Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

“That’s true, but I can’t swear to it. Diesel was growling at the guy and I was focused on getting him to calm down. Then it looked like he pulled something from a pocket in his overcoat. To tell you the truth, I’m really not certain what was going on other than those facts. When Diesel gets worked up like that, he always has a good reason.”

  “Trouble seems to follow you, Mr. Savage. Any idea why someone would want you dead?”

  “Presently? No.”

  “Presently? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means now.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, mister.” Colson was pointing her finger at Peter.

  “I simply answered your question. There isn’t a lot more I can tell you. But as you know, eighteen months ago some really bad people wanted to kill me.”

  “And do you have any reason to believe that interest may have been rekindled?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “So, if no one wants to kill you, why was Block trying so hard to do just that?”

  “Good question, Detective. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

  Colson looked at Peter for an uncomfortable moment. “You have an interesting history, Mr. Savage. A history that is still classified and even I can’t get a complete explanation about what happened in the Cascade Mountains a year and a half ago.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment.

  “But I have to wonder,” she continued, “if that Israeli woman you were involved with… what was her name?”

  “Nadya Wheeler. And I wasn’t involved with her.”

  “That’s right. Ms. Wheeler. I have to wonder if Ms. Wheeler is somehow connected to this murder and the attempt on your life yesterday. After all, she was trying to kill you back then, right?”

  “You know how that came out—and I’m still alive.”

  “Right. But she disappeared. Any idea where she might be?”

  “No idea at all. We didn’t exactly stay in touch.”

  “Not even a Christmas card?”

  “Not even,” Peter replied with an icy glare.

  “Did you read about that triple homicide near La Pine close to two weeks ago?”

  Peter nodded.

  “On one of the weapons recovered from the crime scene we found two very interesting prints. Index finger and thumb print—a perfect match to Nadya Wheeler. So, you’re sure you haven’t had any contact with her?”

  Peter was dumbfounded. He seldom thought of the Israeli-trained assassin, but when he did, he’d imagined she was living in self-imposed exile in some third-world country. If Detective Colson was right, she was in central Oregon, and not far away at all. “Doesn’t matter how many times you ask me, my reply won’t change.”

  “I see. Just to be clear, let me recap for you—you know, in case you missed some of the key points. We have a corpse—believed to be Darren Block—who, based on your account, attempted to kill you at least once, and very likely twice. In the same day, no less. And if Block also doctored your coffee with poison a week ago, then we’re up to three attempts. That’s a lot, so I’d say he was motivated. And if that’s not unusual enough, the deceased became that way because an unknown assailant shot him, probably from a distance, just before he would have successfully completed attempt number three on your life.” She paused long enough to be sure the facts had registered with Peter before continuing. “So, what is my working hypothesis?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. You’re a very intelligent man. You tell me.”

  With all that had transpired over the last twenty-four hours, Peter hadn’t really considered this question. His mind had been consumed with trying to identify the cause of the outbreak at Warm Springs, then the emotional shock of nearly being shot on the drive home, and finally the late-night questioning by Detective MacRostie about the murder of Darren Block right in front of his eyes.

  “It’s pretty clear that Block was trying to kill me. The motive remains unknown. Fortunately, someone intervened and killed Block before he murdered me. If you ask me, I’d say the mystery shooter is a good Samaritan.”

  Colson allowed a slight grin to crack her normally terse expression. “Bullshit. You know as well as I do that ‘good Samaritans’ do not skulk around at night with a suppressed rifle looking for a bad guy to take out. No, we are looking for a murder suspect. The only question is, why? Obviously, the shooter could have just as easily shot you. But they didn’t. So why would a skilled shooter just happen to be at the right place and time, with the right weapon, to save your life?”

  Peter looked at Colson, dumbfounded. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Well, if you think of anything, call me.” She placed her business card on the counter and walked to the door. She grasped the handle, then turned back to face Peter. “Oh, one more thing. It’s probably a good idea to be extra careful until we figure out exactly what’s going on.”

  s

  “Whoa, check this out.” Travis was sitting at a card table in what would have normally passed for the dining area of the double-wide trailer. He had been scrolling through a chat room when he came across a five million dollar contract. Tommy read the details over his shoulder and let out a whistle.

  “Shit. This dude must have really pissed off someone. Five million. Man, I could retire on that.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Hey, look.” Travis pointed with his finger. “It says the guy lives in Bend. His name is Peter Savage.”

  Travis and Tommy developed a friendship attending high school in the small city of Prineville, a community northeast of Bend. With a population of less than ten thousand and an economy based largely in ranching and timber, most residents struggled to earn a decent living. For many adults, the allure of illicit means of making money was strong. The temptation and promise of riches proved too much for Travis and Tommy—both dropping out of high school to sell methamphetamine.

