BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (10 page)

“We’re up on an area where Dan plans to do some exploratory drilling. He already talked to me and other property owners there about leasing our drilling rights. So, three months ago, I get this call from a guy who says he’s with something called ‘Capital Resources Development.’ I wrote it down when he said the name. He asks: Would I be willing to consider selling my property. I say: No way, I’m happy where I am. He gives me a figure that they’ll be willing to pay. I tell him: That’s way too low, even if I wanted to sell, which I don’t.

“Anyway, the next Saturday I get a visit from this guy who shows me his credentials. He’s from the Army Corps of Engineers. He points to the field behind my house, where I’ve been moving some fill dirt around to level it out. And he says I’m violating a federal ‘wetlands’ regulation. I say: Are you kidding me? There’s nothing wet out there—not even a mud puddle. It’s all bone dry, except during a heavy rain, of course. So he hands me this letter.”

DeLuca passed it across the table to Hunter; it obviously had once been crumpled up, then smoothed out. The message was short.

Hunter looked up. “It accuses you of ‘discharging a pollutant into navigable waters of the United States, under provisions of the 1972 Clean Water Act.’”

“Dylan, we live two miles from the nearest
creek,
let alone any ‘navigable water.’”

Adair broke in. “I have to deal with that ‘wetlands’ stuff all the time. My lawyer told me that a federal court back in 1975 expanded the definition of ‘navigable waterways’ to include swamps and bogs. Later on, a government manual expanded the definition of ‘wetlands’ to even include land that’s waterlogged by rain as little as seven days per year.”

“So what’s this ‘pollutant’ they say you were ‘discharging’?”

“The fill dirt I was moving around,” DeLuca said.

“Just a minute,” Annie said. “You’re telling us that the feds regard
natural soil
as a ‘pollutant’—and treat a mostly dry field as a ‘navigable waterway’?”

“Oh wait, it gets even better,” DeLuca said, bitter creases showing at the corners of his mouth. “One week after that, I get a second phone call from the guy at this Capital Resources outfit. He asks me—get this—he asks me ‘if anything may have happened in the past week’ to change my mind about selling my property. Then he makes me another offer. Only this time it’s ten thousand bucks
lower
than the first offer.”

The room fell silent. In the fireplace, glowing embers hissed and popped.

Adair finally spoke. “When Don told me that, I started asking around. I found out that other property owners up there who might lease their mineral rights to us have been experiencing similar things. Capital Resources has been quietly buying up land around here for the better part of a year. But whenever a property owner says no, within a short period he’s contacted by some government agency. Sometimes it’s EPA, claiming some kind of pollution violation. Other times, it’s the Interior Department, saying they’re not in compliance with some National Forest regulation. A couple of homeowners were told their properties were under consideration to be declared ‘endangered species habitats.’ Then, each time, the same thing happens: They get a second call from Capital Resources, with a lower-ball offer for their property.”

DeLuca looked at Hunter, his eyes blazing. “So, you tell me that this is all just coincidence.”

Hunter leaned back in his chair. He shook his head slowly.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“
Damn it!”
Boggs gasped, sucking on the bleeding wound. He found the bathroom, rinsed off the blood, patted it dry with a towel that he dropped onto the floor, then wound toilet paper around his stinging hand. He pulled out his walkie-talkie and keyed it.

“I’m inside the cabin. It’s empty. Any sign of those two?”

“No, nothing … I was getting worried,” Rusty said. “You’ve been gone, like, ten minutes.”

“I was held up. They held an animal in here that I had to liberate.”

“Well, okay. But you better get moving.”

“I’m on it.”

He fetched the bag and studied the area around the front door. Then he unpacked the various items and placed them in a tidy order on the floor.

Pipe bomb, sealed against moisture in a plastic bag.

Detonator, wrapped in cloth.

Wiring.

Battery, its terminals covered by tape.

Electrical switch.

Electrical tape and duct tape.

Ball of twine …

He started the assembly, working with a speed and confidence born of long experience.

