Devil's Run (8 page)

I had only street shoes,
so it was a cold sprint across the rear yard of the hotel. I skirted the
tightly covered pool and headed towards a path into the forest that was wider
than the average hiking trail. From the churned snow and chunks of dark earth,
it was also well-travelled. I ventured into the woods about twenty feet, far
enough to hide me from view, and waited by a wooden bridge over a small brook.
Beyond it the trail split off in opposite directions.

The snow in the
surrounding woods was virgin and untouched. Blue shadows cast by the afternoon
sun gave it that Whitman Sampler look that delights the tourists. It was also
deathly quiet. When, after five minutes of waiting, a chunk of snow fell off a
branch, the plop seemed as loud as a pistol shot.

Then the distant buzzing
of a powerful motor broke the silence. It grew steadily closer until a Polaris
snowmobile skidded to a halt just the other side of the bridge. The rider got
off, leaving the motor idling. He wore a black snowsuit and a helmet whose
visor obscured his face.

He motioned me forward
and indicated I should raise my hands. Once I reached him, he quickly and
professionally searched me, going through every pocket and patting down every
inch. When he was satisfied I hadn't hidden a cell phone or pistol up my ass,
he pulled a helmet off the gear rack and handed it to me. While I put it on, he
remounted the sled and gunned the engine. I climbed on board behind him.

My butt had barely
touched leather when he accelerated, spraying snow and mud behind us. The
sudden lurch tossed me against the rear pad. I grabbed the holy shit handles
and hung on for dear life.

The Polaris was a
powerful touring model and he was an accomplished driver. I'd driven
snowmobiles, but his skill, coupled with intimate knowledge of the trail, was
uncanny. We whipped through turns and roared up inclines with barely any
reduction in speed. At a straightaway, I stole a look over his shoulder. It was
hard to tell with the vibration, but I thought the digital speedometer
displayed eighty. I chose to not look again. Instead, I concentrated on the
very civilized heated handgrips.

Our route was part of a
larger network of trails. At one point we exited the forest and rode on the
shoulder of a public road. A quarter mile later the trail veered back into the
hills, skirting a farmhouse and barn before crossing an earthen bridge just
wide enough for the sled. Below us an ice choked creek spilled out of a metal
pipe. Then we were across and into a clearing so quickly we frightened a herd
of deer.

Despite the uncertainty
of my situation, and the fact that I was freezing to death, I was quickly
caught up in the exhilaration of the ride. The bounding deer were a thrilling sight,
and, in the angled light of a winter afternoon, every vista was worthy of its
own Christmas card.

A short while later
civilization reared its ugly head. We flew out of the woods into a power line
right of way. The trail became a tortured track of muddy snow snaking around
the metal towers. A half mile below a single set of train tracks gleamed in the
sunlight. Just beyond the tracks was a metal warehouse, its steeply pitched
roof covered with snow. Forty feet away from its open door was a trailer of the
sort used as a job site office by construction companies. The remains of a few
trucks and cars, in varying states of decay sat nearby. On the far side of the
warehouse was a cyclone fence topped with razor wire. From the closed gate, a
single lane road stretched past empty fields and bits of forest.

We flew down the
remainder of the trail and bumped across the train tracks with no change in
speed. The driver navigated past an old trackside loading ramp that looked as
if it hadn't been used in a century. When we reached the warehouse, he parked
next to five other sleds of various makes and models and switched off the
motor.

I got off and removed
the helmet. “Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, “I shan't need you the rest of the
evening.”

He dismounted without a
word or a backward glance, and strode into the warehouse. I placed the helmet
on the seat of the sled. With the motor off, the thump and clatter of a
printing press was clearly audible. I heard a sound behind me and turned
towards the trailer. Epstein was coming out the door marked “Office”.

“I trust you found the
journey interesting,” he said, coming towards me, hands thrust in the pockets
of a sheepskin jacket.

“Yes. That was quite a
ride.”