  Travis and Tommy had a steady clientel. With a reliable supplier, the cash earnings were good, enough to pay for food, plenty of alcohol, two used cars, and a run-down doublewide trailer on an acre of land just outside of Warm Springs, yet still within the boundary of the reservation. It was a good location, not under the county or state jurisdiction. The tribal police had plenty to keep busy, so chasing after one of many small-time drug dealers never seemed to rise high enough on their priority list to cause problems for Travis and Tommy.

  All things considered, life seemed okay. But both men knew there was no future. They were each in their mid twenties, with no high school diploma, no special tradecraft, and selling meth. Even these two could see that unless they changed their lives dramatically, they would be unlikely to live past the age of thirty as free men. If the law didn’t catch up with them, a rival dealer or pissed off addict would bring a violent end to their lives.

  Candice, Tommy’s live-in girlfriend, had joined them, leaning her head on Tommy’s shoulder as she also read the text.

  Travis read out loud. “Payable by wire transfer upon proof of death.” He pointed again with his finger. “Here’s his address, and it says he drives a Rolls Royce!”

  “The dude must be wealthy,” Tommy said.

  Candice perked up. “Hey, do you suppose that whoever takes him out can also keep his car? It would be, you know, like a bonus or something.”

  “Is this for real?” Tommy asked.

  Travis shrugged. “Well, sure. This chat group has postings like this all the time. But I’ve never seen a contract this large. Usually it’s only ten grand or so.”

  “What are you saying Travis?” Candice said. “I mean, you’re not out doing murder-for-hire at night or something, are you? You’re beginning to freak me out.”

  Travis laughed. He liked to tease her… it was so easy.

  She slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, listen,” Tommy said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we do it.”
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  “Do what?” Travis turned toward his partner. “You mean kill this dude?”

  “Yeah, why not?” Tommy looked at Candice. “It’s our chance to really score.”

  “You don’t know how to kill someone,” Travis said scornfully.

  “Bullshit. I’ve shot plenty of deer and elk. More than you have. What’s the difference?”

  “Duh.” Travis touched his index finger to the side of his head and looked squarely at Tommy. “I’ll tell you what the difference is, genius. It’s not against the law to shoot deer. You kill someone, and the police won’t stop looking for you.”

  Tommy shrugged. “So, we don’t leave any evidence. Hey, it’s not like we’re running a legit business now, you know.”

  Travis shook his head and turned away from his friend. “You can count me out.”

  “Fine, that means you don’t get any of the money.”

  “Yeah, I do. Call it a finder’s fee.”

  “A finder’s fee?”

  “That’s right. You wouldn’t know anything about this if I didn’t find this information and share it with you.”

  Tommy thought for a moment. It sort of made sense. He’d heard of finder’s fees before, usually when one dealer shared the name of a supplier to another dealer. “And how much is your finder’s fee?”

  “One million. That leaves four million for you.”

  “One million!” Tommy exclaimed. “That’s almost a third. You’re not doing nothin!”

  Candice wrapped her arm around Tommy. “It’s 20 percent baby, and that leaves 80 percent for us.”

  “You’re pretty sharp with the math, Candy,” Travis said.

  The comment earned him another slap on the shoulder. “Stop calling me that! You make it sound like I’m a cheap hooker.”

  “I never said you were cheap.”

  She slapped him again, this time harder.

  Chapter 13

  Bend, Oregon

  March 15

  Shortly after Detective Colson left, Peter slipped on a jacket and drove across Bend to St. Charles Hospital. He approached the visitor information desk and asked for the office of Dr. Scott Hale.

  “Please have a seat in the lobby, and I’ll page him,” the receptionist said.

  The lobby was a large, open room with a wall of glass that allowed ample natural light to flood the space. A wide staircase led to the second floor and cafeteria. The furnishings of supple chairs and sofas were grouped in cozy clusters, separated from each other to provide for private conversations. As Peter meandered toward a chair, he saw a white-jacketed physician speaking in hushed tones with a middle-aged couple. Judging by the smile on both faces, he concluded the news was good.

  Peter eased his frame into the chair and mentally reviewed what he knew about orchitis, prioritizing his questions. After a few minutes, a bespectacled man with dark brown hair, graying at the temples, approached. He was wearing a white coat and had a stethoscope draped around his neck.

  “Mr. Savage?” he said.

  Peter rose and extended his hand. “Yes, Peter Savage.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Scott Hale. I understand you have some questions about inflammations of the lymphatic system, in particular the testes?”

  “Thank you for taking time to meet with me. When I called the hospital yesterday, they said you might be the best person to talk to. I’m helping a friend trying to identify the cause of a number of cases reported recently in Warm Springs. Have you heard about it?”

  Hale shook his head.

  “Fifteen cases as of yesterday. The director of the health clinic there has not been getting any help from the CDC, and the Oregon Health Authority says the reservation is out of their jurisdiction.”

  “I see,” Hale said, a look of impatience beginning to show.

  “I understand that orchitis may be a side effect of the mumps,” Peter said, picking up the pace. “But these patients have been vaccinated, so it would seem that mumps is an unlikely cause. What other causes should we be looking for?”