“So, what’s your story, Tom?” Hunter asked.

“We live just outside of Warren, so we aren’t in the middle of the stuff Don and Dan are talking about.” Bell settled his coffee cup back onto its saucer. “Or so I thought. Since Kaitlin and I were married, my company’s done some building work for Dan over the past few years. A couple of his area offices, the big garage over in Tionesta for all his trucks and vehicles—even a lot of the work on this house.”

“Nice job,” Silva said, looking around appreciatively.

“Thanks,” Bell said, smiling. The smile faded. “Then, six weeks ago, I received notice from the IRS that I’m being audited. Business
and
personal. It came in the mail two days after Christmas.”

“Funny thing,” said Adair, “my audit notice arrived the same day.”

“And I got mine a week later,” DeLuca said. “Happy New Year.”

“Speaking of coincidences,” Adair continued, “chew on this. Two more of my employees, besides Don and me, have been approached by that Capital Resources company to buy our property. All four of us refused. Now, all of us have been notified that the IRS is going to audit us.”

He paused, shifting his eyes between Hunter’s and Annie’s. “Oh yes, and one other thing: All four of us who got IRS audit letters also started to receive anonymous hate mail and phone threats. The callers seem to have a
lot
of specific personal information about us, especially financial. And from the language they use, they sound just like those WildJustice ecoterrorists. So tell me: How would a group like WildJustice be able to get our private financial information—unless somebody at the IRS is feeding it to them?”

Hunter nodded slowly. “It wouldn’t be the first time that the IRS—and the EPA, for that matter—have been caught targeting individuals and leaking their personal information to political groups, in order to gin up harassment campaigns.”

“Do you think that’s what is happening here?”

“Dan, you’ve convinced me that
something
is going on here. Stopping fracking certainly seems to be a big part of it. But maybe only one part of it. Maybe several completely unrelated things are going on.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” DeLuca said. “All I can tell you is, if something isn’t done to stop what’s going on, nobody’s gonna want to live around here anymore. Or be able to. If they put people like Dan out of business, there won’t be any jobs.”

His fists were clenched again, and the bitter lines carved around his mouth were even deeper.

“And what good is private property, anyway, if we aren’t allowed to do anything with it? The government and these greenies—they’re killing our property values. Pretty soon, our deeds will be almost worthless. That's why I just don’t get it. Why would anyone even
want
to buy us out, now? Who’s crazy enough to buy bad deeds?”

By flashlight, Boggs finished putting the last piece of duct tape into place. Then stood back to survey his workmanship.

It was simplicity itself. He had securely duct-taped a pipe bomb to the inside wall, just above the door. Right beside it, he also had taped a battery and electric switch. Next, he fastened one end of a length of twine to the inside door knob, and tied the other end around the switch, currently set in the “off” position. Finally, he carefully wired the battery to the switch, and the switch to the detonator he inserted into the bomb casing.

When the door was opened, the drawstring would pull and flip the switch, completing a circuit from the battery to the detonator. A hail of pipe shrapnel and nails would blast down onto the first person entering. If the second person wasn’t directly in the path of the blast, he or she would nonetheless witness their loved one torn to pieces. Which would be far more painful, he thought, than that person’s own sudden death.

He smiled at his handiwork. It was foolproof. At least one of the two who had humiliated him before his followers would pay tonight with his life. And the survivor would pay emotionally forever.

For a few seconds, he thought of his ally and financier. The man wouldn’t like this at all, if he knew. But of course, he didn’t know. Some things, it was better that he
didn’t
know. “Deniability,” they called it.

Boggs methodically gathered up and packed away his materials, checking to make absolutely sure that he had left none of them behind. Then he returned to the rear window, which he had left open for a fast exit, if necessary. He placed the bag on the floor and signaled Rusty with the walkie-talkie key switch, three fast clicks, to let him know he was finished and leaving. He donned his ski mask and gloves again and climbed out of the window, this time feet first. Then reached in to retrieve the bag. Finally, closed the window.

