Bluetick Revenge Read online

  “How do you know this?” she said.

  “I live in Nederland. We’re all big believers in psychic phenomena.” She smiled. “I guess that’s it,” I said. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  “Are you still willing to testify?”

  “I’ll testify to most of it. I just want one favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you arrest Bugg, let me know. I’ll sleep easier. Any idea when you might do it?”

  “Soon,” Valeska said. “Very soon.”

  46

  IT WASN’T SOON ENOUGH. That night, around two in the morning, Buck started barking. Then Wheat started. They know the difference between normal nighttime noises, such as raccoons crawling through trash cans, and man-made noises. Something wasn’t right.

  I looked out my bedroom window and saw two shadowy figures approach my house from the side, with shotguns. Without turning on any lights, I quietly got dressed and put my shoes on. I closed my bedroom door so the dogs could not get downstairs. Holding the Glock in one hand, with the Colt tucked in behind my back, I started walking downstairs and looked out the dining room window only to see two more shadowy figures. There were at least four of them. I knew they were getting closer, because the motion detectors Scott had installed had automatically turned on the floodlights.

  The trick was not to get sandwiched between them. I figured I was in better shape than they were, and if I could get outside, I could run into the trees and they’d never catch me. But how did I know there weren’t more of them out there? And what about my dogs?

  Glass shattered. The doors from the dining room to the back deck. At least one of them was in the house now. “C’mon, motherfucker,” I heard him say, “now the tiger will show his true spots.”

  I was crouched down in my dining room and saw him come around the corner holding a shotgun. I shot him three times with the Glock and he fell dead. If a man is worth shooting, he’s worth shooting right. Then more glass shattered from a direction I hadn’t anticipated. Could there be more than four? I duckwalked over to the dead guy, took his shotgun, and said, “Stripes, motherfucker. Tigers have stripes.”

  That’s when I saw it. Scott had left the machine gun at my house. I didn’t need the dead guy’s shotgun. The 180 shoots from a flat pan magazine that sits atop it, so it looks as if there were a small Frisbee on top of it. It was loaded. I had 275 rounds and a weapon that could shoot twelve hundred rounds a minute.

  Now somebody was trying to get in through the garage. I could go to the concrete basement and try to take them one at a time as they came downstairs. Or I could take the machine gun, leap off the back deck into the snow, and head for the trees. That’s what I did.

  I made it to the trees without getting shot at. I fired at one with my Glock to let them know I wasn’t in the house. “Shit,” someone said, “he’s out there.”

  I kept still and tried to see what I was up against. There were four of them, all well armed. As soon as they reached a position where I could fire the 180 without filling my house full of holes, I fired a burst above their heads. I think that’s the point at which I gained the psychological advantage.

  “What the fuck was that?” one of them said.

  “I don’t know,” another said, “but it trumps what I’ve got.”

  They started retreating. I fired another burst just over their heads. I saw them running through the snow toward the road and presumably to their vehicle or vehicles.

  Just for the hell of it, I emptied the entire magazine.

  As I walked back toward my house, still holding the 180,I saw Luther walking toward me. I was too far away to know whether he was carrying a shotgun or a rifle, but as we both approached the area near my house that was lit by the floodlights, I could see it was a shotgun.

  “Pepper,” he said, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “I see you’ve been rethinking your position on assault weapons.”

  I heard sirens in the distance. “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “I’m thinking maybe I ought to take that back to my house,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t hear any automatic gunfire. And if I did, it came from the guys you chased off.”

  “I didn’t know you knew anything about firearms,” I said.

  “Hell, yeah, I was an MP in the army.”

  “You were in the army?”

  “Surprised you, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nixon gave me no choice.”

  47

  I FELT BAD ABOUT LYING to Glen, but I had no desire to go to prison for possession of an illegal weapon. He probably would have looked the other way, but he would have had to let the ATF check the history of the weapon, and I really didn’t want to explain how it had come into my possession.

  Later that day, after I had gotten some sleep, I walked over to Luther’s house. He was smoking a joint and experimenting with riffs on his guitar. “I owe you big-time,” I said.

  “Living next to you is an adventure,” he said.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  “You want to talk about any of it?”

  “Just believe me when I tell you I’m one of the good guys.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “Hey, Luther,” I said, “catch.” I tossed him a stack of bills, held together by rubber bands. It totaled ten thousand dollars.

  48

  THE NEXT TUESDAY I drove down to the Federal Building and signed some affidavits that would help the feds obtain search warrants for Bugg’s house and plenty of other addresses listed in his address book.

  It was Valentine’s Day, so I stopped at a downtown flower shop and made arrangements to have two dozen roses delivered to Jayne in Beijing. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t afford it.

  Since I was downtown, I decided to stop in at Keane, Simms & Mercante. I didn’t recognize the receptionist. It wasn’t the same one I had seen on recent visits. I introduced myself to her and asked if Matt was available. She asked me to have a seat, so I did.

  Matt walked out into the waiting area a few minutes later, smoking a cigar, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, his sleeves rolled up. “Long time, no see,” he said as he extended his hand.

