Deviations (18 page)

As I made it to the guard booth, the quiet Nazi
stepped out, his rifle across his chest, his finger stroking the trigger guard,
and handed me my pistol.

I nodded, he watched me nodding.

I walked toward my car, got in, and drove off.
When I got to 53, I turned west, away from my motel. There was a long straightaway,
well over a mile. I checked my mirror for a tail.

Nothing.

I pulled into a Tastee-Freez and parked on the far
side of the building, out of sight of anyone heading west. I sat there for five
minutes. A pickup, an RV, and a sedan swept past me, but no Fat Ricky or other
rough boys.

I waited a few more minutes, then headed back to the
motel.

On my way to the room, I stopped at a little
machine outside the office to grab a copy of the
Central Montana Gazette.
Maureen didn’t look up from her magazine. I folded the newspaper and tucked it
under my arm. I unholstered my Colt as I entered my room, doing a quick sweep
to be sure it was just me, the silverfish, and the swirling pubes. The place
was clear. I sat down at the little desk to see how the world had gotten on
without me for the last eighteen hours. Holy shit. Page one, bottom right
corner.

CMSU History Professor Found Dead

Cause of Death Unknown

Rawlings,
Montana, May 12—Willson Harrison Fredericks, long-time history professor at
Central Montana State University, was found dead late last night in his
condominium near campus.

Fredericks, 63, was
one of the longest-serving faculty members at the state university, having joined
the staff of Central Montana Junior College in 1983. He earned an international
reputation for his research on the Nazi period in Germany in the twentieth
century.

The author of seven
books, Fredericks focused his recent research on the militia movement and the
patriot movement, both of which have some ties to the original Nazi movement.
Fredericks was a frequent speaker at professional conferences and was known as
an excellent lecturer.

CMSU president Robert
Billingham issued a statement today. “Dr. Fredericks was a fixture on campus
for many years. In important ways, he exemplified the ideal of the professor:
an active, critical researcher and a dynamic lecturer. He loved his students,
and he sought, above all else, to help them make the transition from curious
high schoolers to active, questioning, committed professionals and members of
society. In this way, he truly worked to create a better society, not only here
on campus but wherever our students located after graduation. Today we have
lost a pillar of our university community.”

In addition to
serving on many important committees throughout the university, Fredericks
served for six years as the faculty adviser to the gay students’ association.

Details of a service
honoring Professor Fredericks will be announced by the university in the next
few days.

I wanted something to break loose. Well, something
just broke loose. I pulled my cell out of my bag and dialed Ryan.

“Hey, Karen, you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve been trying you at home and on your cell, but
I’ve been going straight to voicemail.”

“I’m sorry, Ryan, I was feeling pretty crappy.
Didn’t get any sleep last night, so I turned the phones off this morning.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good. Hey, I just saw the story on Fredericks.
What’ve we got on that?”

“Hold on just a second, Karen.” I heard a pause,
then a little electronic click, like he was switching me to Speaker. “You still
there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“He died last night, in his condo.”

“Got that from the article. Natural causes? Homicide
or suicide?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“What do you mean we’re not sure yet?”

There was a pause. “The chief is thinking about
getting a judge to authorize an autopsy.”

“On what grounds?” I said.

“Age and general health. He seemed fine and had no
serious medical problems. Plus, the fact that we were looking at him in
connection with the Weston case. If we get the authorization, Harold can open
him up later today. At this point, there’s no signs of homicide, so we’re
thinking natural causes or suicide. There’s a lot of drugs that can kill you without
leaving any trace. The tox panels are going to take a little time.”

“Who found him? Did someone call it in?”

“Details are a little fuzzy still. He didn’t show
up for a night class. The students called it in, and the university contacted
the police. We sent two unis to his condo around eight
pm
. They got the manager to let us in, and he was there lying
on his bed.”

“No note?”

“Not that they could find.”

“Okay, what are you doing now?”

“Just a second,” Ryan said. I heard a click again,
like he was turning off the Speaker. “Okay, sorry, I’m back.”

“What’s going on, Ryan?”

“Nothing, Karen, just a lot of people around the
bullpen here.”

“All right, has Nick shown up today?”

“Still out. Not sure where.”

“The chief give you an assignment?”

“He told me to try to find out where you are and
to stay here. He’s meeting with the judge, then he’s meeting with the
university president, Billingham, to see if we can get at Fredericks’ records for
any leads on tracking this BC guy down.”

“Okay,” I said, not liking this at all.

“Are you coming in tomorrow?”

“I’m gonna try,” I said.

