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  That brought a snort of laughter from Jensen, “Hell, Mike,” Jensen said in an aside, “even Jim’s wife acknowledges what a prude this guy is, probably always was...”

  Rhodes backed off with a shake of his head, “But you picked those three guys out of all the men you knew back then...?”

  “They were on that beach,” I explained again. “Gardner and Mason met the girls and Karen’s folks, advised them on good places to eat. That’s the only connection I made. I half-invited the girls to attend a party, thinking I’d be there to make sure it didn’t get out of hand; then there was a spat, and I changed my plans and returned to Jacksonville...”

  They made me go through the entire episode again before they seemed to relax. “Well, it’s an explanation,” Rhodes finally said, “and it’s way too stupid to be anything but the truth.” He was making moves to pack up; my signal to leave.

  “There is something, though,” I said, stopping him as he started to clasp his briefcase.

  “What’s that?”

  “Can you share any background on the three of them... like what happened after I left the service?”

  The two men exchanged a glance, then Jensen gave the twitch of a nod. Rhodes pulled a manila folder out of his case, slid it across the table to me. “If a word of that ends up in the public conscience – a newspaper article, on Facebook, or anywhere else, you and I’ll be talking again. Remember, your security oath didn’t end with your enlistment.”

  I knew that wasn’t necessarily true, but chose to take the file and keep my trap closed. Jensen sent me a flicker of agreement, “Come fishing later this summer; bring Jan,” was all Jensen said as he showed me the door.

  Chapter 15

  Jan read the file while I was on the mountain with Judy the next morning. When I came out of the shower, she was sitting at the kitchen island waiting, “Those three make for disturbing reading.”

  I took the stool next to her, my glass of ice water in front of me. “That file is consistent with what Norma told us about Art Truman; I’d have to believe it’ll hold up on Mason and Gardner as well.”

  “Did you ever have any inkling about their racism...?”

  “Nothing more than most of the white men raised in the South, no; but in our unit race wasn’t a consideration compared to competency. You want to see a real meritocracy? Look at a covert combat unit. The members may not all be buddies, but they all trust each other or they’d all come home in body bags.

  “I never saw so much as a frown when it came to race in those ranks. It was as much a factor of education and ignorance in the regular ranks as it was in the civilian population.”

  “But the Aryan Nations?”

  “I’d need to know more to judge, but I’m guessing those guys all ran smack into reality when they left the service – Art as a disabled vet; the other two as twenty-and-out retirees.

  “Look at Mason. A giant of a man who truly loved his role in combat; he retires and he’s single; adrift. He buys a small farm out next to the Everglades and disappears off the grid for seven years, then shows up in 1998 as a person of interest after an abortion clinic bombing killed two people in Miami.

  “From that time on, there was an interest in where he went, who he knew, and while there was no proof that he was active in terrorist attacks, there were ongoing lapses in his whereabouts that coincided with other events – gay murders, abortion clinic bombings, and racial protests that erupted into riots.”

  Jan picked up the thread, “I noticed all three of those guys had skills that would have made them tough to track, much less to handle on the ground.”

  “Make no mistake about it. Gardner had all the tools. Six-two, hundred and eighty, crack shot, took Tai Chi to new heights with a background of karate, and flew through the Marine Corps’ bomb school. He could improvise an explosive device out of the stuff you have in the kitchen and laundry.”

  “Chilling,” she said softly with a shudder.

  I nodded and continued, “but he’s more than that. He is tactical in everything he does. You couldn’t plan an afternoon with him but he pulled out his notebook and wrote it all down in the order of action...”

  “Was he that slow? I mean, he needed the note to pull off his part of the plan?”

  “No. He needed the plan to make sure it would work – he constantly said ‘it ain’t a plan ‘til it’s written down and reviewed by all. That’s the difference between an idea and a plan. Ideas die with their troops; plans win.’”

  “Were they – Gardner and Mason – close, do you think?”

  “Like brothers.”

  “With Art?”

  “Nobody I knew was that close with Art, but they were all a team on and off the job. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they took time off together like the week on the beach over the years, or at least until Art was hit.”

  Jan picked up the folder, “There doesn’t seem to be much tying the three of them together after the service in this.”

  “I noticed while Mason was farming in Florida, Gardner earned a law degree from the University of South Carolina. He had a private practice, but moved around quite a bit. His file as a lawyer goes blank about 2005.”

  Jan said, “I noticed that... from Lexington/Columbia to Texas, to Oklahoma and then Potter County, Pennsylvania?”

  “Potter County is a remote area up near New York and there are citations about splinter groups off Aryan Nation in those parts...”

  “Jim, do you think he’s been working for white supremacists all those years?”

  “I don’t know, but if he has, you have to wonder how he did it with what was obviously federal oversight missing him at every stop.”

  “Or, maybe he was working for the Feds infiltrating...” Jan let the question hang.

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think Rhodes would have shared that with me if it contained a link to an undercover agent?”

  She only shook her head, “I’ve gotta go to town.”

  Chapter 16

  I was handling routine household chores when my phone buzzed. “Jim Stanton here.”

  “Mr. Stanton. You don’t sound a bit different despite all those years.”

