The Vulture (21 page)

Chapter Forty

Later that morning the sun seemed to shine brighter and the air seemed clearer. Not so much cleansing, but at least refreshing. Nevertheless, the images they'd seen on the tape, like acid, had etched their awfulness permanently on their minds. Fortified one way or another, pancakes, strong coffee, or whiskey, all four had managed to compartmentalize them sufficiently to allow them to move on. Ike made the call that would set into motion the steps that should bring the nightmare he and Ruth had endured for the last week and a half to a close. Ruth handed him a final cup of coffee which he drank without tasting.

“Okay, Sheriff, what happens now?”

“We make the calls. We gear up. We…where's Karl and Sam?”

“They are huddling inside. I think Karl is being protective and Sam reminding him she was a cop before she was a NSA nerd and is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She's cleaning her weapon.”

“And you?”

“Gunplay is my least enjoyable pastime, as you know, although we did have some good times back in Maine.”

“Which is why we are sitting here wearing wigs and bad haberdashery instead of enjoying a nice luncheon back home at the Crossroads Diner.”

“Point taken. Every party has some cleaning up to do afterwards. We forgot to check on that. Let's not make the same mistake today. As for me, I think I will watch from afar, if that is all right with you.”

“My preference. You might want to have a chat with Pangborn if the occasion arises. Also, we need to pack up before we go. When this goes down, I want to be able to walk away from here without a trace. The Gottliebs need to vanish.”

“We could burn the place down.”

“Over the top. I think a good swabbing out and polishing of obvious surfaces for fingerprints will do.”

“Finish your calls. I'll start applying the mop.”

***

Martin Pangborn did not like to be awakened early when he was on vacation. Anyone with the temerity to attempt it had better have a good reason to do so or that person's future as an employee would not last much longer.

“What? This had better be good. What do I need to know at this ungodly hour?” he said and sat up. “Where's my coffee? What do you want?”

“They have Brattan.”

“Who has Brattan?”

“The BOLO, remember. Well, some police force in rural Virginia picked him up and has him locked up.”

“Rural? Where exactly?”

“You're not going to like this, sir, but it's Picketsville. That's where—”

“I know where the hell that is and before you ask, yes, I know who used to be the sheriff there. So, they think they can squeeze Brattan? He won't talk. He knows better.”

“They're saying he might make a deal. They say they have him on murder one, you know, the cop, Frieze. That's a capital offense. If they reduce it to something less, he might, you know, want to talk…not that he knows anything that could hurt you, of course. He doesn't, does he?”

“No. Who the hell is ‘they' and who do we have in the area?”

“It's just rumor, maybe, but who can say? Maybe the cops back there are spreading it to smoke out something else. We don't have anyone close anymore because of the Frieze thing.”

“Get me Harrison on the phone and wake up the senator. It's time he got the hell out of here. He doesn't need to know what comes next.”

Pangborn dressed and hustled a sleepy and disheveled Oswald Connors to the helicopter. It lifted off in a whirl of dust and carried a very relieved senator off to Boise. Next, he picked up the phone intending to set up an intercept in Picketsville. He was busy shouting at the person on the other end of the line when he was told about an unusual gathering of law enforcement vehicles in the area.

“Not my problem. I own the locals and if anything was up, I'd know. Now leave me alone. I have work to do.” He was still at it when the police arrived.

***

It took longer than Ike expected to get the State Police on board. Their director, as did many of his counterparts across the country, had a reluctance, born of prior experiences, to deal with or accept advice from the federal government. He said he'd listen to what Ike had to say but sounded skeptical. Only after Ike had forwarded a portion of the tape to his cell phone, did the colonel finally pull up to the cabin and meet with Ike. It took another hour and several more phone calls to recount the whole story—how Ike and Ruth came to be in Idaho, what the connection was between them and the ranch and, finally, to map out a plan to take the operation down.

“That's a helluva story, Sheriff. If I didn't know the director of the Central Intelligence Agency personally, I'd say you were nuts and have you in my jail for disturbing the peace, not to mention doing business as a realtor without a license. Health inspectors? Really? So, you have this tape. How'd you get it? Never mind, I don't want to know. Son of a bitch. I heard some talk about the senator, but Pangborn? Jesus. You know some fancy lawyer will have it suppressed as evidence even if we go in there and bust him.”

“I do and I don't care. I don't see this getting that far. Civil suits by families, maybe, but I think it is more likely to find its way into the anonymous media stream that seems to rule the news now. TMZ, YouTube, and I don't know where else. I expect once it gets loose it will go viral. There will be no stopping it.”

“That is a very mean and nasty thing to do to one of America's more prominent citizens and friend of the former president. I like it.”

“I hoped you would.”