“Keep in touch, will you? The chief’s not your
biggest fan right now.”

“I understand. All right, see you.” I was lying: I
didn’t understand. First, Ryan said the chief is considering getting a judge to
authorize an autopsy. Then, he said the chief was meeting with the judge. It
wasn’t like Ryan to get sloppy like that. And I didn’t like the electronic
clicks I was hearing on the phone.

In a broader sense, though, I think I did
understand what was going on. I understood that if I was going to figure out
who killed Dolores Weston—and Willson Fredericks?—I was going to have to do it
on my own. The last guy I thought would freeze me out was Ryan. But that is
what had just happened: he was the last guy, since the chief and Nick Corelli
had already frozen me out. Now Ryan was freezing me out.

Chapter 17

Maureen looked up at me as
I walked into the little office. If she was a cartoon character, she’d have an
empty thought bubble sitting on top of her black hair with its blonde roots. I
placed the key on the counter. “My plans have changed. I’m not going to be
staying in Room 6 after all. Not asking for my money back or anything. Just
letting you know you can rent it again. I didn’t mess it up.”

She looked at me. Some people can say so much with
just a look. Not Maureen. “Okay, I’ll be heading back home. To Rawlings.” Just
in case a tubby white boy with a swastika tat and a ponytail stopped by and asked
her, “Did she say where she was headed?” No telling how a conversation between
Maureen and Fat Ricky would play out, but I figured there was no harm trying to
feed her a few facts to fit in between the lengthy pauses. She might remember
“home” or “Rawlings.” Probably not, but she might.

Driving east toward Rawlings, I saw an army-navy
store on the south side of 53. I pulled in, parking behind the store so my car
wouldn’t be so obvious. I pulled a slip of paper out of my bag, grabbed a pen from
one of the cubbyholes on the dash where I shove candy wrappers, and started to
make a list. A good way to make a list, I’ve found, is to visualize what you
need to get the job done. Problem here was that I didn’t know what the job was
and therefore couldn’t quite visualize myself doing it.

All I knew was that I wasn’t going back to
Rawlings. What would be the point of that? To sit at my desk while Ryan and the
other boys met in some room to do what detectives do? Since Ryan wasn’t even
telling me what he knew about what had happened to Willson Fredericks—even
whether he croaked, got croaked, or self-croaked—there was no point. Up until a
few minutes ago, I thought it was me and Ryan trying to solve the case by
following the leads and dodging whatever bullshit the chief and Nick Corelli
threw at us. But that phone call with Ryan was a real eye-opener. Or, to be
more precise, a real eye-closer. I was as good as dead to the Rawlings Police
Department. And, of course, I was as good as dead to the Reverend Christopher
Barry. Good as dead to just about everyone. Good as dead. Dead. Good.

If I went home to take care of my non-existent
sickness, I wouldn’t be able to do anything except look at some stupid videos
of white morons shooting their moron rifles or making moron speeches. Which
wouldn’t make anything happen. Plus, sitting at home would make me kind of an
easy target for any creeps—with badges or without—who wanted to take me out. No
reason to head for Rawlings.

So, I’d spend the night out here in God’s country.
Not at Silverfish Manor, thank you. Somewhere else. I’d head out toward the
Montana Patriot Front compound. This time, I wouldn’t go straight up to the
gate and get another patdown from the terse Nazi. This time I’d hang out in the
woods, out behind the Reverend Christopher Barry’s little white house. And from
there I’d be able to … I’d be able to … I’ve shown you some scary examples of
how I “think,” so this should come as no surprise: I didn’t have the tiniest
turd of an idea about what I could accomplish from out behind the Rev’s little
white house.

But I was convinced that Lake Hollow was where the
action was going to take place. Everything pointed in this direction: Willson
Fredericks working with BC on the party preparations, now Willson Fredericks
suddenly up and dying—or, to be more precise, down and dead—under mysterious
circumstances. Mysterious to me, at least, if not to the Rawlings Police
Department. And Christopher Barry with his chain-link fence, his guard towers,
his uniformed Nazis, and his Fat Ricky. Yes, this would be where it would
happen—whatever
it
is. So here I would be. And maybe that would help
make it happen.

I walked into the army-navy store. The guy sitting
at the register looked up, smiled a crooked-tooth smile, and gave me a “Good
afternoon. Let me know if I can help you find anything.” He was mostly fur. It
started with a thick brown mat at the top of his head that morphed into a
comb-breaking beard that spared only his nose, his two surprisingly green eyes,
and a short shelf of a forehead. The beard headed south, tunneling down under
the collar of his red and black flannel shirt, resurfacing on the backs of his
hands and terminating at the knuckles. He looked like what would happen if
Grizzly Adams hooked up with Sasquatch.

