The Vulture (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

A second sedan parked in front of the cabin signaled that Samantha Hedrick had already arrived and set up shop in the cabin. She greeted them and reported she'd put her equipment in the bedroom next to theirs. She was planning on using the room at the end of the hall. It had its own bath, she said, and besides, she thought they might want a little privacy. She's blushed when she got to that part. People with naturally red hair blush easily—and obviously. Ruth smiled and yanked off her wig.

“That's nice of you. By the way, you are not my daughter,” she said. “I don't know which sexist moron thought up that idea, but it has been vetoed. You are my sister, Beatrice Silver.”

Sam stared wide eyed at Ruth. “Okay, I didn't know what I was supposed to be and…Right, I'm…Bea Silver. Anything else?”

“We always called you Trixie growing up. The boys in the neighborhood called you High-Ho Silver for obvious reasons. You were such a tramp.”

“You did? They did what? Ms. Harris…?”

“Tell her, Marvin. We called her Trixie, didn't we?”

“It's okay, Sam. Ruth has had too many potato pancakes and is on a carbohydrate high. I warned her about ketchup too, but would she listen? Oh no. So, how are you, Sam? And welcome. Whatever arrangements you made are fine. Any news?”

“Thanks. Yes, two things. They put away two men who were tailing the fake Ruth to Maine. They had been monitoring their phone calls and when they figured out the code they used to call in their progress, they busted them. A second group has set up shop on your island and is still sending messages back here.”

“What kind of messages?”

“Innocuous ones about the difficulties they have in finding the opportunity to get at the fake Ruth. Stuff like that. They also send them to me. I can use the word count to eliminate some, maybe all, of the other users transmitting to or from the tower. When I have them, I compare the count to the messages coming in and then focus on the one that matches. Then all I have to do apply the unscrambling software they're using and we got the bastards.”

Ruth plunked down at the dining table and put her chin in the palm of her hand. “Scrambled signals. There's more than one kind, I assume.”

“Oh, yeah. There's a lot of different ways to jumble or jam a signal. Do you want a history?”

“Do I? I am thinking, no. Just tell me the basics so I don't sound like an idiot when this is all over. That assumes we will survive, of course.”

“The stuff they used to do back in the day has been pretty much replaced with digital voice distortion so it is closer to encryption than the old noise cloaking. Basically, there are two types. One introduces noise into the message that is filtered out at the receiving end. The second is a version of encryption where segments of the message are mixed up and the receiver has a program that reassembles the sequence.”

“That's it?”

“Pretty much.” Sam knew that she had left out ninety percent of the encryption explanation, but she doubted Ruth would want to hear it or remember it later anyway.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon organizing the equipment and settling Sam in.

***

“So, now what? It's four in the afternoon. What comes next?”

“Next we gather data, listen to messages, fix on the location of the people we're after, and go get them.

“So you have a number count of some messages. No matter how they are fiddled with, you believe the count will stay the same. Then, when you have the right recipient, you unscramble the message and we know what they're up to and the cavalry arrives, rounds them up, and ships them off to Gitmo. Is that it in a nutshell?”

“Well, we'd need probable cause, but yeah.”

“Did you know that CIA agents make terrible cops?” Ike said.

“This sounds like the opening of an insurance ad or one of your dumb cop jokes. Are you planning to go somewhere with this?” Ruth asked.

“Somewhere, yes. See, agents in the field do not have to bother themselves with things like probable cause. They form a plan and then either execute it or, if it happens to come apart along the way, they do not ask permission to revise and rethink. There is never time. Instead, they improvise something that will produce the same results. It is often a lot messier than the original, though. The
why
and the legalities of
what
and the ins and outs of
proper
procedure and protocol, and the difficulties that might create, are problems they will let someone else worry about.”

“What did you just say?”

“It's like this. It has been a week since someone tried to blow me to bits, four days since they tried to do the same to you. That was a big mistake, by the way. So, if I am personally certain we have the bastard responsible for those two events in my crosshairs, I am not waiting with a warrant, for a judge to rule on probable cause, or a writ of this or that. I intend to hurt him, right then and there, period.”