  “Art! I’m amazed and happy that you decided to return my call.”

  “Norma couldn’t wait to tell me all about you and your wife visiting her in The Dalles; said you were pleasant in an earnest sort of way. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, nothing, probably. I was thinking of you only because of something that took me back to that week of R and R on the beach in Lauderdale; after that cluster fuck in Laos...”

  “I remember that week. Some of us would have never known that week if it hadn’t been for you. I know I’ll never forget it. You left early that week; I didn’t go back active for six weeks after that; Gardner took even longer. We only made it home ’cause of your AB negative.”

  “That’s not what reminded me about that week; hell, I was only emotionally and physically exhausted, not shot up; a week was plenty to recharge my battery. But...”

  He interrupted, “You know that what you did back then still holds weight with me and I’m sure others. What can I do for you?”

  “I was just hoping to talk with you about some other stuff that happened that week. Is there a time we could meet? Cup of coffee or lunch?”

  “Hell, I live over in Troutdale, pardner... but I have some business over your way next week, maybe I could meet you in Pendleton on my way home?”

  “That’d work. Give me a heads up day before, okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  It wasn’t difficult to recognize Art Truman when he walked into the Great Pacific coffeehouse a week later. He was nearly as tall as I, and I knew under the casual plaid shirt and cowboy-starched stove-pipe jeans he was still as muscular and strong as ever despite the gray curls showing under his Stetson and the salt-and-pepper of his beard.

  He veered to the coffee station and ges
tured to ask if I wanted anything. I shook my head and raised my cup.

  I stood as he approached, his hand outstretched. His smile was the same, a little off kilter, and his voice still sounded as if he’d been studying at the Sam Elliott School of Western Poetry. “Jim, it’s wonderful to see you,” he greeted me. “Now what has ignited this long-past-due curiosity about Art Truman?”

  I told him about Jeremy and his DNA party. “Do you remember meeting Karen O’Connor and her friend, Renée ?”

  “Vaguely. I remember you keeping Karen at arm’s length. Had all of us wondering if you were suffering from battle fatigue,” he chuckled at the idea.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out how my DNA markers could end up in her daughter some months later...”

  “Even back then, when we all figured you for a Boy Scout, we would have expected you’d know how that birds and bees stuff worked.”

  I recognized the joshing tone and delivery of a time gone by. To be a Boy Scout, to be visibly ‘gung ho,’ was to invite friendly ridicule in those days.

  “I understood that the exchange of bodily fluids was essential to the process, and I know I never experienced that with Karen.”

  “Do tell. Wasted opportunity on your part, that was. So why the big deal?”

  “Oh, it’s not that big a deal, Art. Just a long-developed habit, I can’t seem to let a question go unanswered. Kind of an occupational misery.”

  “That’s right, I’d almost forgotten! You were something of an investigative reporter weren’t you?”

  “No more than most reporters, certainly not like the hot shots in New York, Washington, and Philadelphia. All reporters chase facts with questions and research. It just became a habit with me, I guess.

  “I can imagine that might be a dangerous habit to develop in some parts,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. There’s been a time or two, but it’s not like I’m looking for a headline or something. I just...”

  “You know what I did after I was shot up?”

  “Came home, recovered, earned your degree in sociology and went to work for the state’s welfare department – according to what Norma told us.”

  “All true, but there’s a lot she doesn’t know or need to know. While I was working for the state, I was also working for a cause – a cause that knows the will of God is for the White Race to rule the world.

  “I see the reaction in your eyes. You’re surprised I’d spout that dogma here, out in the open, but why not? Nobody in this room cares a fig about me; and I don’t give a hoot about them, either. I spent twenty-five years soldiering for the church; doing their bidding, keeping my thoughts and beliefs shielded from prying eyes and ears.

  “Then one day, working on a project in South Carolina where a bunch of niggers were in the street protesting for equal opportunities, I and some other soldiers were there to turn that chanting and singing into a demonstration of animal hate. And, it was right then, right there, I had what I now call a “Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus” moment.

  “I was face to face with this black bitch, and she was singing Amazing Grace. I was cocked and loaded to break her face, but I stopped at what I saw in her eyes. It wasn’t fear or acceptance. I recognized that look, and it wasn’t a lack of understanding of the reality of her moment. No, it was pure determination that stopped me. That look, that free-will choice not to be intimidated or afraid, told me that no matter what we did, no matter what happened, she flat knew she wasn’t in the presence of a superior being. That look was a promise that she and her ilk would never give up their struggle for equality.

  “It was a culminating moment in my life, Jim.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Walked away. Drove that night to a little cottage I had down on the coast, hung out for two weeks, and then contacted my controller and told him I was re-evaluating my commitment to the church. Next day I hopped in my truck and drove to Oregon.”

  I sat silent, wondering what I’d just heard: Confession or rueful regret?

  “Yes, Jim; that night in the streets I came to a new religion. A new purpose: The sovereign state of Art Truman. I contacted my controller at the AN and told him I was no longer willing to volunteer for the salvation of the White Race. Instead, I was now available as an independent contractor; ready and willing, – for the right price – to do God’s will on behalf of the movement.”