  Hale rubbed his chin before replying. “Well, generally speaking, any inflammation of the lymphatic system could result in localized infection of the testicles. But it is rather rare. I’d have to do some research to give you a better answer.”

  “I understand. Let me rephrase the question. Are we looking for bacterial and viral agents, or just viruses?”

  “Standard practice is to run cultures for both.”

  “My understanding is that the clinic is doing just that, but the results are not available yet.”

  “It can take a couple days. But my hunch is that you’re dealing with a virus.”

  “What about a reaction to chemicals or foods? Could that result in the reported symptoms?”

  “No, not likely,” Hale said, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more specific help.” He stood, and Peter did, too.

  “One more question,” Peter said. “Other than the immediate symptoms, are there any lingering effects?”

  “Yes. Sterility is the most severe. In cases involving postpubescent men and adults, the rate may be alarming.”

  “How high would you think?” Peter pressed.

  “Difficult to say, since the contagion has yet to be isolated and identified.”

  “Just a rough estimate—would you think 10 to 20 percent?”

  “Oh no, not at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s 50 percent or more. Good luck with your investigation,” Hale said, and he turned and walked away.

  As his words sunk in, a terrifying thought entered Peter’s mind. Most of the patients were adults.

  As he made his way back to the Wraith, Peter dialed Lee Moses. “I think we need to talk in person. This may be more serious than I had initially thought. I need to make a quick stop at my home and then I’m on my way to the clinic. Should be there in a little over an hour.”

  “Okay, Peter. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  s

  Peter parked in front of his condo and put Diesel on a leash. The pit bull loved to ride, and he readily jumped into the sedan. He preferred to ride shotgun—sitting upright and watching the scenery pass by.

  The traffic was light, and Peter made good time, arriving at the Warm Springs clinic right on schedule. “Sorry buddy. I have to leave you here, but I won’t be long.” He rolled the windows down an inch to allow for some fresh air. Fortunately, the temperature was still cool, and overheating was not a concern.

  Lee met Peter just inside the door. “You sounded concerned over the phone. What did you learn from the doctor?”

  “Not as much as I’d hoped. But this is more than just a painful, short-term infection. It’s potentially much more serious.”

  “Oh? What did the doctor say?”

  “He explained that once a male has gone through puberty, orchitis often results in sterility.”

  Lee’s eyes widened. “That’s bad. Most of our patients are young men.”

  “I know,” Peter replied. “I may have an idea to help get the resources here that you need. But first, tell me, how are your patients doing?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Lee said. “We got ten more last night and this morning.”

  “Ten? That’s not good.”

  “I agree. At this rate, we could have a big problem on our hands. I called the CDC again this morning.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Same as before. Wait a few weeks. They think it is a minor bump in the statistics, not a true outbreak. They think it is the mumps, and there is no reason to be concerned because of mass-scale vaccinations.”

  “I hope they’re right,” Peter said.

  “No, I don’t think so. All but one of the afflicted patients was vaccinated for the mumps as a child. When I told this to the person at the CDC, they said it was probably a weak vaccine. It’s happened before, they said. They do not want to help.”

  “And by the time they change their minds, there will be a lot more who have contracte
d the disease. How are the interviews of the patients and their close family members progressing?”

  “We have a lot more data. Thought you’d be interested in seeing it.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Lee led Peter to the small office they shared the previous day. Lucy was sitting at one of the desks, inputting data into the spreadsheet. The number of columns had grown considerably over what it was the previous day. Peter looked over her shoulder, reading the pertinent information.

  “I don’t see any correlation with the food that was eaten, or the places the victims visited during the days leading up to signs of infection.” Peter leaned in closer. “There has to be something we’re not seeing. Maybe the pathogen is carried in the air or water?”

  Lee shrugged. “If that was the case, I would expect to see many more cases as the entire population would have been exposed.”

  Peter worked his jaw. “I don’t know what more help I can offer with interpreting this data. I think it’s time we get help from the experts.”

  “You mean the CDC? I already explained that they have refused my requests. They don’t see this as a significant occurrence, or a dangerous illness.”

  “Then it’s time we change their perception.”

  “You have a plan?”

  Peter nodded. “I do. Politicians and government bureaucrats hate bad press. So, we’re going to the media. We’re going to tell the press how you have a growing outbreak here on the Warm Springs Reservation, that you’ve asked for help, and have been denied. It wouldn’t hurt to insinuate that Native Americans are once again being discriminated against by the federal government. Hell, call it racist—that could draw headline coverage. With a little bit of luck, the story will be picked up nationally.”

  A grin spread across Lee’s face. “I like your suggestion. I will need your help though to elevate the importance of our problem so the Bend newspaper and TV channel will come out here. We are a long way from Bend.”

  “Leave that to me. And I’ll also call my congressman and senator. I’ll point out that this is an easy task—all they need to do is say a word or two to the director at the CDC. Won’t cost any political capital, and they can come out looking like a hero to the underdog. It’s all about image. Plus, I’ll remind them I’ve donated to their campaigns.”