“Is it likely the person or persons who did the dirty work are the one giving the orders?”

“Not likely. So, they all go down. That is, the ones still upright and within range when I get ready to do it.”

Ike delivered his statement in a flat, nonchalant tone, icily calm, in fact. He could have been ordering a celebrity sandwich at Bert's. He didn't slap the table, gnash his teeth, and he certainly did not raise his voice. There was an edge to it, but that was all. Ruth sat up and stared. It was the first time she had witnessed what could only be described as cold fury. It puzzled her. She and Ike had been in tight spots before and yes, he had been angry, but mostly business-like. Doing a job he knew well. What had brought this on? If looks could kill, anyone who might have crossed Ike's path at that moment would have been vaporized. Then she understood. Her inclusion in someone's need to murder and maim made this encounter with really bad people different from previous ones. Before, only he had been at risk. He had been the target. Well, except for her car accident, but she'd been in the hospital and hadn't seen him. Maybe he had reacted the same way then. But this time she was present and awake.

She took a deep breath. That must be it. The last Boy Scout, a descriptor she once applied to him in the past, and not kindly she recalled, had made his position clear. Ike was almost too good to be true. Always there, always ready to act, and quick to disregard any danger aimed at him. Fearlessness tends to intimidate those who would do harm and Ike knew it. Because of his ability to brush aside fear, he always prevailed. But this time…this time things were different. Now the bad guys had put her in the frame.

To a man like Ike that was unacceptable. No one was going to hurt her because they wanted to get at him. That would be an act of ultimate cowardice. Ike was not just furious. Ike was close to homicidal in his anger and had the skills needed to act on that anger. Her “dutiful manager” was about to do his duty and God help anyone who tried to stop him. She realized that in that instant she loved him more than she had ever thought possible. She stared at this man who balked at using the F word, who watched old movies instead of television, who couldn't tell you who Bart Simpson or Duck Dynasty were if his life depended on it, and believed that the United States, though flawed in many ways, remained the world's best hope for the future. Her Boy Scout. She turned to Sam.

“Wonderful. That wraps it up, I guess. Wow. So, Sam,” she said, “I don't want to spoil this reunion with having to fix a meal. Would you do us all a huge favor and run down to Bert's Western Bar and Grill and get us a stack of buffalo burgers to go? There's a map on the front seat of the SUV. Be sure to use one of the company credit cards. Thanks. Oh…and no need to hurry, okay?”

Sam seemed startled, blushed, and nodded. She collected her bag, the card, and the keys to her rental and left.

“What was that all about? I thought you were in solidarity with the ‘Diminishing West' and we just ate, for crying out loud.”

“Shut up and come with me.” She grabbed his hand and headed toward their bedroom.

Chapter Nineteen

Jackson Shreve had committed to the cause early on and not just himself, but his wife and son as well. Belle hadn't liked it at first but once she'd heard Pangborn talk, she jumped right in. They were a Five One Star Family. All three were in residence, by God. That's commitment, right? Belle had done real good, better than him, actually, and worked in the Com Center. He didn't begrudge her that but he needed to step up, too. All he needed was the answer to the question that nagged at him: how could he make his mark with the top? Sitting in a room watching surveillance television screens was not what he'd envisioned when he joined. Should he call Pangborn directly with the news about the woman taking pictures of the gate? Pangborn was a long ways off and the local group leaders might not like that. Anyway, his partner, Buzz, said it probably didn't mean anything and if he had any smarts, he'd go through channels. Like, what were the chances someone like the top guy would want to talk to him? He said they found out that the woman was some old real estate person and maybe was cataloging local properties or something. Maybe she even thought New Star was for sale. They'd both laughed at that. But Jackson couldn't get it out of his mind.