  I closed my mouth before my tongue lolled out, but just barely.

  He was nodding, a smile flickering around his mouth, as he took another swig of his coffee. “That’s right, Jim; and I gotta tell you, that has worked out just right for Truman. Truman’s financials are a lot healthier than this country’s. No deficit at all for Truman.”

  He took another swig, and I could see him measuring me, weighing my reaction to his story, and I almost thought I saw a smile, maybe even a nod. “Jim, I know that what I’ve just told you doesn’t make you happy. I also know that you are inclined to think you could use what I just told you to make my happy life a lot less pleasant...” He took another swig of his coffee, then put the empty cup on the table and locked his eyes on mine, “But you could only do that by risking lethal harm to Jan.”

  My blood went ice cold as his eyes locked on mine. His affable smile remained in place, but his eyes were as cold as a corpse’s. He continued, “You carry weight with me, Mr. Stanton; so you’re getting this one warning. You mess with anything to do with my activities relating to the Aryan Nations and you’ll never see Jan again. I know you’re going to want some time to think this through, so here’s the drill: Five minutes after I leave here, you climb into your vehicle and drive to Hermiston. Have a cup of coffee; then go home. If I know you have done that, and not used your phone to contact anyone – haven’t even answered it – then when you’re home, your woman will be there waiting for you, safe and sound.

  “You maintain the rational position that whatever I’m up to has no impact on your life, and that will become the reality. Now, call Jan’s cell.”

  The phone rang and rang, never going to voice mail.

  “I disabled her voice mail. You can set it up again when you see her tonight.”

  He stood, stretched a bit, towering over me. “I hope to never see you again, Jim, but if I do, know that we’ll be even then.”

  My mind was in turmoil as I watched him leave the building, and five minutes later I found myself in my truck, my hand on the ignition, but I stopped.

  “What were the odds?” I wondered. “Where’s my center?”

  I focused on my situation and felt my body slow down, my pulse and heart rate returned to my normal at-rest levels, and I thought it through.

  “What ifs” crowded for attention in my mind. I fought off the jumbled thoughts and forced my mind to orderly thought:

  Option A: Race home; move Jan to a safe place... My thinking was a kind of debate, waiting for some kind of moderator to instill calm reason.

  “What if she’s already dead?”

  “Then what’s the loss?” I argued with myself.

  “What if you’re not first; and he kills her on your arrival?” That possibility was too strong to ignore. The urge for action and vengeance were argued down by my experience with Jan in jeopardy; the upside for following the instructions was time. She’d be safe, and I’d use the time to ensure she couldn’t become leverage again.

  I was shaking a bit, but I started the truck and headed for Hermiston.

  The drive to a coffee shop in downtown Hermiston takes anywhere from 20 to 35 minutes depending on how much you want to meet and greet an OSP trooper or Umatilla County Sheriff’s deputy. I ordered my coffee to go just 40 minutes after I left Great Pacific.

  Just under an hour later I pulled into the garage at our house. I listened to the engine cool as I removed the Taurus from my console, and waited to see if anyone would greet me in the gloom of the building.

  I then moved as causally and quietly as I could to the door that connects to our mud room an
d then the kitchen. The only sounds I could detect inside the house were the normal buzz of a light, and hum of air conditioning.

  I crept around the kitchen island and poked my head around to survey the great room that combined our dining and living areas. Jan was sitting at the dining room table, backlit by the giant windows overlooking the Columbia Basin. Her chin was on her chest and I thought she might be sleeping. Judy was lying at her feet, looking expectantly at me.

  “Jan?”

  Her head snapped up and a look of joy lit her face, “Oh, Jim; thank God!”

  She bounced out of the chair and into my arms. Judy came alive, dancing around us. I held Jan away from me, and studied her face. “You okay?”

  “Oh, yes; now I am. He said I’d hear someone come into the garage. If you had followed your instructions, it would be you; if not, well, he said I should sit with my eyes closed and pray... That’s what I did.”

  “Oh, honey; I’m so sorry. I had no...”

  “You owe me no apology, honey. That prick thinks he can control you through me; he has no idea who I am. I won’t be without my Colt again anytime soon.”

  I hugged her close to me, and we stayed like that until my knees started complaining, so we sat. “What happened, Jan?”

  “You left to meet him, and a few minutes later, the doorbell chimed. I went to answer it, but there was nobody there. I started to look at my phone, and he was behind me, a gun out.

  “He told me to sit in that chair, and I did. He cuffed me to it with wire ties, both hands and both feet. Told me to be patient, it wouldn’t be long. And then he was gone.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No. He took my phone, fiddled with it for a moment, and then left it on the kitchen island and left.

  “When he returned he told me we were conducting a test of the Jim Stanton Survival Training Course, and in short order we’d know if I was going to live or die today. Then he went through the house, like a search, but when he came back he didn’t seem to have anything, like he didn’t take anything... He just cut me loose and told me to sit tight.”

  I hugged her again, pulling her out of the chair this time. We stood there swaying, then I whispered in her ear, “I’m going to look around, try to figure out what he did, what he found, what he took... he didn’t just poke around. Sit quiet, okay?”