“Me and his little brother, Colin. The boy died over there.” “Julius has a brother who died in Vietnam?”
Toby nods. “There’s a park back east, named for his brother and his battalion.” I fumble, trying to assess what this means. Stone must have joined the FBI at the same time Colin enlisted. Both young men were patriots — too young to imagine such a thing as death by idealism, or the bitter, vengeful burden for the one who survives.
I need air.
“Nice view of the river.” I crane toward the windows. “Mind if I go down and look?” “You go on. I’m gonna see what our friend is up to in the kitchen.” I smile nicely and pull on the back door a couple of times until it becomes unstuck. Outside, the breath of the river is humid and fresh. My shoulder blades are tight as screws. Despite the coziness, there is a stale repression in Toby’s cottage. I look back at the pumpkin trim and perfectly pruned impatiens. What
The sharp smell of cordite grabs me like an old friend. I am back in the basement shooting range at Quantico; in the gun vault at the L.A. field office. Toby’s shop is basically a Peg-Board and a bench, but at a glance, it has everything the recreational gun owner might need, including the wardrobe, all the clothes neatly hung: camo jacket, wind vest, rain togs, and polished black patrol boots.
There’s a rack of common hunting rifles—7-mm ones and.308s, like the one Sterling McCord was using on the shooting range. The bench is organized for reloading cartridges — bright red cans of rifle powder, a mounted powder measure, a fancy single-stage press, and sets of dies, punches, lifters, wad guide, drop tube, the whole extravaganza for making your own bullets. The dies are organized according to size. A quick glance reveals.30- to.40-caliber ones, neatly stacked. God bless Toby’s obsessive-compulsion: at the bottom of the pile, exactly where it belongs — except it does not belong — is a die for making.50-caliber bullets.
A highly unusual size for your average hunter.
The same-size bullet that killed Sergeant Mackee.
The same-size bullet that matches Dick Stone’s rifle.
Toby appears at the door.
“I see you found my love.”
He offers me a glass of iced tea.
“I didn’t mean to pry. It just looked so interesting in here.” Toby picks up a shotgun and handles it well. “I hope you weren’t touching anything.” “Of course not.”
“Accidents do happen with firearms.”
His big brown eyes are soft and slightly insane.
“I’m getting some weird vibes, know what I mean? Like you’re prancing around in here, trying to pretend to be something you’re not.” “I’m not pretending anything.”
“You’re not some prissy white girl,” he says. “What are you?” “Half Salvadoran. Got a problem with that?”
“Yes, I do. My problem is this: What’s a homegirl doing way up here, no brown faces in the whole damn state?” I hold his look.
“I could ask the same question.”
“I got a job with the town,” says Toby Himes.
“And I’m on a visit with Julius.”
“You gonna shoot someone, just for kicks? Just because Julius says?” “For the movement. For the sake of animals.”
“If you’re the Man,” he says, “I’ll kill you.”
The chow is barking. Outside, there is commotion and the sound of voices and heavy boots on the gravel walk.
Mr. Terminate crashes open the screen door of the ammo shed and marches through, along with another squinty two-hundred pounder with a full beard and red-checked shirt I call Mountain Man.
“…You can use it underwater,” Mountain Man is saying.
“Why in hell would anyone care? Hey, Toby.”
“Afternoon.”
“Hi, John.” Mr. Terminate ignores me.
“It’s stable,” Mountain Man insists. “Safe to transport.” “Seriously, you don’t want to be around that shit.” “Me? I don’t want to get anywhere near that shit.” “Julius knows you can’t get that shit. The only place you could get that shit is the armory out on the base.” This is it. This is the Big One: They’re talking about meth. They’re running a methamphetamine operation out of a military base.
I am beginning to get excited, when Toby Himes breaks in.
“I guarantee what the Doctor has in mind is strictly MOS.” And then, as we say in the Bureau, the hair goes up on the back of my neck, and I know what I know. In the language of bomb experts, MOS stands for military occupational specialties.
The Army Corps of Engineers, whose job it is to locate land mines.
Mr. Terminate, Mountain Man, Toby Himes, and Stone are not working some ordinary drug deal.
They are talking about military-grade explosives.
Thirty-three
Donnato is waiting at the usual rest area off the interstate at the time of another of my alleged appointments with the dentist.
“If the suspects were talking about explosives you can only get from military occupation specialists, it means they’re dealing in very powerful, restricted material. What the bomb techs call ‘high explosives’—dynamite, plastics, TNT, ammonium nitrate — stuff that can shatter things and move things around, like rocks and trees, which is how they use it in the Army, clearing landing zones.” I have brought a cooler this time, and we sit at the same picnic table around back — just a couple of tourists eating tuna sandwiches.
“But those kinds of explosives don’t fit the signature.” “No.”
“The devices that blew up Laumann’s house and killed Steve weren’t military-grade.” “Correct. Now we’re thinking your friends at Toby’s were talking about a special order. For a special mission.” “I don’t like it.”
“Neither does headquarters. Toby is obviously the link. He’s the reloader who made the bullet that killed Sergeant Mackee. He’s the munitions expert getting ready for the Big One. We’ve installed a listening device at his house and put the other individuals under surveillance. Agents are visiting explosives manufacturers in the region, asking for cooperation in reporting anything gone missing.” “How do the bad guys get restricted materiel?”
“Steal it from the base and collect it over time.” I nod. “That sounds like Stone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been planning the Big One since he split the Bureau.” “I really wish you’d been wearing a wire when he handed you that jive. I’d give anything to hear his version of events.” “Here’s what I think: We drove him crazy.”
Donnato believes I’m joking and cracks another potato chip.
“We didn’t know our ass from our elbow, and the country was in a revolution. Dick Stone is a casualty of war.” “I’m glad you’re
An immaculate RV has pulled up, and a portly gentleman wearing a bow tie has disembarked, along with two magnificently groomed Cardigan Welsh corgis, who hop down the ladder like a pair of princes. Show dogs, rehearsing their stuff. The trio trots ludicrously around our table, the dogs keeping stride with their master’s swaying gut.
As they pass, Donnato switches to upbeat gossip.
