Threat warning

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The faded sign, no doubt handmade with what appeared to be a child’s wood-burning kit, had been nailed to a tree, and likely would have been invisible if they’d arrived in the dark. The sign read NATHAN BEDFORD FOREST MOBILE HOME PARK. A cluster of rural-style mailboxes teetered underneath it.

“Aren’t there supposed to be two Rs in Forrest?” Gail asked, leaning forward in the backseat, so that her head was between Boxers and Jonathan, who occupied the driver and shotgun seats respectively.

Jonathan chuckled. “I guess it depends on whether you’re talking about the person or a place.”

Boxers asked, “What person?”

“Nathan Bedford Forrest,” Gail said. “Father of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Charming guy to name a neighborhood after,” the Big Guy grunted.

He piloted the big Dodge down a narrow wooded road until it opened up on a cluster of sad, aged house trailers, probably dating back to the 1960s. Jonathan could almost smell the mildew from all the way out here. He counted seven units altogether. Despite their weatherworn appearance, most appeared to be well cared for. Each of the mobile homes sat on what appeared to be a half acre of land, and showed the remnants of gardens out front. Two had already put up Christmas decorations, the most elaborate of which involved red foil and a wreath on the door.

“Which one belongs to Stacy Phelps?” Gail asked.

Jonathan said, “I’ve got the address one one seven, but I don’t see any house numbers.” He relayed the question into his radio, and Venice answered right away. “All the way to the end on the right,” he repeated. “By the way, Mother Hen, anything on ICIS about our borrowed vehicle?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’ll keep monitoring and let you know.”

Jonathan had considered dropping the Dodge off somewhere and stealing a second vehicle, but he’d gotten a good vibe from Sam.

“So how are we working this?” Gail wanted to know. “Are we just going to knock on her door?”

“That’s my vote,” Jonathan said. “Box?”

Boxers shrugged. “It’s a little boring, but it’ll do. I think we should kill the phone first.”

“Agreed.” Jonathan turned to Gail. “I’m going to badge her when she answers the door, but I want you to do the talking.”

Gail made a motorboat sound in her throat. “I hate it when you use the badge,” she said.

Jonathan and Boxers exchanged looks, but they didn’t comment. Their FBI credentials weren’t as false as most of their kind. Fact was, the Bureau occasionally found itself in positions where they shouldn’t be, with a requirement to go where they shouldn’t go. When those occasions arose, Security Solutions was always on the short list of contractors to clean up the mess, and the creds came in handy. In return, the people who counted at Bureau headquarters agreed to look the other way when Jonathan needed them for his own purposes. It wasn’t as if they had a lot of options, after all. No one relished the idea of Jonathan Grave speaking in open court about the things he knew.

The ultimate irony, of course, was that Gail had actually been a sworn agent of the FBI, but she had no credentials, and refused to allow Jonathan to have some made up for her.

Boxers parked the Dodge out front of Stacy Phelps’s mobile home, its bumper nearly touching the trunk of her eight-year-old Celica, blocking her ability to drive away. All three climbed out together, but Jonathan and Gail hung around the vehicle while Boxers went around back.

Thirty seconds later, the bud in Jonathan’s right ear delivered Boxers’ report that the phones had been disabled. He’d hang around back there to cover the black side of the building, just in case.

The steps to the stoop were too narrow to accommodate both of them, so Jonathan led the way and rapped on the door. He did it heavily, using the heel of his fist rather than his knuckles. When you’re pretending to be a law enforcement officer, the last thing you worry about is stealth. For them, it’s all about intimidation, and it begins with the knock on the door.

When the door remained unanswered thirty seconds later, he pounded again. A moment later, he heard movement, and then two locks slid and the door opened a crack, revealing the sleep-puffed face of a woman in her twenties. “Who do you think-”

Jonathan held his badge in the open door crack. “Special Agent Harris, FBI,” he said. “Are you Stacy Phelps?”

