Chapter 8
Cle Elum was an old mining town in Kittitas County, just off Interstate 90 between Ellensburg and the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. It was a nice community, located in the coniferous forest in the mid-elevations of the Cascades. The little town had seen considerable growth over the past fifteen years, as more and more people from Seattle moved to the area and commuted an hour and a half each way to jobs at Microsoft, Starbucks and Amazon. The employees who bought stock in these companies early on had become multi-millionaires when their shares had soared in value. There were stories of Microsoft janitors who had scraped a few thousand dollars together to buy stock in those early days and were now living in palatial homes around Seattle. Some of the employees or former employees, lived in beautiful million-dollar homes around a golf resort known as Suncadia in Cle Elum.
There were plenty of older homes and cabins scattered around the area too, and that was what McCain was looking at when he found the little cabin owned by Theodore Johnson. He stopped well short of the driveway to the cabin and parked, leaving Jack in the truck. He walked through a growth of small fir trees to see what he could see of the cabin. The tiny cabin was set off the road a good 300 yards and surrounded by mature firs and pine trees. McCain could see a little smoke rolling out of the chimney and three pickups parked out front.
He recognized the pickup owned by LeRoy Junior. He had seen the truck at the Johnson’s place. The other two trucks he didn’t recognize. He went back to his rig and called Williams.
“I’ve got three trucks,” McCain said. “All pickups. One Chevy that I know is LeRoy Junior’s, but the other two, both Dodge Rams, I haven’t seen. I’ll text you the license plates if you could run them for me. And, if there are three or more guys up here, I wouldn’t mind a little support. I have Jack, but another officer would make me feel a little more warm and fuzzy inside.”
“Roger that,” Williams said. “I’ll call Kittitas County and see if they have a deputy in the area.”
McCain had a computer in his truck and had run about 27,000 plates in his life, but he didn’t want to be sitting there watching a computer screen when he could be keeping an eye on the Johnson clan. Instead he texted the two license plates to Williams.
In case he needed to defend himself, his truck was outfitted with a Springfield Armory .223 rifle with a suppressor and a Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun. Both long guns sat in a special rack in the truck next to a catch pole which he occasionally used to keep snarling dogs at bay, or to help secure the odd deer that caught a leg in a barbed wire fence and needed saving. The shotgun was loaded with double aught buckshot and rifled slugs, placed alternately in the extended magazine.
McCain rarely used the shotgun, and only pulled the rifle when he needed to put down an injured elk or deer. He decided maybe he’d go ahead and grab the shotgun to carry along when heading into chat with the Johnsons. Even though he practiced at the range once a month with his service pistol, McCain was much more comfortable with a rifle or shotgun in his hands.
He was back in the little stand of firs watching the cabin when his phone buzzed. He checked the phone and saw a text from Williams. Truck 2 owned by Theodore Johnson. Truck 3 owned by Aaron Armitage. Johnson has no priors but Armitage has done a little time at Coyote Ridge. Kittitas Co. deputy is three minutes out. McCain texted “Thx” back at Williams and moved slowly back to his truck to await the Kittitas deputy.
The deputy pulled up next to McCain’s truck, jumped out and introduced herself as Alivia Hernandez. She was about five foot four inches tall, and stout but definitely not fat. A couple of tattoos were peeking out of her shirtsleeves on her biceps.
“Whatta we got?” Hernandez asked.
McCain filled her in and told her he thought one of them should go in from the front and knock on the door, while the other watched the back to see who, if anyone, might come out that way.
“I’m not worried about any real problems,” McCain said. “But in this situation, it is good to keep our bases covered.”
It was decided that Hernandez would go in and knock on the front door, and McCain would swing around with Jack and watch the back.
When Hernandez tapped on the door, a voice from inside said, “Who is it?”
“Kittitas County Sheriff,” Hernandez hollered. “Can you please come to the door?”
A man opened the main wooden door, peered through the screen door and asked, “What do you want?”
“Are you Theodore Johnson?” Hernandez asked the man who was just a few inches taller than her, with a round face and thinning hair.
“Yeah, I’m Teddy Johnson,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Johnson, you’ve probably heard there was a jail break down in Yakima this morning and your father was one of the inmates who jumped the fence. Any idea where we might find him?”
Johnson smiled at Hernandez and said, “No officer, I got no clue where he is. My brother LeRoy is here with me, but we ain’t seen hide nor hair of the old man.”
“Anyone else in there with you?” Hernandez asked.
“Yeah, my buddy Aaron’s here, but that’s it.”
“So, you’ve not heard from your father today?”
“Me and the old man don’t get along too good.”
“So, that’s a no?”
“Yeah, I ain’t heard nothin’ from him.”
“You mind if I come in and look around?”
“Yeah, I would mind. So, unless you got a warrant, maybe you should leave.”
Hernandez could smell pot, and