  I followed him back to his office, closed the door behind me, then took a seat across from him.

  “This goes way beyond the attorney-client privilege,” I said. “This is between you, me, and God. Nobody else.”

  “Since when do you believe in God?”

  “I’ve survived a lot of shit lately. As much as I’d like to think it was due entirely to my intelligence and skill, I think there might have been some higher power looking out for me.”

  Matt and I go way back. I told him everything. “I’m sorry I had to give the two hundred grand back to Bugg,” I said, “but Scott and I agreed you should get an equal share of the cash we took from Bugg’s eight caches.” I handed him a box that was wrapped like a birthday present. It was full of cash.

  “What about Karlynn?” he said. “Shouldn’t she get some of this?”

  “Karlynn took more than the three hundred grand she gave to you,” I said. “I don’t know how much. She might have taken as much as half a million dollars from Bugg.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No, but Bugg was telling people that’s how much she took, and people in Alaska say she paid cash for everything.”

  “How’s she doing?” he said.

  “She’s doing well. I think she might surprise us all.”

  I worked out with my brother at his gym, then headed home to Nederland. When I got home, I saw Ray’s camper parked in front of my house. Ray had never just dropped in without being invited. This was a first.

  “How y’all doing?” he said when I entered. He had a fire going and was making spaghetti sauce. Prince was on the floor beside him.

  “I’m fine, Ray. What brings you up here?”

  “Had me a
vision last night,” he said. “The Lord was telling me loud and clear to come up here, that I was going to be needed.”

  “A vision?”

  “That’s right. I know you don’t believe in all that, and you can make fun of your ole uncle if you want, but when a man has a vision like that, it’s best not to ignore it.”

  “I had a vision last night too,” I said. “I had a vision that I should make some garlic bread to go with that spaghetti.”

  We enjoyed dinner and I told Ray about my trip to Alaska. He said one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard him say. He said, “How’s your mama, son? Does she still have that little Jack Daniel’s terrier?”

  49

  THE CALL FROM VALESKA came a few days later, early on a Friday morning. “We hit them this morning,” she said. “Bugg got away.”

  “He got away?”

  “It didn’t go down well. There was a gunfight. Bugg took off on foot. We’ll catch him.”

  “He knows how to survive. Karlynn said he knows these mountains as well as anyone.”

  “We’ve requested a chopper with heat detection equipment, and help from local agencies. We’re putting a team together.”

  “There was some survivalist guy down south that avoided capture for five years.”

  “That’s the exception, not the rule.”

  “What about dogs?”

  “No teams available right now,” she said. “The sheriff has the only trained bloodhound in Boulder County, and she’s a drug dog, not a tracking dog.”

  “I’ve got a tracking dog,” I said. “A real good one.”

  “Are you volunteering?”

  “Yeah. It’ll take me a few minutes to pack some gear. Are you still at Bugg’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

  I hung up the phone and turned to Uncle Ray. “Ray, your vision was right on target. The feds raided Bugg’s house, but he got away. He’s on his own in the mountains. Think you and Prince are up to it?”

  “I reckon Prince is, but I don’t know about your ole uncle. I’m afraid I’m too old to be runnin’ up and down God’s mountains.”

  “I don’t know how to handle a tracking dog.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to it with a dog like this,” he said. “Just let him have a sniff of Bugg’s ole underwear or something, give him some words to get him fired up, then just follow him.”

  I quickly stuffed some gear into a backpack, loaded Prince in the truck, and headed to Bugg’s house near Ward. There were numerous federal agents there. Some were carrying boxes of evidence out of Bugg’s house and the meth lab beside it. I found Valeska and Livingston talking with some sheriff’s deputies and U.S. Marshals. Valeska and Livingston were not dressed for a prolonged journey into the mountains. They introduced me to the others.

  “What’s the plan?” I said.

  “We’re going to send several teams after him,” a sheriff’s lieutenant said. “We’re still putting the teams together, waiting on some horses and overnight equipment.”

  “I’ve got a dog,” I said. “A bluetick coonhound. A champion tracker.”

  “You know how to handle him?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Oh, sure. Been tracking my whole life.”

  “We’re not ready to start yet,” he said. “When we go into these mountains, we want to go in as a team.”

  I said, “The longer we wait, the less chance the dog has of finding him.”

  “Too dangerous,” he said. “We go as a team.”

  “I’m going to need some of Bugg’s clothing for the dog to sniff.”

  Valeska said, “There’s plenty of dirty laundry in there. This guy was a pig. Help yourself.”

  She accompanied me inside, and in Bugg’s room I found a flannel shirt that was in what appeared to be a pile of dirty clothes. I picked it up and walked back outside to my truck. I let Prince out of the truck and he followed me back over to Valeska and the group.

  “He’s ready to go,” I said. “Give me a radio and let me get started.”

  “No,” the lieutenant said, “I can’t let a civilian go in by himself.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Livingston said.

  “You guys don’t even have any supplies,” said the lieutenant. “No food, no shelter, no sleeping bags.”