“I wanted to make sure
you weren't followed.” He walked up and stood close to me. “I dare say Mensa
isn't beating down their door, but Briggs and Stanton are competent in their
own plodding way.”

“It doesn't seem to
bother you much,” I said.

“I've been branded a
radical for over thirty years, Mr. Craig. Having the FBI in my hair is part of
the routine.”

“For a radical you have
quite a capitalist streak. You rent snowmobiles on the side?” I pointed at the
parked machines.

“What? Oh, no. Those
belong to my employees. Snowmobiles are a way of life up here in the winter
months.”

“They come to work on
them?”

“Good Lord, yes.” As if
to emphasize his words, the distant sound of another sled carried to us from
the hill above. “I don't like to talk outside,” he said, and we walked towards
the warehouse. “It's a whole social scene up here.” We were back to talking
about the snowmobiles, I realized. “Miles of trails. You can ride all the way
to Canada and beyond.”

“Handy for a getaway.”

He stopped and smiled at
me. “If a person needed that sort of option.”

“Yeah, if. Better hope
you have a full tank, though.”

“Oh, there are fueling
stations, even bars and restaurants. A world of its own.”

“Doesn't it bother you?”
I said.

“Doesn't what?”

“Snowmobiles. Trails.
Gas stations, bars, abuse of the virgin forest.”

He smiled. “A little.
But, I'm a practical man.”

“Or a hypocrite.”

“Call it what you like.
What I publish is one thing, but I live in the real world.”

“Unlike your followers.”

He kept smiling. “I have
no followers, Mr. Craig. Only readers.”

“I'm looking for a
couple of your readers.”

“I know.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Let's go inside,” he
said.

I followed him in
through the warehouse door and received quite a shock. From the noise, I had
expected machinery that filled the building. Instead, the wide concrete floor was
mostly empty. In the center of the room a low series of eight interconnected
machines on a raised metal platform. At one end was a computer workstation,
controlled by a middle-aged woman. On the far side of the room, at two rows of
steel roller conveyors, a handful of workers packed finished books into
cardboard boxes and slid the boxes to others for stacking on shipping pallets.

I looked at Epstein for
an explanation.

“Digital recording,” he
said. “On a loop.”

“You're a careful man,
Mr. Epstein.”

“Yes I am.” He pointed
behind me.

I turned. There were
some small rooms off the main floor. My driver stood in the doorway of one of
them, cradling a Winchester lever action rifle. He was a young man, with brown
hair cut short. I turned back to Epstein.

“So why am I here?”

“You may be of some use
to me. If what you say is the truth.”

“I’m just looking for
some missing kids.”

He thought for a moment,
toeing the concrete with a sheepskin boot that looked homemade. Finally he
said, “I'm concerned about some of my readers. They were on a trip together out
west. I haven't heard from them in a while, and I fear their subscriptions may
have expired.”

“Boyd and Nesbitt?”

“I don't recall using
any names. And it’s more than two.”

“A trip? The fire in
Colorado.”

“That's a connection you
are making on your own. However, let's imagine for a moment that your
supposition is correct.”

“Something went wrong.”

“Yes.”

“They wanted to send a
message. Back off on the expansion, stop the growth. Like Vail.”

“That seems logical.” He
lowered his voice more and I strained to hear him. “Something happened, no one
knows what. None of these subscribers has been heard from since.”

“So how many are we
talking about.”

He spread the fingers of
his right hand.

“Five?” I said. He
nodded. “Ken and Julie?”

He shrugged.

“Was this Roger one of
them?”

“No,” he said, shaking
his head.

“But he is missing,
right?”

“By choice.”

“So you’ve been in
touch.”

“I did not say that.
Let’s just say I have reason to believe he is alive and well.”

“Who exactly is this
guy?”

“A firm believer in what
you referred to earlier today as direct action. His real name is unimportant.
He is very good at recruiting, particularly young ladies. Court records, I
fear, are strewn with the convictions of those he seduces to the cause.”

“What's his background?”

