to Thanksgiving dinner, as to the annual knock down drag out fight?"
"Oh, come on John, don't tell me the great big Federal Cop is afraid of a little family squabble?"
"Are you stoned? Of course I'm afraid of a family squabble. Don't you know that domestic violence calls are the riskiest calls in the police business?"
"John, I promise it will not get to that. Robert just loves to get a rise out of me, and Mom plays along. But it's all in good fun, and the food will be first rate." The rest of the trip down to Mary's house was far more uneventful. Traffic wasn't too bad, for the I-5 corridor. Soon we were at Mary's place over between Duvall and Woodinville. I parked the rig out front; we had a nightcap or three and got reacquainted. Come to think of it, we seemed to spend a lot of time getting reacquainted. Not that I minded the reacquainting part, it's the separations that drive the need for it that are getting on my nerves. Sigh...all part of the territory I guess.
The next morning we woke in a tangle of bedclothes, and just looking at Mary lying there half asleep was enough to get me aroused all over again. After a long slow comfortable morning romp, we figured that some food was in order. I let Mary cook...I had made breakfast the last time. Over breakfast and coffee (a three egg & cheese omelet and Millstone fresh ground: black as a raven's wing, and just slightly sweet), Mary told me how to get to her mom's place, and then called to tell her we were on the way. Mary's mom lived on Alki Point, that's where the folks that made it big in the sixties and had an activist streak had mostly settled. It was doctors, lawyers, artists, and such, wall to wall. I think James Doohan had a place there when he was alive. The place tended more to hybrids and VW bugs than to big ass tanks like I was driving. Should be fun.
On the way over to the house, Mary explained that her mom, Rebecca, didn't drive much anymore. Oh, she still had a license, and could if she had to, but she just didn't like to. The city had a half-way decent public transportation system, and if she went no further than around town, there really wasn't much need. Mary's dad had done most of the driving while he was alive, and now that Rebecca had retired from law and teaching she spent a lot of time just puttering around.
As we pulled up in the driveway, I got a look at the place. About two thousand square foot, maybe less, with a small yard, but right on the beach. The place might have gone for a few million, if the house was in poor condition...it wasn't. The lines were old, but sort of Frank Lloyd Wright-ish, it was a nice little place. Just the sort of smaller house that made good sense if you didn't want to take care of a big place all by yourself, but still wanted to enjoy the best of it. It was gray and tan with flat sloped roof lines, and a multi-level design that followed the contour of the land. The one thing that stood out was a Cheyenne dog soldier rattle hanging on the front door. Now three months ago, I wouldn't have had any idea what the Hel a Cheyenne dog soldier rattle looked like, but there had been some changes made. Something about being in a serious relationship with a dog soldier made me a bit more aware of what the trappings look like.
We parked the rig, and went up to the door. I was going to knock, when Mary barged right on in, saying "Mom, we're here to get you!" at the top of her lungs. Mary's mom was just coming out of a back room with a small travel bag in her hand. Rebecca was about five foot, three inches tall, maybe two hundred pounds with long iron gray hair that went to her waist in two braids. She had the high cheekbones and nose that screamed American Indian to anyone familiar with the race. She was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans with a huge belt buckle, and a small pony bead choker with some sort of teeth hanging from it.
"Hello John, are you prepared to deal with this?" She smiled at me, and I suddenly understood what had attracted Mary's father to her all those years ago. Mary had the same smile, and it was something spectacular. She went on "I promise that it won't be as bad as Mary has probably made it out to be. Both of my children will be on their best behavior." She looked over at Mary and I heard the steel enter her voice "Won't you dear?"
Mary gave an amazingly meek "Yes, Mom."
With that, we headed out the door. As she saw the rig, Rebecca said "Oh, good, you found the Hammer. I have always loved this vehicle, and it saved our butts on a couple occasions. Have you found a source of used cooking oil?"
"I hadn't even thought about it. I knew that it was a multi-fuel engine, but it didn't occur to me that it would run on used cooking oil." Thinking about it, I knew that a lot of diesels could run on french-fry oil, which you can get for free half the time. Most restaurants have to pay to have it hauled off.
"Oh yes, Lars ran it on the castoffs from the local China Gardens, he said it takes less filtering."
"Well, I'll have to see if they're still willing to supply it, thanks Rebecca."
With that we loaded up and were away. The radio said that the passes were open but compact snow and ice above three thousand feet. We made it over the pass just fine; Hammer handled the weather like a dream. By the time we got to Pullman, Rebecca and I were good friends. She told stories on Uncle Lars and her husband, and of course, the obligatory stories on Mary. I told her stories about some of the things we had done in the Teams, and some o
f the "stupid criminal tricks" I had seen over the years. I didn't get into the dangerous stuff, naturally, and for the most part she stayed away from it as well.
It wasn't hard to imagine, listening to her though, that they had all been a wild crew in their time. I decided that one of these days I was going to have to get Rebecca drunk enough to get some of the real stories. The stories that you only tell when you're blitzed enough that you're willing to talk about how close you came to dying, in some grisly and often stupid fashion. I don't know why, but most folks that have "seen the elephant" for real, don't talk about it...at least not sober.
Robert lived not far outside of Pullman, in a really nice ranch style on a few acres of land right on the Palouse River. They had a long sweeping drive up to the house, it looked sort of like the spread on Dallas, but colder. By the time we got to the front, the family was out to greet us. Wow, how Ozzy and Harriet. Robert, "call me Bob", was the perfect spy. Five foot, nine inches, medium weight, medium hair length, wearing jeans and a chambray shirt. Yes, he had the raven black hair and eagle beak nose of his forefathers, but they didn't make him in anyway memorable. This guy was the original "gray man". He would blend in anywhere...his wife on the other hand...WOWS! Look up MILF in an unabridged dictionary, and you find her picture. She could pass for twenty, but her son had to be at least sixteen, so she had to be about twice that. Blond hair, blue eyes, about five foot, five inches, about one hundred ten pounds, and most of that was concentrated in her tits and ass. I found out later she got her degree in sociology.
Keeping The Faith (John Fisher Chronicles Book 2) Page 12