Bluetick Revenge Read online

  “What about the feds?”

  “The feds don’t tell us much,” he said. “They think some of our rank and file might be sympathetic to the White Power cause, so they don’t trust us. And these days their focus is on foreign terrorism. The last time I had any contact with anyone from the federal government, it was a woman from the Federal Communications Commission. Biggs has an illegal FM transmitter out there, but he claims the laws of the Zionist government don’t apply to him, and the FCC doesn’t want any bloodshed over it.”

  “How many people out there?” Scott asked.

  The chief shrugged. “Probably less than a dozen on most days,” he said. “Only time he’d have more than that would be when he hosts a rally, a church service, or something like that. Then he might have hundreds of people out there.”

  I looked at Scott and said, “Church is probably over by now.”

  “It ain’t the kind of church you can just walk into,” Prell said. “Strangers are definitely not welcome. Most of his so-called services are at night, anyhow.”

  I exchanged glances with Scott. We both knew we’d be heading out to the compound right after lunch.

  “Where you two staying?” the chief asked. “Maybe I can swing by and get a picture of this Bobby Jackson from you.”

  I told him where we were staying and said, “We just have the one picture right now. We can make a copy for you and drop it off at your office tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. He shook our hands, walked out with us, and followed us all the way to my truck. Prince started barking as we approached, and the chief peered into the back of my truck. “Bluetick coonhound,” he said. “Don’t see many of those up here.”

  20

  AFTER CHURCH WE DROVE back to Coeur d’Alene and found a sporting-goods store. We purchased some topographical maps of the area in which Chief Prell said Biggs had his compound. We studied them while we ate lunch at a McDonald’s. Even though I sometimes flirt with vegetarianism, I like McDonald’s. You can’t beat their diet Coke. It’s much better than what you can get in a can or bottle. I give it five stars.

  “The compound is probably here,” Scott said, using a straw to point to a location on one of the maps. “It’s a level plateau, it’s protected by mountains on all sides, and a river runs through it. Nice little lake, too.”

  “Look at the slope of those mountains,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to hike those in the summer, much less in the middle of winter.”

  “Let’s drive out there,” Scott said, “and see how far up that road we can get before someone stops us. That will tell us something about their level of security.”

  I refilled my diet Coke and we climbed into the truck. It took less than twenty minutes to reach the area where Biggs had his land. The land adjacent to the highway was covered in tall pines as well as some spruce. The trees were close together, and the floor of the forest contained a formidable amount of undergrowth and fallen trees.

  “There’s the road to the compound,” Scott said. I slowed the truck and we rolled to a stop at the dirt road that was evidently the only road to the Biggs compound. Access to it was blocked by an unlocked gate. A sign on the gate read, WHITES ONLY.

  “We white,” Scott said.

  I held my palms up to my face and said, “Yup.”

  I put the truck in park and got out to open the gate. There was a spring on it designed to make sure it would return to a closed position, but after opening it I placed a rock the size of a basketball up against it so it would remain open. As I returned to the truck, I noticed a surveillance camera mounted on a tall wooden pole off to one side of the gate. It could have been one of those phony security cameras that don’t really work, but I figured Biggs had enough money to buy a real one. Somebody was probably watching us.

  I climbed back into the truck and pointed to the camera for Scott. He had a shotgun and a rifle upright between his knees, and an automatic pistol on his lap. I reached under the seat and put my Glock on my lap. Then I put the truck in gear.

  The road was narrow. Vehicles traveling in opposite directions could not pass each other unless at least one driver was willing to drive over the rocks and seedlings that lined the edges of the road. It had a gentle upward slope. We were not a mile up it when Scott said, “Here comes trouble.” A silver Dodge pickup was heading our way.

  “Put the guns away,” I said. “We’ll just play dumb.” He put the rifle and shotgun up against the passenger door but kept his pistol just to his right under a map.

  The Dodge pulled up to us so that we could not go around it. I stopped my truck. Their truck had two German shepherds in the back. I got the feeling those two animals took pride in their German heritage.

  A twenty-something bodybuilder with a crew cut got out of the driver’s side of the Dodge and approached my window. Another man, very tall, exited from the passenger side of the Dodge and started peering into the back of my truck. Both had machine pistols. I rolled my window down. No, I touched a button to lower it. I don’t think they make cars with windows that can be rolled down by hand anymore.

  “You guys are on private property,” the beefy man said.

  “We want to do some ice fishing,” I said. “Noticed a small lake on the map.”

  “Are you fucking deaf?” he said. “It’s private property.”

  “We were hoping the owner might let us do some fishing, maybe camp a night or two,” I said.

  “We always ask permission before hunting or fishing on private property,” Scott added with a straight face. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “You two turn your fucking truck around and git out of here,” he said. “And don’t come back.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Hey, Tommie,” the tall man yelled from behind my truck, “I think these are the fuckers that were asking about Skull down in Boise.”

  The bodybuilder looked confused for a fraction of a second, then started to raise his weapon. I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I slammed the truck into reverse and said to Scott, “You best lay some lead on these boneheads.”