The store was a freeze-frame of a tornado tearing
through a campground. Inflatable canoes and river boats dangling from the
ceiling. Desert Storm-era field jackets, combat boots, stoves, wool hats, aluminum
pots, lanterns, cooking stoves, shovels, sleeping bags, fishing rods, blankets,
hooks, lures, guns, ammo, and portable toilets pegged to the walls, crammed
onto revolving racks, piled high on card tables. If you wanted to eat, sleep, cook,
crap, or hook, trap, or shoot something outside, this was your kind of place. I’d
have liked to mingle with the four outdoorsy guys drifting around, studying the
musty, dusty stuff, but I wanted to think about what I might need.

I figured a flashlight and extra batteries might
come in handy. I grabbed a Mylar blanket and a pair of Bushnell 12 x 50
binoculars, which we use on the job. I like that they’re good in low light. I
found a pair of bolt cutters with fiberglass handles: expensive but light
enough to carry with me on a long trek. A couple bottles of water. I spent a
few minutes considering my dinner options.

The MREs came in chicken and noodles with
vegetables, pasta with vegetables in tomato sauce, spaghetti with meat sauce,
chicken tetrazzini, beef stew, and chicken with black beans and rice. The back
of the packages offered this advice: “In Case of Auto, Biological, Earthquake,
Electrical, Financial, Fire, Flood, Hurricane, Nuclear, Storm, Tornado.” I
didn’t quite understand all of this. In case of auto, what am I supposed to do?
When financial happens, does that mean it’s time for dinner? But I understood
the main point: You’ll want to open this bag Only If Real Bad Shit Is
Happening. The package didn’t specifically mention my particular situation, but
I thought chicken tetrazzini would be appropriate In Case of Neo-Nazis.

By this time I had so much survival crap in my
arms I was starting to drop things. So, rubbing my two remaining brain cells
together, I realized I needed one more thing. I grabbed a camo backpack and
walked up to Bigfoot. He looked at my pile of stuff a little funny, as if many
of his customers camp out overnight and yet don’t need bolt cutters. But he
rang it up, and I gave him $182.34 in cash. He said “Have a good time,” and I
said “You bet.” You place that bet, you lose, I thought, but since we were
parting amicably, it was one of my better human interactions in the last week.

Back in the car, I pulled out my state map. The
Montana Patriot Front compound was about three miles due north of 53. I hadn’t
seen any cameras on the busted-up road leading to the compound, but I couldn’t
be sure. Besides, there was no way I’d be able to drive partway up the road and
stash the car. I’d have to find another way to get to the compound.

The map showed an abandoned logging road that
looped about two miles north of the compound. That would be my best chance.

I decided to get up there while it was still
light. That way, I’d increase my chances of being able to navigate any
surprises like streams, which could really mess me up at night. Plus, if I
tried to get into position in the dark, I’d have to use my flash, at least
sometimes, and that would put me at greater risk.

I headed out to the logging road, about three
miles west of the road that led to the compound. It was just where the map said
it was. Maps are good.

A few hundred yards in, I met my first obstacle: a
thick chain barrier attached to a couple of serious steel pipes anchored in
concrete. With deep ravines on either side, there was no way to go off-road to
get around it. Which would be why they put the barrier there. I grabbed my bolt
cutters and managed to snap a link. I drove through, stopped the Honda, and
went back to see if I could put the chain back together so it would look okay.
The busted link still had enough of its original shape to splice the two pieces
of chain.

Even if you’re forty-two years old, life can offer
new insights. I know a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, but if you don’t
know there’s a weak link, you won’t test it, which in fact makes the chain
stronger than its weakest link. Maybe that would keep me alive, the bad guys
not knowing just how weak I was, but I realized I didn’t have the time or
energy to think about that. I had some hiking to do. I got back in my car and
headed up the road.

A couple minutes farther on I spotted a little
turnoff that disappeared into the woods. It was rutty and full of gullies
overgrown with scraggly weeds, but the dirt was packed hard enough for me to
drive if I took it easy. A hundred yards in, I parked the Honda and grabbed my
backpack full of stuff.

I made it back to the logging road and checked to
make sure my car couldn’t be spotted.