“He hooked up
with Bill Rodgers in the late nineties. Hence his
nom de guerre.”

“Rodgers was behind the
Vail fire in ninety-eight. I thought they caught everyone working with him.”

“Almost everyone. As I
said, Roger is very good at not getting caught.”

“Yeah, a real hero.” I
pointed at the man with the rifle. “You’re scared. Why?”

Epstein stole a glance
over his shoulder. “I've been losing contact with more subscribers.”

“What does that mean?”

“A surprising number of
individuals devoted to the cause have recently met with accidents. A number
that seems statistically impossible. I suspect someone may be attempting to
terminate the opposition.”

“Opposition?”

“The green movement.”

“You mean the radical
green movement.”

“Characterize it how you
will.”

“That's why you took
down the articles about The Retreat. Hoping to distance yourself.”

“Yes. As you pointed
out, it was careless of me not to think about web archives.” He shrugged. “So
now you know as much as I do.”

I thought about what Briggs
had said, that eventually, everyone makes a mistake. In this case, Epstein may
have made it with the wrong people. The man holding the rifle turned his head
and looked towards the door. I looked down at Epstein and smiled.

“You do like to play
games, don't you?”

“How so?” he said.

I nodded towards the man
with the rifle. “The man who brought me here has a scar on his neck.”

“So?”

“That's Roger.”

Epstein smiled at me. “I
may have to kill you yet.”

“Let's cut the shit,
shall we? You've never killed anyone.”

He nodded. “You're
right. I've fought for peace all my life, Mr. Craig. Killing isn't in my
nature.”

“You'd be surprised at
what you can do if you're pushed hard enough.”

He looked at me closely
and said, “I believe you speak with authority on that.” Without looking back,
he called over his shoulder. “Please join us.”

Roger sauntered over
with an arrogant swagger, the Winchester cradled in his arms. Good looking in a
roguish sort of way, with a lean build like a swimmer. He could easily pass for
mid twenties, although from his history he had to be much older than that.

“It seems that your
purple badge of courage has given you away,” said Epstein.

Roger reached up and
rubbed the scar.

“Mr. Craig is trying to
find some people that may be friends of yours. I believe he has some questions,
for you.”

Roger looked around at
the employees nearby. “Let's go in the office” he said. His voice was deep,
almost soothing.

He turned and walked
abruptly towards the door. Epstein made no move to follow, just raised his
eyebrows. I got the message and followed Roger out. He led me across the yard
to the trailer. We mounted the steps, and went inside.

The interior was not
designed to impress. A couple of cheap metal desks and some mismatched filing
cabinets were the only decor. There were older model PCs on both desks and
pretty basic telephones. The only decoration was a large erasable calendar hung
on the back wall, with what appeared to be shipping and delivery dates.

Roger went to one of the
desks and rummaged in the top drawer. His hand came out holding a large
massaging vibrator with a fist sized head.

“I may have given you
the wrong idea,” I said.

He didn't even
acknowledge the remark, much less smile. He plugged the vibrator in and turned
it on, placing it on top of the filing cabinet so that the vibrating head
touched the window. The glass began to shimmy and rattle.

“Lasers?” I said.

He nodded. “We sweep for
bugs twice a day, but we can't do anything about the lasers. Except this.”

They thought highly of
themselves. I doubted the FBI budget for little old Jack Epstein included
Briggs and Stanton camped out in snow camo armed with expensive listening
devices.

“Tell me about Ken
Boyd.”

Roger sat down behind
the desk in a metal folding chair that had seen better days. I took the similar
one in front.

“Boyd, eh? He was the
perfect patsy.”

“Let me guess,” I said.
“Little Julie worked her wiles on him, seducing him to the cause.”

“It didn't take much.
The kid has daddy issues.”

“Has? You know he's
alive?”

“I don't know that he's
dead.”

He was a cocky,
insufferable bastard. I wanted to kick his teeth in on general principle.
Instead, I said, “Did you know who he was when you went after him?”

