Bluetick Revenge (15 page)

The four sat there, hands folded on the table, looking stoic. The conversation was over unless I wanted to start a brawl.

“Sorry I bothered you,” I said to them. “Can I buy you guys another pitcher or something?” I walked away from their table,
up to the bar, and paid the bartender to have a pitcher delivered to their table.

“What was that all about?” Scott said.

“Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll explain in the truck.”

Scott left a few bucks on the table for the waitress and we walked out into the parking lot. It was cold. The moon was out,
but the night sky was cloudy, creating rings of light around the moon. Scott started toward the truck, but I began walking
around the parking lot. It didn’t take long to figure out which vehicle was the skinhead-mobile. It was an old Pontiac sedan.
Black. Confederate flag stickers on the rear bumper. I walked back to my truck and climbed in.

Just east of the bar and grill was a small building that housed a sewing machine repair shop on one side and a barber shop
on the other. Both were closed. I started the truck and drove over to the barber shop. I parked the truck so we could see
the entrance to the bar and grill.

I looked at Scott and said, “I want to talk with those kids again when they come out.”

“Why?”

I refreshed his memory concerning the death of my cousin Hal four years ago outside Coors Field in Denver. I told him about
Paul Krait and the hate-filled audiotape featuring the voice of a man named Skull.

“Sounds like maybe we won’t be heading home tomorrow,” Scott said.

“You can catch a flight to Denver tomorrow, if you want. I’ve got nothing else to do for a week. Can’t find Karlynn; maybe
I can find Skull.”

“I don’t mind hanging out for a few extra days. That’s one of the advantages of unemployment. It gives me the freedom to be
spontaneous.” Scott holds an advanced degree in astrophysics, but hasn’t held a steady job since leaving the navy umpteen
years ago. He earns his living doing computer consulting and advising people on other high-tech projects. He calls himself
a self-employed techno geek.

The skinheads emerged from the bar just after midnight. There were too many others in and around the bar to make a scene,
so we followed them at a discreet distance. They drove for ten minutes, finally pulling into the driveway of a rundown house
in an older part of town. We parked down the block. The two in the backseat exited from the black vehicle and entered the
home. The driver began backing the car out of the driveway.

“Go for the two in the house or follow the car?” Scott asked.

“Let’s follow the car. Christ only knows what they’ve got in the house. Shotguns, pit bulls, and who knows what.”

We followed the Pontiac another few miles to a nicer house in a better part of town. They parked on the street. I turned off
my headlights. They emerged from their car and began walking toward the house. One was the leader and the other was the one
with the SS tattoo.

“How do you want to play it?” Scott asked. “If we go straight at these guys, word will get back to Skull pretty damn quick
that two guys driving a truck with Colorado plates are looking for him.”

“If we don’t go straight at them, we could be farting around for weeks waiting for them to lead us to something useful. I’ve
got to pick Jayne up next week.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Scott said.

“Let’s do it before they get inside,” I said. I turned on my headlights and gunned the F-150, guiding it into their driveway
in a big hurry. They turned and started walking toward us.

“What the fuck—?” the one with the SS tattoo started to say. He stopped in midsentence, at about the same time Scott stuck
the barrel of his shotgun out the passenger window. I opened my door and climbed out of the truck, my Glock in my right hand.

I walked toward the SS kid and said, “What did you mean when you said I was in the wrong part of Idaho?”

“Don’t answer him, Wes,” the leader said. “These fuckers got no right—”

Scott opened the truck’s passenger door, sighted the shotgun in on the leader, and started walking right at him. When he got
close, he looked at me with a grin and said, “Doesn’t this guy’s head look kind of like a clay pigeon?”

Now I was eight feet from the SS guy. I pointed the automatic at the center of his nose. “What did you mean when you said
I was in the wrong part of Idaho?” He looked at his friend, then back at me.

“I don’t know no guy named Skull, but those paramilitary types are all up north. Around Coeur d’Alene. There’s lots of those
camps up there. That’s where you need to be looking.” I turned to the leader.

“What about you? You know anyone named Skull?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I did,” he said.