Stacy’s anger morphed to confusion. Maybe to fear. “I’m Stacy Phelps. What’s wrong?”

“May we come in?” Jonathan asked.

“Why?” she asked. Then, as an afterthought: “We?”

Jonathan pivoted his body so that she could see Gail at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s Special Agent Nichols.”

Gail gave a curt nod, but otherwise didn’t move. She had her game face on. “You don’t look like an FBI agent,” Stacy said.

Jonathan acknowledged his woodland cammies with a glance. “Never judge a book by its cover,” he said. “Out here, all respect, might as well wear a target on your chest as wear a necktie. I’d really rather talk inside,”

Stacy stepped aside and left room for the two of them to enter. “I’d offer you some coffee,” she said, “but I don’t have any made. I work nights and I was sleeping.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gail said. “We know you do.”

Stacy paled. She had an undernourished, overworked look to her-long, stringy black hair that needed a wash-and why wouldn’t it after a long night at work? What Jonathan noticed most were the dark circles under her eyes. They didn’t impress him as the transient variety that would go away with a night’s sleep.

“Y- you know I work nights?” she stammered. “Why would the FBI be interested in knowing my work schedule?”

Rule one of negotiations: Control the conversation by asking all the questions. Gail said, “You received a phone call during your last shift from a young man who reported a kidnapping. Do you remember that?”

Stacy physically reeled at the question. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped a little. Her lips seemed to want to say something, but no words came out.

“Let’s sit down, Stacy,” Jonathan offered, gesturing to her living room with its sofa and two chairs. They no doubt had been sold as a set, all three of them sharing identical beige fabric that reminded Jonathan of an old sport coat in his closet back home.

He led the way and she followed, with Gail bringing up the rear. She chose the sofa and seemed startled when Gail joined her on the adjacent cushion.

Jonathan said, “In answering Agent Nichols’s questions, please remember that it’s a felony to lie to a federal officer. If you do that, I won’t hesitate to put you in handcuffs and take you out of here.” Since he was playing the bad cop-another gambit that always worked, despite the cliche-he figured he might as well get into character early.

“We have no interest in arresting you, Stacy,” Gail said. “But Agent Harris is right. We’ll do what we have to do. Now about that phone call.”

“Who told you?” Stacy looked as if she was living her worst nightmare. Exactly as Jonathan had hoped.

“You need to ask less and answer more,” Gail said. “A young man named Ryan Nasbe called at roughly one-twelve this morning asking to be rescued. Do you remember that?”

Stacy’s head twitched.

“Please answer verbally for me,” Gail said.

“Yes,” she said. “I remember.”

“Thank you. What came of that call?”

Stacy broke gaze and shifted in her seat. This was a woman who should never play poker. “What do you mean, what came of it?”

“Is this the way it’s going to be, Stacy?” Jonathan said. “You’re going to make us re-ask every question so that you can buy time to make up a lie?”

Terror. “No, I swear. I’m not doing that.”

“Stacy, look at me,” Gail said. “Just tell us what happened.”

“I-I don’t want any trouble.”

“Of course you don’t. Neither do we. All we want to do is gather information. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“I-I suppose not.”

“There’s no trouble to be caused by the truth, is there?” Gail pressed. “The truth will set you free.”

“And a lie will get your butt thrown in jail,” Jonathan said, drawing an impatient look from Gail. Okay, maybe he was laying it on a little thick.

“What happened after you received that call?” Gail asked. She gently touched Stacy’s knee to draw attention away from Jonathan and signal that she was trustworthy.

Stacy’s lip trembled. Her hands, too. Tears balanced on her lids as her eyes searched the room for something to look at other than her visitors.

“Stacy?”

She bolted to her feet, startling them both. Jonathan’s hand moved toward his. 45. Right away, though, it was obvious she meant no harm. She just couldn’t sit. “I knew this would happen,” Stacy said. “I am so sorry that I ever got involved in any of it.”

Gail shot a quick look to Jonathan that said, Now this is interesting.