It hadn't taken much urging to commit to this new way of life. He had succumbed to the antiestablishment ambiance of New Star Ranch and its organizational coda pounded into him with the other adherents to The Fifty-first Star in residence at the ranch. They, that is the people who did not share their particular view of the world, were out to destroy us.
Us
being the right-minded thinkers who believed as they did. So, even though a Mrs. Gottlieb from Raleigh, North Carolina, seemed an unlikely participant in the dark side's efforts to bring them down, he decided it wouldn't hurt to check. How he was to do it was less clear. Pangborn had people who were trained to make interventions like the one he contemplated. His job consisted of keeping an eye on the surveillance screens, one of which monitored the main gate, and that's all.

He knew he was capable of more. Hell, he'd been in Desert Storm. He had a medal to prove it. So, okay, he was a supply clerk in Stuttgart during the fighting, but he'd served, done his part, would have pounded sand if he'd been asked. It wasn't his fault he had to drop out of Spec Forces. Lots of people get shin splints. Anyway, he would have to think about what he would do about the Gottlieb woman and then he'd deliver big-time for the boss.

His cell phone buzzed and he struggled to retrieve it from his pants pocket. He tossed his keys, a wad of Kleenex, and pocket knife on the counter. The knife skittered across its surface. The Kleenex didn't make it and fell on the floor. The keys landed on the button that, when depressed, opened the main gate.

***

Sam overshot the turnoff that would have taken her to Bert's. She was several miles down the road before she realized it. She slowed, and seeing an open gateway with a driveway extending off into a pasture beyond, pulled in. There did not seem to be a ditch on either side of the roadway so she decided to make a U-turn by driving on through and then swinging the car in a wide loop and exit the way she entered. She ignored the challenge on the loud speaker since she believed she'd be long gone before anyone noticed or cared. Besides, it wasn't like she intended to drive on in. It was when she had rumbled over the cattle guard and started her turn that the tires blew. All four. The car skittered left and thump-a-thumped to a stop.

She stepped out of the car and stared in amazement at the wheels. One tire, she could change, but four? She reached for her phone and called Ike. No answer. Of course not. She searched her apps for the number of the nearest towing service. She called it and then redialed Ike and left a message. She sat on the hood and waited. A minute later, a truck looking more like a military assault vehicle than a ranch pickup tore down the road toward her. Help had arrived, thank goodness.

***

“Not that I'm ungrateful, but can you tell me what that was all about?” Ike said. He sat half propped in bed, Ruth's head on his shoulder.

“You really don't know, do you? Okay, let's just say I had an epiphany and let it go at that.”

“You're okay?”

“I am now. You will never let anyone hurt me, will you?” But it wasn't really a question. “It's in your DNA to be fiercely loyal, and brave, and steady, and never say fuck.”

“Well, the last part is true. I don't know about the rest. What's this all about?”

“Ike, if Holloway had not jumped in the wrong car, you'd be dead. If that were so, I wouldn't have been in the A-frame away from the crowds and more or less incognito, but out in the open and in the clear. I'd be maimed, broken, or dead by now, too. I just realized how paper thin life can be and how we are never guaranteed anything from one day to the next, and that being the case, I need to make sure to use every minute of every hour being grateful and enjoying what I have.”

“That's it?”

“No, but the rest is mostly about me and what I have been missing. You know it's all well and good to sail through life with snappy dialog and athletic sex. For a lot of people seeing us, they would say, ‘Wow, there goes a pair. I wish I could be like them.' But it's more than that. It has to be. Listening to you a while ago when you were saying what you'd do, it was like a bucket of ice water had been tossed on me, a wake-up call, and made me realize that we are not just Nick and Nora sailing through an adventurous life together. We are locked in a life that seems more dangerous at times than normal, but the rest is ‘business as usual' and I don't want to take it for granted anymore, that's all.”

“I see, I guess.”

“That's why I sent Sam for more lunch. I needed to nail it down before I said something stupid in an attempt to be witty.”

“Okay. Well, thank you for that. Shouldn't she be back by now?”

“I told her not to hurry.”

Ike cocked an eyebrow. “Okay. But still…”

“She would have called if she was in trouble.”

“The phone is in the other room and on vibrate.”

“On vibrate? Why?”

“I don't like the ring tone.”