  I backed up as fast as I could on the narrow road, using my rearview mirror to see where I was going. Scott started firing at them with his rifle. I heard the fire of their automatic weapons, and I know at least one round hit my truck. In the mirror I saw a clearing where I might be able to back up over some young trees and turn the truck around. I backed right over them and turned so that the truck was headed downhill. I punched the gas and guided the truck as best I could as we bounced along the road at what I had to assume was a record speed for it. The gate came into view. I didn’t stop when we reached it. I turned right and shifted into overdrive.

  “Are they on us?” I asked.

  “Not that I can see. I’m pretty sure I hit the tall guy in the leg.”

  “I guess we’re going to threat condition red,” I said.

  “That’s the last time I ask permission,” Scott said. “From now on I hunt or fish wherever I goddamn please.” I allowed a nervous laugh as I glanced at the speedometer. One hundred and two miles per hour in an aging F-150 isn’t bad.

  That night at the cabin we dined on beef stroganoff and discussed the big picture as the dogs slept in front of the fireplace. “Okay,” Scott said, “I figure Skull knows we’re here. He knows we’re looking for him, but he doesn’t know why. He knows what we’re driving. It’s a safe bet we’re not camping out in the middle of December, so he knows we’re staying with someone or in a place like this. What are we going to do when he finds us?”

  “Prell’s description of him is identical to the description the Denver cops got four years ago. All we have to do is get his voice on tape. Then the cops can do a voiceprint analysis to compare our tape to the recording of the guy that called the radio station after Hal was killed.”

  “Even if this is the guy that called the radio station, it doesn’t prove he killed your cousin.”

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nbsp; “Yeah, but it makes him a pretty good suspect. It gives the cops someone to focus on.”

  “So we have to have an encounter with Skull and get his voice on tape.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” Scott said. “We’ll just park your truck in downtown Coeur d’Alene and wait for Skull to try to kill us.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said.

  21

  WE ATE BREAKFAST MONDAY at the International House of Pancakes. We ate lunch at the International Houses of Pancakes. My truck was on the street, the Colorado plates and the bullet hole clearly visible.

  We didn’t have to worry about eating dinner at the International House of Pancakes, because Skull walked in just after one and headed straight for our table. He had the build of a light heavyweight fighter, the eyes of a rattlesnake, and the words WHITE power tattooed across his knuckles. He wore tight jeans, black combat boots, and a jean jacket with lots of Aryan Resistance crap on it. He had recently shaved the blond hair from his head. He had two skinhead buddies with him, and both looked formidable. These guys weren’t like the jokers we had encountered in Boise. These guys were the real deal.

  “You two looking for me?” he said.

  “You Skull?” I asked.

  “I know you?”

  “I think you knew my cousin,” I said. “He used to be a cop in Denver.”

  “I’ve never been to Denver.”

  “I’ve never been to Spain,” I said, “but I kind of like the music.” He was too young to know it was a line from a song written by Hoyt Axton and made famous by Three Dog Night.

  “You two know what’s best for you, you’ll get in your truck right now and head on back to Colorado. You’re not welcome here. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “We go wherever we want to,” Scott said, not realizing he had just uttered the first line of the Monkees’ theme.

  “Can’t travel tonight, Anders,” I said. “The Broncos are on Monday Night Football. Against the Chiefs. At home.”

  “Mile High Stadium,” Scott said. Though the new stadium is officially known as Invesco Field at Mile High, we hadn’t been allowed to vote on it and didn’t view the decision as binding on us. To us and a lot of other folks who had grown up in Colorado, it would always be Mile High Stadium.

  “You probably don’t like football,” I said. “Too many niggers.”

  “The Broncos got a Jew, too,” Scott said. “Don’t forget about that.”

  “You’ve been warned,” Skull said. He turned and started to walk away, but one of his goons made the mistake of spitting on Scott, and the fight was on. It didn’t last long. From his seated position, Scott punched the spitter in the groin, and when the spitter bent over Scott executed a palm heel strike to the area between the man’s mouth and nose. That was that. I covered Skull and the third skinhead with my Glock to make sure they didn’t become involved.

  The spitter was on the floor, blood dripping out of his mouth and nose. Skull and the other one helped him up and began to assist him in walking toward the door. “I hope the Aryan Resistance has a good dental plan,” Scott said to them.

  In between the time the skinheads left and the time the patrol car pulled up, we listened to the incident on tape on my microcassette recorder. “Wish we could have gotten him to talk a little more,” I said. “Hope we got enough.”

  The police officer was in his mid-twenties. We told him the truth, more or less. We had been minding our own business when three skinheads came in and started a fight with us for no reason. Scott defended himself, using no more force than was reasonably necessary under the circumstances, and I pulled my gun to make sure the others didn’t join in. The skinheads left. We had no idea who they were. Yes, we had permits for our handguns. After we finished telling all this to the officer, he asked each of us to complete a written statement, so we did. Then we headed back to the cabin.