He didn’t risk leaving by the driveway, in case the couple returned. Instead, he circled through the woods and back to the truck, as quickly as the heavy bag allowed.

The pickup was still idling as he approached. When he entered, its interior was deliciously warm and the heater had kept the windshield clear of frost. Rusty put the vehicle in gear and moved off.

“So how did it go?”

Boggs could barely keep his teeth from chattering when he answered.

“The first person to enter will have his head blown right off and turned into shredded wheat.” He paused to yank off the ski mask, wincing as the cloth dragged across his cheek. His hand throbbed where the cat had bitten it.

“Personally, I hope it’s the bitch. I want the guy to survive and suffer.”

“He reminds you of your father, doesn’t he?”

She saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He kept his eyes on the road. After a few beats, he answered: “A little, I guess.”

“I’d guess more than a little.”

She remained quiet a moment, studying his face as he drove through Endeavor, then took East Hickory Road when it branched off to the left.

“You miss him a lot, don’t you, Dylan.” A statement.

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“A lot.”

She put her hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

A smile flickered on his face. “Sure you do. But it’s okay … They don’t really look at all alike. Their styles are different, too … Were. I mean …”

She gave his thigh a squeeze. “I know what you mean.”

“Both entrepreneurs,” he continued. “Both self-contained and independent. Both proud and confident. They would have liked each other. In fact, I told him that—sort of.” He paused, then added: “I was watching him looking at his daughter. And how he was with his wife and grandchildren. Big Mike was a lot like that, too. A great husband.” He paused again—longer. “And a great father.”

She smiled. She adored him for his own strength and confidence and independence. But she found herself loving him more deeply at moments like these, when she sensed his deepest passions and private vulnerabilities.

“I’m sure he was enormously proud of you, Dylan,” she said softly.

His face appeared to tighten again, as did his hands on the wheel. He didn’t say anything.

After a moment, he slowed the car and turned up their driveway. The headlights bounced and flashed off patches of ice, then off the windows of the Honda and the cabin.

As always, he pulled up near the structure, then backed around parallel to the Honda, facing outward.

“We don’t have much left in there,” he said, shutting off the ignition. “If I pack it in here now, we can head out first thing in the morning.”

She ran her hand along his thigh. “I don’t know. Maybe we can, um, sleep in tomorrow morning, and leave for D.C. around noon.”

He grinned at her. “Maybe we can do that.”

He got out, came around as always to open her door for her and help her out. She tilted her face up to meet his kiss. His lips felt hot in the cold air.

He handed her the keys. “You go on ahead. I’ll root around in the back here and bring in a bottle of wine and an opener.”

She found herself smiling and humming to herself as she crunched over the frozen soil to the porch. The stairs creaked underfoot, and she stopped outside the screen door to fumble for the keys. She turned and held them up in the weak light, flipping through them to find the right ones—one for each lock. Finally did.

She turned and was about to open the screen door when he called out to her.

“Oh, and don’t forget to check the tell-tales.”

“I
did
almost forget.” She opened the screen door and bent to look for the twigs. Found them undisturbed.

“They’re fine,” she shouted back. She turned and put the bottom key in the lock. Turned it open. Fumbled around for the other key.

He said something else, and she didn’t quite hear it. She stopped and turned. “What?”

He stood up from behind the open rear door. “I said: Do you think our cat will need me to bring in some extra food tonight?”

“No,” she answered. “
We
might starve in the morning, but we have more than enough food for Luna!”

She turned and bent to put the key in the deadbolt lock.

“Mrrroww.”

She stopped, frowning. For an instant, it seemed that the sound had come from
this
side of the door.

“I’m coming, Luna!” She scraped around for the keyhole. “Just a minute!”

“Maaowwww!”

It startled her. It was
definitely
from somewhere behind her. She straightened and turned.

Luna was huddled on the bottom step, face turned up to her.
“Meooowww!”

She was stunned.

“
Luna!
What are you doing out here?” She walked over to the steps and crouched down to her.