“So, the sheriff is picky about his music. Fair enough. Maybe she's back already and on tiptoe so as not to disturb us.”

“One of us should check.”

“Better she sees me half naked than you. No offense.”

“None taken. Off you go.”

“I'm off. Hey, you do know you can change the ring tone.”

“Really?”

Ruth wrapped up in a robe and left. Ike heard her rummaging around, but no voices. Apparently Sam had not sneaked back.

“You have a missed call and a voice message,” Ruth shouted. “It's from Sam. She had a flat tire. No, she had four flat tires. How is that possible? Anyway, she said she's called a tow truck, but needs us to come fetch her. She's at that ranch with the too-high entrance.”

Ruth began to dress. “Four flat tires is not normal under any circumstance, is it? Get some clothes on. I think we are about to encounter the strange and unusual once again. Jesus, married to you is one continuous party.”

“With some ‘business as usual' thrown in between.”

“Not much of that lately.”

***

“Your name is Silver?” The man facing Sam could have been the model for a GI Joe action figure. He wore camo, aviator sunglasses, and had an M 16 look-alike swung over his shoulder, barrel down and a side arm hung on a duty belt, its keeper unlatched.

“Yes.”

Sam paused. She had not spent much time memorizing her cover story and scoured her brain for possible answers to questions she thought she might be asked. She thought her time would be spent indoors and so had given the script Charlie Garland had prepared for her only a cursory glance. Ruth had changed some parts anyway. She segued into a routine she'd developed years before when she had wanted to get rid of an undesirable suitor or avoid a speeding ticket. She became that which she could never be in real life, an airhead of the first order. Assuming there are orders of airheads. “Baffle them with bullshit,” some wise politician is alleged to have said. She could do that. She hoped she could anyway.

She smiled happily at the men. “Beatrice Silver.”

“Silver? They call you Bea?”

“Oh, sometimes, yeah, Bea, or Beatie, Beetricks, Trish, Trista—”

“I got it.”

“Trixie, Tra—”

“I said, I got it.”

“Got it? Right. Trixie, mostly. Say, do you and your friends need to point those guns at me? They make me nervous. I hate guns.”

“They do. Well, then, Trixie, what were you doing in the pasture?”

“Um, so, I was, like, making a U-turn, you know, because I missed the turnoff that goes to Bert's Western Bar and Grill where I was, like, sent by my sister, June, to get some lunch, but she really wanted to be alone with her husband, that would be Marvin, because she has the hots for him at the moment, only I don't get what she sees in him, the big jerk, so, like, I—”

“Right. You could have made a three-point in the pull-off back there. Why here and how'd you get through the gate??”

“There's a gate? I guess there is…it was, like, open so…Umm, so I just went on through and, well a three-point turn is…that's the hard one where you pull in, and around, and in and…like that. So, there really isn't any reason to not turn back there, you know. I mean, I just saw the gate open and said to myself, I said, ‘Trixie, you don't need to do a three-point turn, which you are very bad at, because that gate is wide open and there's a field where you could, like, pull in and turn this car right around and get on to Bert's and get those burgers because June should be pretty well done bonking Marvin by now,' you know? See, he's not much in the sack, June said, so, like quick. So, I just turned in here and something must have been in the field out there because all four of the tires blew. How the heck do you explain that, I'm asking myself? Is that gun loaded? I hope not because I had an uncle once who shot himself in the foot one Wednesday afternoon when—”

“Stop!” The action figure shook his head and waved in the tow truck which at that moment had arrived.

“Get this airhead and her car out of here. And, ma'am, just stay the hell off our turf in the future.”

***

Earl's Garage had the car on the rollback and was pulling onto the road when Ike and Ruth arrived.

“Sis,” Sam yelled. “You won't believe what happened to me. Four flat tires. Oh, and I didn't get the burgers. Sorry.”

“Get in. Ike, get us the hell out of here,” Ruth hissed.

“You should wave goodbye and smile at GI Joe,” Sam said. “Lord knows we don't want to upset him. Will you look at all that artillery?”

“I guess they weren't exactly expecting company.”