Scott looked at him and said, “You know what a shotgun does to a clay pigeon at this range?”

The leader just glared at Scott, his eyes full of hate and a determination to violently avenge this humiliating episode as
soon as possible.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “As of now you two and your two shit-for-brains friends are in charge of finding Skull for us.
We know he’s a skinhead and we know he’s in Idaho, so that should narrow it down for you. We’ll check back in a few days to
see how you’re doing. Don’t let us down.”

I started backing away, my pistol still out, and Scott did the same. We climbed into the truck and drove off into the Idaho
night.

“That should put us on Skull’s radar,” Scott said.

“Yeah, I guess this raises our threat condition from yellow to orange.”

W
E DROVE TO NORTHERN
I
DAHO
on Saturday and found an off-the-beaten-path summer resort that offered cabins for rent. It being December, the owner gave
us a good rate on a cozy cabin with a large stone fireplace and no TV. I registered us as Arthur Schopenhauer and F. Nietzsche
just for the hell of it. After checking in on Saturday afternoon, we drove to Coeur d’Alene to buy food and supplies. It was
a sunny winter day, and when we had completed our chore at the grocery store, we let the dogs out of the truck and led them
across the street to a park, where they could run and play. A police officer drove past, but unlike in Boulder, the cops in
northern Idaho didn’t give a damn if my dogs were off leash.

We needed exercise and the dogs needed exercise. We ran around and threw sticks for the dogs to fetch. Buck and Wheat enjoy
that game, but Prince was a hound and was having none of it. He started sniffing and running, and before I knew it, he was
at the far end of the park. He must have come upon an intriguing scent. Then he followed the scent, as hounds are wont to
do. I started jogging toward him because I didn’t want to lose sight of him. He trotted toward a trio of scruffy biker types
just coming out of a burger joint across from the park. He approached them Bluetick Revenge with curiosity and caution. One
of them knelt down and held out a palm in an attempt to make friends.

“C’mon Prince,” I said as I crossed the street and approached them. He turned toward me and I attached his leash to his collar.
“Sorry,” I said to them. “He’s got a mind of his own.”

“Nice-looking dog,” one of them said. “That’s a bluetick, right?”

“He’s got some bluetick in him,” I said. “I’m really sorry he bothered you.”

“No problem, man,” the biker said.

I walked Prince back to the park and eventually back to Scott, Buck, and Wheat. I thought nothing more of Prince’s encounter
with the three bikers.

We drove back to the cabin. I made spaghetti, salad, and cheese bread while Scott built a fire in the massive fireplace. After
supper I read a few chapters of Bertrand Russell’s book and Scott did some meditation. The conflict between empiricism—the
belief that human knowledge comes from our senses—and rationalism—the belief that human knowledge comes from reason—has always
fascinated me, and I enjoyed reading about the history of the debate. I tried to get Scott to discuss it, but he just said
it was a false dilemma and went back to meditating.

After a while I concluded I was not going to solve an epistemological problem that had raged for centuries, so I did what
perplexed philosophers have been doing since ancient Greece. I went to bed. Actually, I did some stretching, took my meds,
and then went to bed.

We slept well. Would have slept past dawn, but the
Mister Ed
theme song sounded at six in the morning.

“Hi, sweetie,” Jayne said.

“Hi,” I said.

“Did I wake you up?”

“You woke me up. You woke Scott up. You woke Buck, Wheat, and Prince up. What time is it in Beijing?”

“I’m sorry. I should have waited until later to call. I just wanted to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“In a cabin outside of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.”

“Is the biker girl with you? What’s her name, Caitlin?”

“Karlynn.”

“Is she with you?”

“Not to worry,” I said. “She took off on Monday and we’ve been looking for her ever since. The trail went cold somewhere near
Boise.”

“And you’re still looking for her?”

“Yeah.” There was no point in mentioning Skull or the fact that a lot of White Power morons would be looking for us real soon.

“She should be easy to find, what with her humps and all.”

“That’s what I thought, but it’s turning out to be more difficult than we had anticipated.”

