Bluetick Revenge Page 26

  As we approached Boise, I removed the gag from Skull’s mouth. He was still blindfolded. “You’ve done a lot of evil shit in your life,” I said, “and you’ve gotten away with it. Maybe there is a God who will make you answer for it, but maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s up to us.”

  “I don’t have anything to answer for,” he said. “All I ever did was stand up for white people and the white race and the white man’s way of life.”

  “By killing a white cop?” I said.

  “Cop was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said.

  I resisted the temptation to smack him. Instead I yelled up front and told Troy to get off the interstate in Boise.

  “What for?” Troy said.

  “Boise’s a big city. I’m sure there’s a black part of town. We’ll dump Adolph here in the middle of the hood and give him a chance to experience what it’s like to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, “I’m sure all that White Power shit will impress the homeboys.”

  Eventually Troy found his way to what people usually refer to as “the bad part of town.” The houses were small, many in disrepair. Unemployed black teens stared at us as we drove past. I’ll go out on a limb and say they probably had never seen a white bodybuilder drive an old camper through their neighborhood. We might as well have painted REDNECK on Uncle Ray’s vehicle.

  “This looks like a nice group of gentlemen coming up on the right,” Troy said. I went forward and leaned over so I could see out the front of the truck. A group of six young black men was congregated on the side of a run-down building. The windows had been boarded up and the brick side of the building was covered with graffiti.

  “This will do,” I said. Troy guided the camper to a stop alongside the young men. Scott and I helped Skull to his feet; then I opened up the door to the back of the camper and stepped out.

  “You’re in the wrong neighborhood,” one of the black kids told me.

  “That’s no way to greet someone who is about to give you a present,” I said.

  “What present you gonna give us?” he said.

  “Just watch,” I said.

  Scott cut the duct tape that held Skull’s legs together and helped him step down from the camper. Skull certainly looked handsome in his Aryan Resistance jacket, but I think what really impressed the crowd was the WHITE POWER he had tattooed across his knuckles.

  “You all have a nice day,” I said to the black kids as Scott and I climbed back into the camper.

  I closed the door to the camper and yelled up front to Troy. “Head for Colorado,” I said. “Obey all the traffic laws.”

  54

  I WAS PUTTING LINSEED OIL on the house. I do this every year to protect the wood from the effects of the sun. A big Crown Victoria approached my home on the dirt driveway. It was Valeska.

  I stepped down off the ladder. I was wearing old clothes that I would throw away when I finished the linseed oil project. “If I had known you were coming, I would have dressed up.”

  “I just wanted to share some good news,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mongoose cut a deal.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. When we searched his locksmith shop up in Lander, we did a careful check of the metal trash cans. There was burn residue in one. Our crime lab guys say they found traces of burnt leather, burnt plastic, and burnt business cards, all consistent with the burning of Lowell’s credentials. We also found a record from a motel in Bozeman showing that Mongoose stayed there for one night, about a month before Lowell was killed. When we told all this to Mongoose, he caved.”

  “Is he talking about Skull?”

  “Yes, we’re going to charge Skull with Lowell’s murder. It will be a death penalty case. Murder of a federal agent. It may take a week or two before he is arraigned.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He got into it with some black kids up in Boise a few weeks ago. He’s in a federal medical facility right now.”

  “Really?”

  “He claims a couple of men burned down this compound he lives on, kidnapped him, and dumped him in a black neighborhood.”

  “The world is a crazy place,” I said.

  There was a brief pause. “Anyhow,” she said, “there is one other thing I wanted to tell you.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “At the back of Bugg’s address book we found some numbers.”

  “Phone numbers?”

  “No, these all had eight or nine digits. Did you notice them when you studied his address book?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “It really stumped me for a while. I couldn’t figure out the significance of these numbers. So I showed it to Cliff—”

  “Livingston?”

  “Yes. He used to be a meteorologist. Almost immediately he realized that these numbers were the longitude and latitude for certain specific locations, all in the Rocky Mountain region. In decimal form, but without the decimal points.”

  “Son of a gun.”

  “Then I remembered that Karlynn said Bugg had stashed food, weapons, and money all over the West.”

  “That’s right, she said that.”

  “So on a lark, Cliff and I went to a few of these locations, and we sent other agents to check out the locations in other states.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Just food.”

  “No weapons or money?”

  “None.”

  “Well, Bugg’s a big man. He probably just cares more about eating than he does about weapons or money. Some guys are like that.”

  “Take care, Pepper,” she said. “If anyone ever needs a recommendation for a dog thief, I’ll give them your name.”

  55

  IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK on a sunny June morning in Nederland. We had been on the air for an hour, playing everything from the yodeling tunes of Hank Williams to the upbeat reggae of Jimmy Cliff. Occasionally we played the Stress Monsters.

  We limited our show to two hours each week and we never spoke on the air. We were very careful, even taking the antenna down when we weren’t operating. With the fifty-watt FM transmitter Scott had seized at the Biggs compound, our broadcast covered all of Nederland, and on a good day you could hear us as far south as Rollinsville and as far north as Ward.

  As we sat there on my deck, with Buck and Wheat beside us, I looked back on all that had happened since that night in November when I had stolen Prince. So much had changed. Karlynn was in Barrow and still a fugitive, but I had a hunch the warrant and indictment would go away after all the Sons of Satan had been prosecuted. Prince was living the good life with Uncle Ray down in Blanca. Luther and I had become closer friends. I had survived the rattlesnake and multiple attacks, and I found myself more open to spiritual things.

  At ten we concluded our broadcast as we always did—with David Allen Coe’s rendition of “You Never Even Call Me by My Name.” Some have called it the perfect country-and-western song.

  “Guess it’s about time to take you to the airport,” Scott said.

  “Yup.”

  “China. That’s a long journey.”

  “A very long journey,” I said.

  I love it when a plan comes together.

  “Money may buy you a fine bluetick hound, but only a terrific murder mystery like this one can make him wag his tail.”

  —KINKY FRIEDMAN, AUTHOR OF TEXAS HOLD EM

  Praise for Mark Cohen’s Previous Novel

  THE FRACTAL MURDERS

  “Intriguing…even those readers who can’t tell a fractal from a fishing lure will enjoy the quick pace and twisting story line of this exciting first novel.”

  —DALLAS MORNING NEWS

  “Witty, smart, and inventive…Cohen is a terrific new voice on the mystery scene.”

  —STEPHEN WHITE, AUTHOR OF THE BEST REVENGE

  “A surprising premise and an extraordinary theme equal an accomplished debut…refre
shingly different.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Keane is one heck of a dogged investigator.”

  —DENVER ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS

  “A clever mystery…Keane has a past that fleshes out his motivation, a wry wit, and an enemy who does everything to keep him permanently clueless…A consistently absorbing first novel.”

  —BOOKLIST