“Yes, ma’am,” he said smiling.
He looked through the photos again, and then he wrote the chronological story about what had happened the previous weekend. He was still writing when Rodriguez came by at 10 p.m.
“You stirred things up a bit,” Rodriguez observed, sitting in the chair next to his bed.
Mac laughed. “So, I hear,” he said. “Get me out of here?”
“Out of my hands,” Rodriguez said with a shrug. “Up to your doctors.”
“And Stan Warren?”
“Probably,” Rodriguez agreed. “You came close to buying your six feet of earth this time, Mac.”
Mac nodded. “I wasn’t sure I was going to make it home,” he agreed. “Worse, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get Angie out of there.”
“Hard to be responsible for someone else.” His eyes were shadowed, as if he knew that first hand.
“So, spill,” Mac said. “You rounding up the wannabes?”
“They’re being interviewed,” Rodriguez said. “We’re looking for the ones who may have stayed behind on previous weekends for a more dangerous hunt. Craig Anderson is being helpful, but claims he didn’t know what went on after he left early Sunday mornings. Malloy has lawyered up. Norton is talking — I guess you’ve heard that? But they haven’t gotten to the manhunts.”
“The reserves might know things there,” Mac said. Kevin had come by, a long trek from Mount Vernon for a man he barely knew. They’d rescued three reserves from the Wilderness Trek camp. There were four reserves still missing. Dead, everyone assumed. But the surviving reserves weren’t talking, Kevin had said. They had lawyers, too.
“Thanks man,” Mac said simply. “You saved my life. You need me, you call. I owe you.”
Kevin nodded. “I may need a job reference,” he said with an eyeroll. “My employer isn’t happy with me. I’m out of the reserves. And I’ve got a baby on the way.”
He paused. “But I’m glad we made it out. And that you’re going to be OK.”
Mac nodded. “Go by and see Ken,” he said. “Tell him he owes me, and I’m calling it in. Just say that, and then ask for a job.”
Kevin nodded. He’d do it, he said. He thought he’d like working for Ken Bryson.
Mac refocused on Rodriguez. “Truthfully, I don’t think Craig did know. I don’t think he wanted to. He turned a blind eye to Malloy’s extra activities, because he was making a ton of money selling guns to the certificate program. But Malloy and Norton? Two of a kind. Racist fucks. They bonded, and they shared the mlk4whites Facebook name and spread the hate.”
“I’d like to nail Malloy for that,” Rodriguez said grimly. “But it will take time.”
On day three, Shorty came by after work. “Sensei is still posting and still doing his newsletter,” he reported. “Any ideas for me to explore?”
Mac nodded and gave him a name. Shorty raised his eyebrows, but promised to report back.
Janet asked for more sidebars. More information. And yes, for cutlines to go with Angie’s photos. He obliged. He was getting more writing done in the hospital than he would have at work. And no blotter calls. But he wanted out. He wasn’t done yet.
Not until he had Sensei. There were dead men who didn’t need to die because of him. Rodriguez said they were having to refer men and families to mental health services as they tracked down Anderson’s client list. He had destroyed lives.
And he had more followers than ever.
“Maybe,” Shorty said when he called on day four on his way to school. He’d done the content analysis Mac had wanted overnight. “He’s the first name you’ve given me that I can’t rule out anyway.”
Mac thought that over. He started building his profile of the man he thought was Sensei. But he needed out of here to fill in a few blanks!
Day five, Warren came by while the doctor was reviewing his chart. “Can he go?” Warren asked.
“Please,” the doctor said. “Take him out of here.” He looked at Mac. “But be careful?” he said. “You’ve got a bullet wound. And broken ribs. Well, the ribs will remind you if you do anything too strenuous. But trust me, we don’t want you back.”
Warren laughed.
Mac smiled at the doctor. “I will do my best to never return,” he promised. He looked at Stan Warren. “And if you find me some clothes? You can give me a ride home.” His 4-Runner was still up in the North Cascades. And wasn’t that going to be a bitch to get fixed and brought home? Four flat tires, and probably a cut gas line?
Stan Warren set a small gym bag on the chair next to his bed. “Your aunt,” he explained.
The doctor was right, the ribs ensured he didn’t want to move too rapidly or do anything very strenuously. He didn’t go into the office, because at home he could type in a recliner. Sitting up straight at a desk fucking hurt. So, he made calls and filed more stories. Follow up stories about the investigation. Another explainer about domestic violence, mass shooters, and white militia. A story about white supremacists in the military and law enforcement.
And he kept researching Sensei.
On Sunday, he put together the information that outed who Sensei was and gave Rand a call.
Rand came by the house and sat in the living room and listened to what Mac had to say with narrowed eyes. He looked increasingly grim as Mac presented his information.
“Circumstantial,” he said. “Intriguing but not enough viable evidence to even bring him in for questioning.”
Mac nodded. “I know,” he said. “What I’m asking you for is back up. Not Rand, FBI agent, but Rand, Ken Bryson’s former guide.”
“Back up for what?” he asked suspiciously.
“I think I need to have a conversation with Sensei in person,” Mac said. “An interview, if you like.”
He explained his plan, and Rand nodded thoughtfully. “OK,” he said. “I owe Ken that much.”
Monday morning Rand drove the two of them to Sedro Woolley. Mac had some tire patch kits and the materials