“I have to tell you, Martin Pangborn has been a pain in my rear for years. He has friends in high places. But you already knew that. Anyway, his friends, that is to say politicians whose election campaigns he helps fund, are after me all the time to turn a blind eye to this or that, especially that bunch of idiots in his so called militia out there at the ranch. They scare the daylights out of the folks hereabouts with their damned guns and crap.”

“Glad to find a kindred spirit, Director.”

“Yeah, and he tried to get me ousted from my job. Do you believe that? He leaned on the governor pretty hard. I guess he thought he had something on the governor. But the governor has no love for Pangborn so it didn't work. He probably found out that Pangborn funded his opponent in the last election, or something. Besides there'd be too many questions asked if I were pushed out without something big to justify it. Lord knows they tried, though. I've had a private snoop on my case for over a year. Tapped my phone—the works.”

“But he failed.”

“Yep. Okay, let's put this thing together. I'm going to enjoy this.” He pulled his phone off his belt and began making calls. Ike packed his car and briefed the other three.

“We missed a helicopter leaving,” the State Police director yelled at Ike. “Who do you think left?”

“I hope it was just the senator. If Pangborn slipped the noose, this is going to be way more difficult. We'll find out soon enough.”

Over the course of the next hour and a half, police cars began assembling on the several side roads near the ranch. A correctional facilities bus, equipped with mesh-screened windows joined them, as did several standard school busses and an armored personnel carrier. At three in the afternoon, a front-end loader fitted with a chain hoist lumbered down the road to the ranch followed by a flatbed truck carrying the sort of steel plates used to cover trenches during road repair. The crew monitoring the television surveillance in the ranch house watched astonished as the loader operator lifted them in turn and dropped them over the stop spikes in the “cattle guard” that secured the entrance to the ranch. The moment it finished and backed away, a stream of police cruisers, busses, led by the armored personnel carrier with its complement of SWAT officers, smashed through the gate and rumbled into the ranch.

Chapter Forty-one

Courage is ephemeral. In the imaginings of young boys playing at war, it is a given. Orcs, dragons, aliens, any of the myriad evil-doers who inhabit the fantasies of youth are dispatched without thought of a possible poor outcome. Indeed, in any circumstance except that posed by reality, bravery can be had for the asking. Faced with a real and present danger, however, it is a different story. Why are some men brave and others not? What made Audie Murphy one of the most decorated soldier in World War II, and not the man standing next to him? Why can one woman bear with great serenity the pain and certainty of death from cancer and another collapse in helpless despair? Where does it come from? And once in play, where does it then disappear to? Often courage appears almost as a random event in one's life—unplanned and unexpected. Young men worry if they will be brave if or when they are called upon. Some are certain they will be courageous and fail. Others, equally certain of their cowardice, rise to the occasion. It is a conundrum.

When the convoy of police rolled into the Fifty-first Star compound, every man wearing the star-shaped patch bearing the number fifty-one had to confront his moment of truth. Would he or wouldn't he stand tall? Courage will be fortified by numbers, of course. Colleagues shouting, rallying you onward will add a measure of courage you might not otherwise have. Yet it soon becomes apparent that it is easier to man the barricades than to stand firm in them when the other side approaches, armed and unmoved by your bravado.

The militia, alerted by the crew watching the video of the main gate, formed a double line across the entrance to the compound. Assault weapons locked and loaded, they stood, a menacing front, convinced that the government in this instance, as in Colorado before, would blanch at their determination, their armament, and back away. The Feds, they believed, would not dare start a firefight on their turf. The FBI, they had been told, learned its lesson years ago with the Branch Davidians. A show of force would be sufficient. Thus fortified, they took their positions and waited. The last thing they expected was a full-on assault.

Police have short fuses when it comes to confronting an armed and hostile citizenry. Federal operatives may dither, but police will not. They have a protocol that never varies. They will issue a warning, they will order arms to be put down and, if refused, they will shoot. It is what they are trained to do. Thus, much to the chagrin of the Fifty-first Star, the convoy of police vehicles did not hesitate. It paused only long enough for orders to be given and when ignored, to launch several canisters of tear gas. They waited until the gas had taken effect and then moved forward again. A few of the militia had the foresight to anticipate such a move and had gas masks. The remainder beat a retreat. One shot was fired. It was unclear who pulled the trigger. A hail of rubber bullets from the police scattered the remaining militia and the convoy rolled into the open space between the barracks.

The SWAT team deployed and secured the compound. A confused and teary-eyed militia was rounded up and disarmed. Their obvious leaders were loaded into the correctional system bus, the rest herded into one of the now-empty barracks to be sorted and then loaded into the remaining busses later. The boys, eyes wide as saucers, were similarly rounded up and put on a school bus and sent away for interviewing and identification. As soon as each had been debriefed, their parents would be notified and told to come and take them home. Those identified as victims were sent for evaluation and medical treatment. Martin Pangborn's world teetered at the abyss.

