“Always,” Mac said. “Norton going in with us?”
“No, and that’s one of the weird things. He approved you to go, then said something had come up with the sheriff reserves. I don’t like it.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Mac asked. “Aren’t they your partners?”
Anderson looked at the men with their stuff. “Malloy and I are partners,” he said. “It’s business with us. But Norton and Sensei? They’re true believers if you know what I mean? Fanatics. And fanatics are dangerous. If this goes to shit, I’m hoping you’ve got my back.”
Mac nodded slowly. “I’ve got two goals,” he said. “Get the story, and get Angie and I home safely. If you’re good with that? Then I’ve got your back.”
Anderson nodded and went to help get everyone loaded up.
Angie took pictures, and Mac leaned against his 4-Runner and studied the men. They ranged in age from mid-20s to 50ish. All were white, no surprise, considering Sensei’s rhetoric. None of them were clearly out of shape, but none of them were as fit as they should be for a wilderness survival trip. Obviously, this was more about a catered, let’s shoot some guns, weekend than survival, he thought. They all seemed to know each other, and they joked and kidded around. He smiled. They seemed like good guys.
He wondered if the two men who went off the deep end in the two last weeks had been good guys too. Until they weren’t.
By 6 p.m. they were on their way to Sedro Woolley where Ken Bryson was waiting for them.
“Not what I expected,” Angie said once they were back in the truck.
“What did you expect?” he asked.
“More like Craig Anderson, or even like you,” she said. “Tough men who can take care of themselves. These guys seem more like a litter of puppies.”
Mac laughed. They did, he conceded.
“Anderson is worried,” he said, and Mac filled her in on what he’d said. “So, stick close to me, and if you can’t? Latch on to him. We’ll get you back out safe.”
“You’re both worried,” she observed.
“Norton’s not going in with us,” he said. “That strike you as strange?”
Her eyebrows raised. “Strikes me as completely unbelievable,” she said. “He’s got something to prove to you, and he’s not sitting home.”
Mac nodded. “He told Anderson that something had come up, and he would be with his deputy reserves. Want to bet they’re going to be up there somewhere?”
“Not taking that bet,” she said troubled. “Are you imagining war games of some kind?”
He grimaced. “Maybe. Sounds paranoid.”
She settled back in her seat. “A bit of paranoia might keep us both alive,” she said.
“Yeah, I’ve lived in too many places where paranoia was a necessary survival skill,” Mac agreed. “I can drop you off in Mount Vernon if you want me to.”
“No way,” she said. “I’m going.”
Ken Bryson turned out to be a meaner, leaner version of Craig Anderson. He was whip-thin, in his 60s. A Vietnam vet. These hills had appealed to a lot of the veterans of that era who hadn’t been welcomed home when they returned to a society turned violently anti-war. Kids, really. Twenty-year-olds who had been turned into killers and then returned to American society with no transition. His own generation of soldiers had been treated differently. His generation had no draft, so men — people — who went had chosen to go. And after 9/11, they were considered heroes. Learning from the Vietnam era, the military now provided transition support. Society admired veterans now, and thanked them for their service constantly. He’d like them to stop, but he had to admit it was better than being spit upon and called baby killer.
So, a lot of Vietnam veterans found remote places to hole up where they didn’t have to deal with a society that scorned them. At one time whole camps of such men nestled throughout the wilderness areas of the Northwest. The mountains called to them, he thought.
Ken Bryson looked like he was one of those veterans, although he seemed like he was more integrated into society — if Sedro Woolley counted as society. Bryson was looking over the men he was taking out to the wilderness, and it didn’t look like he was impressed.
And then he spotted Mac. Mac met his eyes, and he nodded. One lone wolf to another. Bryson frowned. It deepened when he saw Angie and her camera.
At this point, the other men were ignoring Angie and her camera, which was probably Angie’s whole point, Mac thought. They’d gotten used to her. But Bryson? He was intently watching, focused on her. Mac frowned, and he looked for Anderson. Anderson was watching Bryson as well.
Then Bryson turned away, and started barking orders at two young men who were apparently his employees. Were they going too? It looked like it. Luxury trip indeed, Mac thought. They weren’t going to have to cook for themselves even. How much did this trip cost?
And that question drove him to leave the side of his rig and go ask Anderson.
“Each guy pays $5,000,” Anderson said. He was still watching Bryson.
“For three days?” Mac said, startled.
Anderson laughed.
“Bryson going to be a problem with Angie?” Mac asked softly.
“He didn’t say anything when I told him,” Anderson said. “But that was weird.”
“This trip gets better and better,” Mac said sourly. Anderson just grinned.
Bryson wanted Mac and Angie to ride in his vans but backed down when Craig Anderson supported Mac’s refusal. And he’d wanted Angie in his van, Mac in a different one too. Mac didn’t know why. He pulled his 4-Runner into fourth place in the caravan.
“Did you notice Ken Bryson looking at you?” Mac asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Didn’t bother me.”
“Bothered me,” Mac said grimly.
“He’s worried about a woman with all these men,” Angie said. “I read protective, not predator.”
Mac considered that. Maybe, he conceded. He put himself in Bryson’s position, running a wilderness survival camp for a bunch of gun nuts on the