  Darkness came and with it came snow. Lots of snow. We couldn’t watch the game because we had no TV, but we listened to it on my shortwave radio as we dined on pizza. I drank diet Coke; Scott drank beer. The dogs started barking just before halftime. I looked out the window and saw Chief Prell walking toward our cabin. Buck was already at the door and ready to attack, so I held on to his collar, which gave my lats a good workout, and opened the door to let the chief in, then closed it to keep the cold air out.

  “You guys are stirring up a shitpot of trouble,” he said.

  “It’s one of our few skills,” I said.

  “One of Biggs’ men showed up at the hospital yesterday afternoon with a gunshot wound in his leg. Said it was an accident.”

  “That’s why firearms safety training should be mandatory,” Scott said. “Ever since Nixon ended the draft, nobody in this goddamned country knows how to handle a weapon.”

  “What are you two up to?” the chief asked. “There’s no Bobby Jackson wanted in Colorado on any rape charge. Not that I ever believed a rape suspect would be free on bond.”

  “You want a diet Coke?” I said. Buck had calmed down, so I let go of his collar, guided him up onto one of the beds, and gave him the hand signal to stay there.

  “No,” he said. “I like mine with good-old fashioned corn syrup in it.” I took his jacket and he sat down on one of the old wooden chairs near the fireplace. He reached down and rubbed little Wheat’s belly. “Interesting assortment of dogs,” he said.

  “Buck is our muscle, and Prince over there is a tracking dog, but Wheat’s the brains of the operation.”

  “Why do you call him Wheat?” the chief asked. “He’s as black as the ace of spades.”

  “Buckwheat,” I explained.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I had a dog named Buck, so I named this one Wheat.” He stared at me as if I were out of my mind. “Don’t you remember Buckwheat from the old Little Rascals movies?”

  “I remember,” he said. “I don’t like thinking about it because it just reminds me of how damn old I am.”

  I sat down on a chair across from the chief, but still close enough to enjoy some of the heat from the fire.

  “You guys show up on Saturday,” the chief said. “Yesterday morning you’re in church asking about Skull and I tell you that you can find him out at Biggs’ place. Yesterday afternoon one of Biggs’ men shows up at the hospital with a single bullet in his thigh. He says it was an accident, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Why not?” Scott asked.

  “Because he and all his moron friends out there prefer automatic weapons. If he had shot himself with one of those things, he’d have taken his leg clean off.” Scott nodded to show he followed the chief’s logic. “No,” the chief continued, “the ER doc says he took one bullet from a twenty-two-caliber rifle fired at some distance. Probably a rifle similar to that one you got over there.” He pointed to a semiautomatic rifle propped up in one corner of the cabin. Propped up right next to Scott’s shotgun.

  “I can live with that,” the chief said. “The guy that got shot is an ex-con and probably deserved a bullet in the leg just on general principles. But then today, in the middle of the day, right downtown, Chuck Norris over there”—he gestured toward Scott— “takes out one of Skull’s pals in front of a bunch of old people at the International House of Pancakes. And that makes me kind of nervous because Skull isn’t the kind of man who is just gonna let that slide.

  “So I figure maybe I should find out who the two of you are.” He looked at me. “I run your plate, get your name, and find out you’re a private eye with a law degree. Marine officer. Former federal prosecutor. No criminal history other than a manslaughter charge that resulted in an acquittal. I do a little more digging and find out your friend”—he gestured again toward Scott—”was a Navy SEAL and holds a master’s degree in astrophysics. In short, you two ain’t your typical bounty hunters and probably aren’t bounty hunters at all. And to top it all off”—he looked at me— “the FBI lists you as a ’person of in
terest’ in the disappearance of a federal witness. You gonna tell me why you’re up here and what your beef with Skull is?”

  Scott and I exchanged glances. I retrieved another diet Coke from the refrigerator and told the chief about my cousin Hal and my belief that Skull was the man who had killed him. I also told him we had given up finding Karlynn. “The feds can follow us until the cows come home,” I said, “but we’re not going to lead them to Karlynn, because we’re not looking for her.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to get Skull on tape?” the chief asked.

  “You’re a police officer,” I said. “You have to deal with legalities such as search warrants and Miranda rights. We don’t.”

  “Well, now that you’ve got his voice on tape,” the chief said, “I reckon there’s no reason for you to remain in Coeur d’Alene. Why don’t you do yourselves and me a favor and head on back to Denver tomorrow. Skull won’t wait long to come after you.” He stood up and headed for the door.

  “We can take a hint,” I said.

  “Good,” the chief said. “I won’t call the feds for a day or two.”

  22

  THE BRONCOS PLAYED POORLY but beat the Chiefs 20-17. I woke before sunrise, let the dogs out, and started loading our gear into my truck. The owner was already up, so I paid him. Scott was still half asleep, so I scooped up some of the powdered snow that had accumulated in a drift outside our cabin overnight and sprinkled it over his head as I began to sing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” He pulled the blanket up over his head. Not sure if that was because of the snow or my singing.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “We’re loaded up and ready.”

  “You make coffee?” he asked.

  “We’ll get some in town.” He sat up.

  “I was having a strange dream,” he said. “I had to make an important phone call, but every pay phone I went to was out of order.”