by David Kersey
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
Minnick wriggled his way through numerous subdivisions before he eventually found the Interstate 376 intersection at Gringo Road. He headed north on 376, also called the Beaver Valley Expressway. In ten minutes he passed over the Ohio River but he was still inside Pennsylvania. The sky had started to turn to light grey when he turned northwesterly onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a toll road that seamlessly turned into the Ohio Turnpike when crossing the state line. It was 6:27 am when he made it into the Buckeye State. He needed to gas the car and fill his belly, both very soon for both were nearly empty. The bad thing about Turnpikes is that the exits are few and far between. The low fuel warning light sounded with a buzzer and flashing light. Finally, an exit at North Lima, Ohio, and a Dunkin Donuts with a much needed bathroom, and a gas station a hundred yards beyond. So far, so good.
He dug his laptop out of the suitcase and took it inside to use over donuts and coffee. He searched Ask.com for eastern Ohio flea markets and found two in Youngstown which city was on his way to Warren. Belly full and gassed up, he was again on the road northbound to Youngstown just ten more miles away, and Warren just fifteen more miles beyond that.
Marlene was deeply asleep when her cell rang and bounced along the night stand. “Hello,” she dreamily said.
“Mom, its Charles. Sorry to call this late but I just now landed.”
“Charles, oh, um, what time is it?”
“It’s a little after two, mom, sorry. We got delayed in Frankfurt. Bad weather.”
“You’re in Atlanta?”
“Yes, in the airport. I slept all night during the flight so I will get a car and drive to Fort Jackson to check in. I can still make it up to your place by the middle of Tuesday.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see you, Charles.”
“Me too. I’ll call you after I finish at Jackson. I can’t wait either mom. Bye.”
“Bye son.” She was fast asleep when her head hit the pillow.
Michael McMahon, head of the Pittsburgh FBI field office, looked out on the room of agents assembled. All but two were present and those two were out on assignment thus not expected. McMahon held a three foot long pointer in his hand.
“Minnick began here.” The pointer tapped the south Florida location on the US map behind him. “That was 52 days ago in South Florida.” He moved the pointer up the east coast of Florida. “Two days later he strikes again 220 miles north.” Here, he tapped the map in northeast Florida. “He traded in his car for another one here.” He tapped an area north of Atlanta, Georgia.
“Three locations after changing vehicles; Little Rock,” he tapped, “Indianapolis,” tapped again, “and the last known location here in Pittsburgh.” He used the pointer as a measuring device by placing the butt end on the north Georgia location. He swung the pointer end west, then pinched the shaft of the pointer over Little Rock. “The question becomes, why Little Rock as opposed to Indianapolis, or Pittsburgh after trading vehicles?” He swung the pointer end north to Indiana, then east to Pittsburgh, pinching the shaft at each location. “It’s obvious isn’t it?” He repeated the measuring exercise over the three cities. “He is working his way east. Because of the good field work by one of our agents, we know his next city is Baltimore.” He used the pointer again. “Do you see where his eventual target is?” He pointed to Washington D.C. Minnick is anti-military, anti-women. McMahon pointed again. “The nation’s capital is his ultimate target. Therefore, we will concentrate on the area east of Pittsburgh.
I am not authorizing public dissemination of Minnick’s picture. If he sees it on television or posted on a tree he will spook. We want him unaware that we’re on him. Our chances of apprehending him are much better when we have the upper hand. So,” he used the pointer again, “the Ohio border here is the west side, and the cone you see here,” he formed a triangle with his arms, “from Philly southward to D.C. is where we’ll find him.” He handed out copies of the make, model, color, and tag number of Minnick’s mode of transportation, the maroon Ford Edge. “Go find him.”
“Good morning Tillie? Well, how did you sleep out here?”
“Me and Bblackie liked it, mom, ‘cept the cot ain’t big enough for the both of us. It’s real quiet in here. Me, Bblackie and Thelma Lou was snug as a bug in one kennel. I think they mighta messed around when I was sleepin’.”
Marlene laughed. “We’re not going to make a habit out of doubling up with them. When the guest house is ready you’ll sleep in there and I won’t mind if Bblackie stays with you there.”
“I know, mom, I just wanted to see how the dogs took to the kennel. Thanks for lettin’ me do it.”
“Chip is coming tonight for the hayride.”
“He is? Oh, that just made my innards turn round.”
“I’m not sure Bblackie should be allowed to go. There’s a lot of little animals that would be a temptation for him.”
“He don’t pay that kind no mind. I seen it many times. Please, can he go too?”
“I’m still deciding. If he sits in the back seat with you and Chip then it might be alright. I just don’t want him in the back bed with the other animals.”
“I can’t wait. It’ll be so much fun. My first ever kiss happened on a hayride.”
“Tillie, you’ve never been with a man, have you?”
“No ma’am. The good book says I gotta be married an’ I just haven’t found the right one for that.”
“Good for you, girl.” Marlene’s thoughts turned to her own permissive past. It haunted her and she was happy that Tillie wasn’t scarred in that way. “Come on, get washed up and we’re going to the farmhouse to tidy it up a bit and change the linens. While we’re up that way we’ll put some hay down in the ATV back bed.”