“Will you be able to pick me up or will you still be searching for Karlynn?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Let me give you my flight information,” she said. I got out of bed, found a pencil, and took down the information. “Will
you meet me at the gate?” she asked.

“I’ll meet you at the baggage claim,” I said. “They won’t let me go to the gate.”

“I forgot,” she said. There was a brief pause as we contemplated how militant Islam had changed the world. Jayne understood
it better than most; her parents had died more than fifteen years ago when a bomb planted by Libyan terrorists exploded on
a jetliner over Scotland. Then the pause was over and Jayne said, “Try not to dwell on the problems of man.”

“Ignoring them doesn’t make them go away.”

“Obsessing about them doesn’t make them go away, either.” She knew I got depressed when I spent too much time thinking about
such things.

“I know,” I said.

“Focus on something else,” she said. Now she was back to her normal perky self. “Think about how much fun we two infidels
can have during my visit.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “We can drink. Listen to loud rock-and-roll. You can wear skimpy clothes. Anything we can do
to piss off Allah.”

“That’s the Pepper Keane I know and love,” she said.

We traded I-love-yous, then said good-bye.

“If you really want to piss off Allah,” Scott said, “you should adopt a pig. Allah doesn’t like pork.”

“Have to be one motherfuckin’ charmin’ pig,” I said. “Have to be ten times more charming than that Arnold on
Green Acres
.” That was a line from
Pulp Fiction
, which both Scott and I agreed was the best “guy movie” of all time. Maybe the second best.
Kelly’s Heroes
was good, too.

I let the dogs out briefly, made coffee, started a fire in the fireplace, let the dogs back in, then climbed back into bed,
content to know the cabin would be warm and the coffee would be hot when I woke up in a few hours.

A few hours later I awoke again and made blueberry pancakes from a “just add water” mix.

“What’s the plan today?” Scott asked.

“I thought we might go to church.” It was, after all, a Sunday.

“Seriously,” Scott said.

“I am serious. A lot of these White Power nuts take their Bible seriously. Some have formed their own churches.”

“I have trouble picturing skinheads going to church.”

“The skinheads probably don’t, but there are other White Power types who do. What else are we going to do on a Sunday?”

“How do we know what church to go to?” Scott asked.

“We can rule out the Catholics,” I said. “We can rule out the Presbyterians and the other established denominations. We’ll
just drive around until we see one that looks right.”

We left Buck and Wheat in the cabin, but took Prince with us because he had a propensity to howl when left without human companionship.
We stopped at a convenience store so I could buy a diet Coke, and started driving around the outskirts of Coeur d’Alene. We
saw plenty of churches, but all were affiliated with mainstream groups such as the Baptists, the Methodists, and so on.

“Check this out,” Scott said as we approached a county road that crossed the main highway. A sign informed us that the Church
of Jesus the Almighty was one mile east on the county road. I turned down the county road.

The Church of Jesus the Almighty looked much like any other church. The building was old, white, and made of wood. It had
a steeple with a cross atop it. The sign in front did not indicate affiliation with any denomination. There were maybe two
dozen cars and trucks in the dirt parking lot, but no people. The service had already begun.

“What’s our cover story?” Scott asked.

“How about this? We’re bounty hunters. We’re looking for a guy—a black guy—who jumped bail on a rape charge.”

“Rape of a white woman,” Scott added.

“Yeah, and he’s real dangerous. We think he’s in this area, but we might need some extra manpower to take him down.”

“Why do we think he’s up here?”

“Our sources told us he came up here to take out a skinhead named Skull. They have a history.”

“That’s good,” Scott said. “What’s our guy’s name? What does he look like?”

“Jackson. Bobby Jackson. He’s six-three and weighs about two hundred pounds.”

“We using our real names?” Scott asked.

“Might as well. Got my real license plates on the truck. Easy enough to find out who we are from the plates.”

We walked up the three steps, opened the door, and quietly took seats in the back pew. People turned back to look us over,
but then turned their heads to focus on the pastor. He wasn’t wearing a clerical collar, just a white shirt and navy trousers.
He appeared to be about fifty.