seems to be. He goes out and I guess he talks to them, and then there’s no problem anymore. It’s like an internal matter. A family matter.”
Gail said, “But in last night’s call, Ryan Nasbe said specifically that he and his mother had been kidnapped. He also said that his kidnappers had killed those people on the bridge in Virginia. Surely you heard about that.”
Stacy wiped her eyes again.
“Didn’t you think for a minute to call the police or something?”
“We are the police, ma’am. Out here, we’re all there is.”
“The front of every phone book lists the number for the FBI,” Jonathan said.
Her whole body seemed to sag now. “I’m a dispatcher, Agent Harris. I’m not a sworn officer. I do what I’m told, and in this case, I was told to tell Sheriff Neen and forget about it.” She turned to Gail. “And how do you know so much about this call, anyway?”
Gail ignored her. “Where do we find Sheriff Neen?”
Stacy squinted as she looked at the clock on the far wall. Red marks on the side of her nose testified to glasses that she had neglected to put on. “I imagine he’s still at home asleep. He usually gets into the office around nine.”
“And where’s the headquarters for this Army of God?”
“The headquarters or the compound?”
Jonathan waited for it.
“Well, they’re different places,” Stacy explained. “The man in charge of the Army is Michael Copley, and the-”
“He owns a factory here,” Jonathan interrupted, recalling the reference from Sam Shockley.
“Appalachian Acoustics, right. He runs everything there, or so I’m told. So I guess the headquarters would be at his house. His castle, really. The place is huge. But the compound itself is all the way at the end of Hooper Road. Do you know Hooper Road?”
“I’m sure we can find it,” Gail said.
“Maybe not,” Stacy corrected. “I don’t think it’s on any map. Anyway, the camp-or the compound, or whatever you call it-is huge. Must be a hundred acres. Maybe even more.”
“And that land is owned by this Copley guy, too?” Jonathan asked. Venice would verify all of it later, but he was curious what Stacy would say.
“I guess he owns it.” She shrugged. “I never really thought about it. He owns an awful lot out here. Anyway, there must be a couple of miles of fencing around it, and there are armed guards.”
That got all of their attentions. “ How armed?” Boxers asked.
“Pretty darned armed. Rifles and such. Or so I’m told.”
“And that didn’t impress you as odd?” Gail asked.
“Everything about them impresses me as odd,” Stacy said. “Start with the fact that they think they’re an army. As if we need another one of those. You hear shooting and stuff from up there all the time. Sheriff Neen says they have one of the best target ranges he’s ever seen. Him and the deputies shoot up there all the time.”
“And the soldiers?” Jonathan pressed. “Do they shoot up there, too?”
“I imagine. Why else have a range?”
“What are they arming up against?”
“I have no idea. Maybe just to keep people out. I’ve never heard them make any threats or anything. Plus, they’ve got those government contracts, so they can’t be but so far out there.”
Jonathan raised a hand to seek clarification. “Appalachian Acoustics has the contracts, right? Not the Army of God.”
Stacy nodded. “Right. Not that there’s a lot of difference. Most of the employees-maybe all of them-are members of the Army and they live on the campgrounds. It’s like the old days when the mines provided housing and the company store.”
Jonathan remembered Sam Shockley mentioning that she had recently been laid off from the factory. “Has the Army of God always run the factory?”
“They’ve always been involved, as far as I know, but not like they are now. Lots of folks in this area lost their jobs when Copley decided to bring everything in-house.”
“Is the factory on the compound?” Boxers asked.
“Might as well be. There might be a fence or a road or something separating them, but for all intents and purposes they’re on the same property.”
“Have you ever been up there?” Gail asked.
“Good heavens, no. That is one secure place. More fences, more guns. I think it has to do with their government contracts.”
Or their paranoia, Jonathan didn’t say. “What exactly are they contracted to do for the government?”
Another annoying shrug. “Make stuff, I guess. Whatever stuff they make. What does any of this have to do with the phone call from the boy? Is he somebody special?”
Jonathan said, “He is now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ryan tried to find a comfortable position in the straight-back wood-and-leather chair, but it wasn’t possible. It was a dining room chair-the kind you’d find only in a very rich man’s house. The chair back was framed in wood, but with a black leather panel that ran down the length of his spine. They’d run his arms through the openings on either side of the panel, and then fastened metal handcuffs to his wrists way too tightly. The only way for him to take the pressure off the bones of his wrists was to shove his arms all the way through the openings, up to the bends in his elbows. To do that, though, meant pressing his forearms through some very narrow spaces. Sure, he was skinny, but there was a limit.
Even as the sheriff pulled up to the front of the house to drop him off, Ryan had sensed that trouble was on the way. First, there’d been the way the sheriff had been acting all during their ride, after he’d picked him up; but the real fear didn’t hit him until he saw the guards dressed in black on the front porch.
He was tired of guards dressed in black. Apparently, everybody in West Virginia was a terrorist.
When Sheriff Neen looked at him, Ryan sensed that he even felt a little apologetic.
“Why are you doing this?” Ryan had asked.
“It’s a new world, son,” he’d said. “And it appears that you just got sucked up into it.”
He’d allowed himself to be cuffed without a fight, partly out of sheer exhaustion, but mostly out of a hopeless sense that he’d been rendered powerless.
So here he sat trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey in the middle of some rich guy’s dining room, sucked up into a steaming pile of bad news, while on the other side of closed doors on the opposite side of the house, two men yelled at each other.
Ryan couldn’t make out the words, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that whatever was being said, the anger was about him.
Michael Copley’s mind reeled at the multiple layers of incompetence. Kendig Neen sat comfortably in the leather club chair next to the fireplace in Brother Michael’s office, his legs crossed while he casually fingered the waxed edge of his mustache.
The son of a jackal didn’t even have the decency to show remorse. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Copley challenged.
Neen seemed to ponder that, and then said, “You’re welcome?”
Copley felt his ears redden. Neen had always worn an arrogant streak, but this was too much. “Excuse me?” He sharpened his tone to sound as menacing as he could.
Neen cleared his throat and said more loudly, “You’re welcome. You know, for bringing the boy back in safely and stopping this publicity hunt of yours from turning into a disaster.”
Copley felt himself breathing heavily. “You arrogant prick,” he said. “He’s a boy, and he escaped from the prison you set up, after getting past the guards that you trained.”