I calculated I’d have to do a little more than four
miles on this road. After the road took a right-angle north, the compound would
be two miles due south. The pack was about twenty-five pounds. I adjusted the
straps so the heavy stuff rested in the crook of my back and started out. Last
time I carried a heavy backpack like this I was a college student, lugging
those heavy textbooks with the thick shiny paper. Now I was packing survival
gear. I decided not to think about what, if anything, to make of that
transition. I just kept walking. I was glad I was wearing my hiking boots.

The road was dirt and gravel, washboarded from the
construction vehicles that once used it to tear out a path for the logging
trucks. I crunched my way along the wide road, a little nervous that I was so
exposed.

The sun was getting low in the west, and already I
started to feel the chill that I was going to feel for real tonight. I’d made
the right decision to get the Mylar blanket.

After a couple of miles, I saw a flat-topped
boulder twenty yards into the forest, so I decided to take a break. Apparently,
living mostly on Jack Daniel’s and doing no exercise at all isn’t the best
training regime for long walks at five-thousand-feet elevation with twenty-five
pounds of crap strapped to your back.

My back wasn’t real happy with me trying to get up
after ten minutes on the rock, but I wanted to get to the compound before dark,
so I had to push on through. I walked, my legs getting heavier with each step.
This place was desolate, and the noise was becoming oppressive. I don’t mean
the sounds of squirrels and woodchucks, and all the other animals I didn’t want
to think about. I mean the sounds of the air, the way the silence turns into a
humming that wraps around your head and starts pushing on your eardrums. I
remember how it used to creep me out when I went camping with Bruce and Tommy.
I’d lived in LA for a few years, and it was way quieter there than here,
because the fire engines and garbage trucks and the woman screaming next door when
her son smacked her blocked out that damned silence hum. Out here on this
logging road, it was good to hear a Cessna whining overhead every few minutes.

With my rock-top break, I calculated that I was
making less than two miles per hour. A few hundred yards ahead, the logging
road seemed to disappear. With any luck, that would be the right angle heading north.
Those few hundred yards were hard ones, with the road getting a little closer
to the sky and my legs getting a little closer to the ground. My feet were
scuffing along, throwing up sprays of gravel, but I made it in a couple
minutes. I checked the map. Yup, I was now almost exactly two miles due north
of the compound, and there was still enough light. I’d walked more than half
the distance, but it had all been on the road. Now came two miles of woods. I
decided to take another break.

I walked a ways into the woods, found a
decent-size boulder to lean against, and spread out the Mylar blanket as a
ground cover. I sat down and closed my eyes—and kept them closed for an hour
and ten minutes. When I awoke, I was feeling stiffer but a little more alert
for whatever lay ahead. I stood up, catching hell from six or seven pissed-off muscle
groups. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders. I could still see the sun,
inching down toward the horizon, but a bunch of clouds were pushing in,
promising to deliver dusk early tonight.

I headed due south, snapping a whole lot of twigs,
snagging my jeans on all kinds of briars, twisting my ankles a couple times,
hurting my back when my foot landed crooked, sending me—and then my
backpack—sideways. Got my feet wet and cold by landing in a few hidden little
watery holes that were covered up neatly by rotting leaves and twigs. Disturbed
a bunch of animals that weren’t expecting me and shot off when they realized
they were underfoot. Didn’t see them, just heard the leaves rustling in a
straight line headed away from me. With dusk coming on, in the shade of the
giant pines and spruce, with wet, aching feet and a sore back, I started to get
chilled. Me and my spirits were headed south.

Lacking a better idea, I kept going. It was
getting darker, colder, lonelier. A scent of burning wood drifted in from the
east, the smell reminding me I hadn’t eaten in a long while. I looked toward
the smell but didn’t see anything.

I kept walking.

Then I heard a rustling coming at me from the
east. Whatever it was, it was big, and it was coming fast. I had my hand on my holster.
I looked up and saw, five feet in front of me, a hundred pounds of wolf.
Actually, it looked more like fifty pounds of teeth and fifty pounds of fur and
muscle. It was crouched in an attack posture, its head down, pawing at the
ground, its black eyes fixed on me, snarling through its yellow brown teeth.
The fur on the back of his neck was up, and so was mine. I had my pistol ready,
but I didn’t want to have to shoot it and announce my presence quite so
obviously. It inched closer to me, and I drew a bead on its thick chest. A
voice in the distance called out “Bo, down,” and immediately the dog lay down.
It was breathing heavily from the effort involved in scaring the shit out of me,
but at least it had stopped snarling. Its pink and black tongue was draped over
its left jaw. I could see now it was a dog—the kind of dog that was full of
wolf DNA.