“Please sit down, Stacy,” Gail said. “You make us nervous when you jump up like that.”

“I knew it, knew it, knew it.”

“Knew what, Stacy?” The rule book said it was important to use the other person’s name as often as possible in a negotiation. It was a trick that salesmen have known since the beginning of time. “Tell us what you knew.”

“What do you think?” she spat. She brought her hands to her head, her fingers lost in her twisted hair. “I knew that someone would catch on.”

“Catch on to what?”

“What do you think? To the Army.”

Gail checked silently with Jonathan to see if any of this made sense to him. It didn’t.

“Sit, Stacy,” Gail said, more forcefully this time. It was the command you’d use for a dog. “Sit, settle down, and start from the beginning.”

Stacy just stood there, her right hand in her hair, the other on her hip, staring out the front window. Jonathan recognized it as a posture of angst. She was trying to decide between doing right or wrong. Gail started to say something, but Jonathan raised a hand. They needed to give her a minute.

Her right hand dropped to her hip. “Screw it,” Stacy said. “Fine. This is long overdue anyway.”

As she started back to the sofa, she froze in her tracks and craned her neck. “There’s a huge man in my backyard,” she said. “He’s armed.”

“He’s with us,” Jonathan said. He pressed the transmit button that was located just out of sight up his left sleeve-his non-gun hand. “We’re secure here, Big Guy. You can come in.”

“You’re secure?” Stacy repeated. She seemed aghast. “Secure from what?”

“Focus, Stacy,” Gail said. “Come. Sit. Start from the beginning. What is it that is coming apart?”

Stacy retook her seat next to Gail. Exactly per the plan, she was hopelessly confused. None of her world made sense right now, and confusion always played to the benefit of interrogators.

“You said something about the Army. Are you talking about the United States Army?”

“The Army of God. It’s a nutso group of paramilitary types here in the county. They’re like all the groups you hear about in the news. I don’t know that they do any harm, but they’re just creepy. Every now and then, one of the soldiers-that’s what they call themselves-tries to get away. Not often, but occasionally.”

Boxers entered the home without knocking, and effectively filled the opening. Stacy drew an inch or two closer to Gail, who again put a reassuring hand on her leg. “Really, he’s okay,” Gail said. “So what happens when they try to get away?”

“If they call us, we’re instructed to tell the sheriff right away.”

Gail produced her speckled composition notebook from a pouch pocket in her cammies and opened it. “What is the sheriff’s name?”

“Neen. Kendig Neen.” She brought her hands to her face. “Oh, God, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this.”

“And what does Sheriff Neen do with the information?” Stacy wiped away a tear. “It’s not as if he reports to me, you know? I mean, it’s the other way around.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t know the details. All I know is I tell him, and then the problem seems to go away.”

Jonathan leaned in closer. “What does ‘go away’ mean?”

The longer the interview went, the smaller Stacy seemed to become. “I mean that I just never hear any more about them. The problem just. .. goes away.” Clearly, it was the only way she knew to phrase it.

“Does that mean that the children also went away?” Gail asked.

Stacy’s eyes darted up. “Oh, they weren’t all children. In fact, this is the first one who was a child. That’s why I thought it was so, well, sad.”

Jonathan was confused. “You mean to tell me that you get calls from adults seeking help from a kidnapping, and you routinely do nothing to stop it?”

“No, no. Not at all. Not children and not kidnapping. Just people who want to get away and need help doing it.”

Boxers growled, “And you just hang them out to dry.” He had a way of making the floor move with his voice when he was pissed.

“It’s not like that,” Stacy said. Her voice showed deep frustration at not being able to get her point across. “They’re all adults over there. Or adults with children. It’s like a closed community. As far as I know, no one’s kept against their will. It’s just that sometimes, I guess, people want to be somewhere else.

“When we get the call, we turn it over to Sheriff Neen, who himself is pretty active in the Army-or at least he seems to be. He goes out and I guess he talks to them, and then there’s no problem anymore. It’s like an internal matter. A family matter.”