“I’ll need some sort of ID,” said the older man whose nose pinched up his glasses when he spoke and which quirk revealed upper teeth that had seen much better days.
Minnick flashed a driver’s license in front of the old coot. His index finger partially obscured the photo on the license. The man leaned forward with a grimaced look, tilted his head in the air and looked down his nose through thick glasses that magnified squinted eyes. It looked to Minnick that the man was grunting silently. Bad gas might soon follow.
“Law. Lawrence. Fau. Faulk. Faulkner.” Speed reading was not this guy’s strong suit.
“That’s me. People call me Larry.” Minnick quickly withdrew the license. “What’s your name?”
“Amos. But I ain’t the famous Amos.” The man’s shoulders jerked with laughter inhaled and snorted. Must be a pig somewhere back in this guy’s family tree.
“I need to get checked in and sleep a while, been on the road all night. Then I need to find a store for some hunting gear. Anything like that open on Sunday?”
“You goin’ huntin’?”
“Something like that.”
“Lots a deer up this way.”
“Yes, I hope to cut down a couple of dears.”
“There’s the Saddleback Hill Sporting Goods north of 80 at Ridge Road. That’s not too far over in Newton Falls. They’d be open after church lets out today. You can get a license there too.”
Minnick had been disappointed by both flea markets in Youngstown. Each were tiny mom and pops that were more junk-tique dealers than true flea markets. He passed on them both. Now on the outskirts of Warren, he stopped when he saw this old school, old highway eight unit motel, the kind Norman Bates would be comfortable operating.
“Then later I need to find a place where they train dogs. You know where that might be?”
“That ain’t too far past the hunting gear store. It’s over the county line in Portage County, about five miles past the store I’d say. It’s close to the Ravenna Army Ammunition Plant. I ain’t seen the dog place yet. I can’t drive on my own anymore.” Minnick already knew exactly where it was. He didn’t know why he was playing with this old guy.
“Ok, let me have a room key. I’ll go get my ge
ar later on today. I may not be back until late, just so you know.”
“Yessir. I’ll keep a light on for ya.” More snorting with the grunt look.
Once inside the decrepit, nasally challenging room Minnick pulled up the Google Earth aerial view of Buck’s Canine Training Camp. He laid his head on the pillow while viewing the full color aerial, then closed his eyes that didn’t reopen for four hours.
“There is just not enough room for you to bring your kinfolk, Randall, sorry.”
“That’s ok, Buck, but they still want to run alongside just out of curiosity.”
“They may want to rethink that once they see Bblackie.”
“They’ve been spying on him from outside the fence. So have I for that matter. The other dog too.”
“I’ll ride up on top, Buck.”
“Sure, Oliver. Should be a lot of fun. And Methusaleh, the ATV has a radio so it will probably be turned up loud. I don’t know how much singing you’ll get done.”
Methusaleh turned his head as if he hadn’t heard my warning. I knew he had practiced his fool head off in preparation for the hayride. I had heard him practicing, pinching his nose and trying to sound like Willie Nelson. I had no idea who was always on his mind though.
“Ca Ca Can I bri bring my gir gir girl friend, Buh, Buck?
“I don’t think so, Stammer, seeing as how Randall can’t let his folks ride.”
“She can run alongside with me.” Penny, always the accommodator.
“Ok, see you all at the car park about an hour past dark. It’ll be a fun night.”
“I’ve got a San Mai but I warn you it costs a bundle. It’s the longest fixed blade I’ve got, twelve inches. It’ll cut through a deer neck.”
“That’s the kind I’m looking for. Show it to me.”
The sales clerk walked down the counter that displayed nothing but knives. “Here it is.” He opened the case and placed the banana shaped blade on the counter. “It’s called a Gurkha Kukri. Look at this.” He held up a sheet of copy paper and sliced it down the center without crinkling the paper.
“How much?”
“I warned you. It’s seven hundred dollars.”
“You’re kidding. I can buy one of those overseas for under 200 dollars. You know what, I think I’ve changed my mind. I want three things. I want a one hundred dollar long blade and this machete I see right here, the one with the belt loop sheath. And I’ll want some binoculars too, not expensive, under fifty dollars. Two hundred bucks is the most I can pay.”
Ten minutes later Minnick walked out with a Magnum Kukri machete with sheath, a Marauder nine inch blade and Bushnell 12 x 50 field glasses, all for 195 bucks, paid for by the generosity of Lawrence Faulkner’s wallet. He was ready. On to get a daytime look at the dog kennel place. He would be George Garrison, perhaps his final moniker. He had serious doubts he would make it to the personification of Hal Hendricks.
Some place imbedded in the recesses of his past someone had suggested the intriguing concept that somewhere on the planet there is an exact replication of himself. A body double. Gregory Minnick is a known entity, a fugitive, a wanted dead or alive criminal, has cancer and a war wounded mind. His exact double would have a better lot in life to be sure. When he left here tonight after crafting two more messages that would reach the ears of the supreme leader he would find the duplication of himself. Then kill him of course. He only wanted the double’s ID and car, not his life.