  “I’ve got a backpack in my truck that’s ready to go,” I said. “It has everything. If we’re not back tonight, we’ll use my sleeping bag as a blanket for both of us.”

  “There’s some camping gear in Bugg’s house,” Valeska said. “I’ll go see if I can find another backpack and sleeping bag.”

  “Get a warm coat, a hat, and some gloves,” I told Livingston.

  “I’ve got some in the car,” he said.

  He trotted over to the big Ford, then returned wearing a parka that had “FBI” emblazoned on the back of it. He also carried a semi-automatic rifle.

  Valeska found a backpack in Bugg’s house and brought it up front. “I put a few bottles of water in there,” she said.

  I looked at Livingston and said, “You ready?”

  We were six hours into it, and Prince had taken us in a southerly direction, back toward Nederland and Rollinsville. Other teams were now searching the areas north and west of Bugg’s home.

  The miles of walking up and down hills gave me some time to get to know Livingston. I decided he wasn’t such a bad guy. A lot like me in some ways. His undergraduate degree had been in meteorology, of all things, and he had even been a TV weatherman in a small town in Missouri, but he had tired of it and joined the FBI. He had a wife and two small kids. We both liked the Broncos.

  “We’re awfully far south,” Livingston said. “You sure this dog knows what he’s doing?”

  “He knows what he’s doing; the question is whether I know what I’m doing.”

  “You said you’d been tracking your whole life.”

  “I exaggerated a little.”

  “Great.”

  “I trust the dog,” I said. “He’s a champion.”

  I also trusted my sense of logic. I guessed Bugg would head to one of his three caches in Colorado, and I was pretty sure I knew which one. One was in southern Colorado, near Durango, and there was no way he was going to try to cover that distance in February. Another was in western Colorado near Grand Junction. That would be a long hike, too, unless he got brave and tried to thumb a ride on the interstate. The third one wasn’t that far from his home. It was near the Winter Park ski area.

  Winter Park is south and west of Ward. To get to Winter Park from Ward would take two hours by car. Even though they are probably only twenty-five miles apart as the crow flies, that twenty-five miles includes the Continental Divide. If you were not a crow, you would have to drive thirty-five miles south from Ward, through Black Hawk, then catch the interstate west, then head north on Highway 40.

  If Bugg was headed toward Winter Park on foot, he had two choices. He could get the uphill leg of his journey down first by heading west from his home over the Divide, then south. Or he could do what Prince apparently thought he was doing; head south first, then turn west and uphill.

  Why head south first? Why not get the uphill leg out of the way? Why risk being above eleven thousand feet when night falls?

  We continued south. Up one ridge, down into the next valley. Livingston monitored his radio to keep track of what the other teams were doing. When we stopped for water, I used my Global Positioning System and USGS map to determine where we were. I showed the map to Livingston and pointed to our location.

  “We’ve come a long way,” he said. “We’re just a few miles west ofNederland?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t get it,” Livingston said. “He’s staying off the designated trails, but heading toward more populated areas. You think he’s trying to get to the interstate?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “He’s a gutsy guy.”

  “What’s this?” Livingston said as he pointe
d to a place on the map.

  “The Moffat Tunnel,” I said. “Trains use it to go under the Divide. Saves lots of time.”

  “Maybe he’s hoping to hop a train,” Livingston said. “If he gets a train, he’s on the other side of the Divide and long gone before we get near him.”

  “It wouldn’t be hard,” I said. “Most of the trains carry coal. They’re long and they don’t carry a big crew. They go pretty slow through here.”

  “How big is the tunnel? Could he hide in it?”

  “It’s a little more than six miles long. I don’t know how wide it is. Probably wide enough for a man to stand up without getting hit by a train. I’d be a little concerned about ventilation if I went deep into it.”

  I got Prince fired up again and we continued south. Livingston got Valeska on the radio and told her our theory.

  “I’ll call the railroads,” I heard her say. “We’ll stop and search all eastbound and westbound trains.”

  Within a few more hours Prince had us at the entrance to the east portal of the Moffat Tunnel, a few miles west of Rollinsville. It was dusk now. The tunnel looked to be eighteen or twenty feet wide, wide enough that a man could stand in it without getting hit by a train.

  “Maybe he’s in the tunnel,” Livingston said. “Think we should check it out?”

  “No. He could be two or three miles into it. And, like I said, I don’t know how good the ventilation is in there. It would be kind of embarrassing for me, you, and the dog to die of suffocation or toxic fumes. Get on the radio. Maybe Adrienne can get the Gilpin County sheriff to send some deputies to keep us company tonight, and get some deputies over in Grand County to watch the west portal.”

  Forty-five minutes later two SUVs driven by Gilpin County deputies pulled up to our position. They had to stop a few hundred yards east of us because the dirt road does not go all the way to the east portal.

  We introduced ourselves, and Livingston briefed them. If Bugg was in the tunnel, it was a waiting game. If Bugg was not in the tunnel, he might be very close to us—waiting to hop the first train that came through. Or Prince might be a tracking school dropout and Bugg might be in Utah by now.