He was having none of it. If his patriots seemed unable to engage, he had no such qualms. Two SWAT team members escorted him into the courtyard, now relatively clear of tear gas. He was met by the director of the Idaho State Police, Ike, Ruth, and Karl.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“You are Martin Pangborn?” Karl asked. Without waiting for a replay, added, “We are here to arrest you, sir, and take you into custody.”

“And who in the hell are you?”

“Special Agent Karl Hedrick, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Special Agent…You are off the reservation, boy. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Actually, he does,” the director said, “but that is neither here nor there. You are being placed under arrest by the Idaho State Police and I assure you I do have jurisdiction.”

“Arrest? For what, exactly?”

“Ah, well that is where it gets complicated.”

“What do you mean, ‘complicated' and who exactly are you?”

“Me? I am your worst enemy, Pangborn. As to the charges, well it is a matter of framing them, see? Shall it be for some obvious Health Department infractions or—?”

“This is absurd. You can't just barge in here with a company of State Troopers for that.”

“I could if I chose to, but you're right, that would be over the top. We might add conspiracy to commit murder. That would up the ante sufficiently to justify a show of force, wouldn't you think?”

“Murder? Whose murder?”

Ike stepped forward. “Mine, for one.”

“And mine.” Ruth added.

“Who are you? Wait, you're supposed to be…” Pangborn's eyebrows knit together and he bit his lip. “I have no idea who you are or what you're talking about.”

“Oh, I think you recognize the sheriff of Picketsville. Say hello to Ike Schwartz and his wife, both very much alive, no thanks to you. So, then,” the director continued, “there is the matter of child sexual abuse. All of these boys are clearly underage. Pederasty, Pangborn. We will arrest you for that.”

“What? This is outrageous. You will hear from my lawyers. I will have your badge. I will sue the state for slander if you insist on this. I will—”

“You will please shut up? We have you on tape, Pangborn,” Ike said, is voice eerily cool.

“You have…on tape. That is nonsense. You couldn't have. It's impossible.”

“But true. You and Senator Connors, last night, in that bathhouse right over there, in fact. Where is the good senator, by the way?”

Pangborn's face turned ashen. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet in the dust. Around him men clamored their innocence, declared their rights under one section of the Constitution or another and protested against what they referred to as police over-reach. The troopers smiled and herded them along as if they were unruly children caught shoplifting at the Dollar Store. Pangborn's eyes narrowed. He reminded Ike of a fox he'd once had to shoot—crafty, sly, and probably rabid.

“Any such evidence would be either manufactured or obtained illegally. In either case, it will be disallowed in any court of law.”

“Court? Sheriff Schwartz, do you think a court will be involved?”

“You mean to view the tape? Oh, no, I don't think so. Mr. Pangborn is correct. It probably wouldn't be allowable. All sorts of legal maneuvering would keep it gagged like forever. After the boys are interviewed, however, it will be a different story. What will they say, do you suppose when the social workers talk to them? Or their parents? It boggles the mind. And what will their parents think? Will they have something to say in a civil court? What would a jury believe? Gosh, what might they do? What do you think would happen, Director?”

“I'm just guessing here, understand, but I'm thinking someone not happy with Mr. Pangborn, here, might think this is just the tip of the old iceberg and insist on an investigation into all of his affairs. Subpoena his phone records, bank statements, checkbook, who knows what else? Then, God only knows where that might lead. And the parents…well, as you say, it wouldn't surprise me if they sued for damages in a civil court, Sheriff.”

“That could involve jail on the one hand and millions of dollars on the other. Here's a question for you, Pangborn. I don't expect you will want to answer it, but if any of the boys you misused happened to be a child of one of your own militia, how do you suppose that particular parent will react? Remember, you armed them and assured them that the exercise of justice might not always be exercised through the system you proclaimed corrupt. What will the rank and file think of you when they find out what you've been up to out here?”

“What do you mean, find out? Evidence is privileged and my attorneys will seal—”

“Of course. Neither the State Police nor I would dream of violating that principle. No, indeed, we wouldn't. Certainly not. Regrettably, I have to tell you that after I uploaded the tape to my computer back in Picketsville, I was informed that our server has been hacked, by whom I can't say, but it may not be as secure as I would like. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

Pangborn's knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap at their feet.

The State Police director stepped back and watched him fold. “It seems like you might have touched a nerve there, Ike. Are you alright, Mr. Pangborn?”

“More than one nerve, I think,” Ike added. “Pangborn, do you do know the only reason you are alive and not rotting in the pasture with one of your cows, is my wife has a soft streak and persuaded me to not shoot you on sight? Just saying. But now that I think about the probable consequences you now face, I'm guessing you might be wishing I had pulled the trigger.”