Gail said, “But in last night’s call, Ryan Nasbe said specifically that he and his mother had been kidnapped. He also said that his kidnappers had killed those people on the bridge in Virginia. Surely you heard about that.”

Stacy wiped her eyes again.

“Didn’t you think for a minute to call the police or something?”

“We are the police, ma’am. Out here, we’re all there is.”

“The front of every phone book lists the number for the FBI,” Jonathan said.

Her whole body seemed to sag now. “I’m a dispatcher, Agent Harris. I’m not a sworn officer. I do what I’m told, and in this case, I was told to tell Sheriff Neen and forget about it.” She turned to Gail. “And how do you know so much about this call, anyway?”

Gail ignored her. “Where do we find Sheriff Neen?”

Stacy squinted as she looked at the clock on the far wall. Red marks on the side of her nose testified to glasses that she had neglected to put on. “I imagine he’s still at home asleep. He usually gets into the office around nine.”

“And where’s the headquarters for this Army of God?”

“The headquarters or the compound?”

Jonathan waited for it.

“Well, they’re different places,” Stacy explained. “The man in charge of the Army is Michael Copley, and the-”

“He owns a factory here,” Jonathan interrupted, recalling the reference from Sam Shockley.

“Appalachian Acoustics, right. He runs everything there, or so I’m told. So I guess the headquarters would be at his house. His castle, really. The place is huge. But the compound itself is all the way at the end of Hooper Road. Do you know Hooper Road?”

“I’m sure we can find it,” Gail said.

“Maybe not,” Stacy corrected. “I don’t think it’s on any map. Anyway, the camp-or the compound, or whatever you call it-is huge. Must be a hundred acres. Maybe even more.”

“And that land is owned by this Copley guy, too?” Jonathan asked. Venice would verify all of it later, but he was curious what Stacy would say.

“I guess he owns it.” She shrugged. “I never really thought about it. He owns an awful lot out here. Anyway, there must be a couple of miles of fencing around it, and there are armed guards.”

That got all of their attentions. “ How armed?” Boxers asked.

“Pretty darned armed. Rifles and such. Or so I’m told.”

“And that didn’t impress you as odd?” Gail asked.

“Everything about them impresses me as odd,” Stacy said. “Start with the fact that they think they’re an army. As if we need another one of those. You hear shooting and stuff from up there all the time. Sheriff Neen says they have one of the best target ranges he’s ever seen. Him and the deputies shoot up there all the time.”

“And the soldiers?” Jonathan pressed. “Do they shoot up there, too?”

“I imagine. Why else have a range?”

“What are they arming up against?”

“I have no idea. Maybe just to keep people out. I’ve never heard them make any threats or anything. Plus, they’ve got those government contracts, so they can’t be but so far out there.”

Jonathan raised a hand to seek clarification. “Appalachian Acoustics has the contracts, right? Not the Army of God.”

Stacy nodded. “Right. Not that there’s a lot of difference. Most of the employees-maybe all of them-are members of the Army and they live on the campgrounds. It’s like the old days when the mines provided housing and the company store.”

Jonathan remembered Sam Shockley mentioning that she had recently been laid off from the factory. “Has the Army of God always run the factory?”

“They’ve always been involved, as far as I know, but not like they are now. Lots of folks in this area lost their jobs when Copley decided to bring everything in-house.”

“Is the factory on the compound?” Boxers asked.

“Might as well be. There might be a fence or a road or something separating them, but for all intents and purposes they’re on the same property.”

“Have you ever been up there?” Gail asked.

“Good heavens, no. That is one secure place. More fences, more guns. I think it has to do with their government contracts.”

Or their paranoia, Jonathan didn’t say. “What exactly are they contracted to do for the government?”

Another annoying shrug. “Make stuff, I guess. Whatever stuff they make. What does any of this have to do with the phone call from the boy? Is he somebody special?”

Jonathan said, “He is now.”