He shook his head. “Not
at first. We just pegged him as a rich kid with the right major, plus that van
was pretty sweet. And he looked like he had difficulty with the ladies.” He
favored me with a toothy smile. “He was one of many possibilities.”

“Did you pick The
Retreat because of him? Or was that just luck?”

“It was already on the
list, but he clinched it. When we found out he actually knew the layout and the
people, well, it was kismet.” He snorted. “And, boy was he anxious to stick it
to his dad.”

“And little Julie
learned all this by sleeping with him.”

He shrugged. “All for
the cause, man. You'd be surprised the stuff some guys will tell a chick
willing to bang 'em.”

“You didn't mind?”

“Mind?” He looked at me
as if I had three heads. “She's just a chick and I get all I want. Besides, I
didn't have to worry. No way he gave her what she got from me.”

All she got from you was
used, I thought. “So how did it work? Ken drew out a great deal of cash just
before he disappeared.”

“Gas, food, expenses. I
don't leave a paper trail, man. Everything is paid in cash.”

“So you all drove to Colorado
in his van.”

“Right.”

“Why this target,
besides Ken’s knowledge?”

He leaned forward and
spread his hands. “This fucking place. Expanding. Right there on top of the
mountain.” He sorted. “Thought they could slide by because of the mine clean up
and their hydroponic garden.”

“The what and their
what?”

“There were mines there.
Lead, zinc, gold. And a little town for the workers. Place only closed
completely in the eighties, after they raped the earth almost beyond repair.
It's a Superfund site, now.”

“They're building a
resort on a contaminated site?”

“Nah, that's only one
part of it. Where their fucking golf course is gonna go.” He waved a hand.
“It's all part of the con. That they're going to finish cleaning it up.”

“And the hydroponic
garden?”

“They’re trying to kill
local dissent with some green bullshit about how they’re growing their own
vegetables and fruits right there on the mountain. Reduce their carbon
footprint. Load of crap! It’s all cover for a major expansion.”

“Why do you say that?”

He sat back in the
chair, tilting it against the rear wall, and put his feet up on the desk. The
big boots thudded wetly on the scarred metal. Little bits of muddy snow fell to
the desktop.

“There was way too much
stuff up there. Big construction shed, tons of framing material, some sort of
bulldozer thing they'd helicoptered in. Then there’s that fucking cable car
they built, defacing Diablo Canyon. And they’re planning a whole new gondola
lift.”

“So you were gonna throw
a wrench in the works. What was the plan?”

“Security's tight up
there. I mean really tight, so they felt safe. Can't get close to the buildings
or the cable car, but for some reason this stuff, this construction stuff, was
right out there in the open. And, man, I can tell you, lumber goes up like
that.” He snapped his fingers. “Ken knew about an old hiking trail and an
overgrown game tunnel they’d overlooked. It ran right under the perimeter
fence. That was our way in.”

“What about patrols?”

“We had a local watching
for two weeks, timing the rounds, marking the security areas, videotaping
everything. Once I got there, I watched for two nights myself just to confirm.
Third night, we went in.”

“What happened?”

He spread his hand. “We
parked on a fire road just outside the property boundary, below the ghost town.
Five warriors go in on snowshoes with night vision goggles.”

“Where'd you get those?”

“At Toys R Us, grandpa.
Welcome to the 21st Century.”

“Thanks for the tip.” My
hands longed for the feel of his neck. “How did you communicate?”

“Walkie-talkies. From
Radio Shack” he added, as if I’d lost track of technology advances around the
time of the telegraph. “We had fire gel for the lumber, sugar for the
bulldozer’s fuel tank. Simple cigarette and matchbook timer to light off the
gel. Like in that old movie, you know, where the guys are in the prison camp?”

“So what went wrong?”

He shook his head. “I
have no idea. We were waiting at the rendezvous, on a ridge about a half mile
from the van, monitoring communications and shooting video.”

“Wait,” I said, “who is
we?”

“My local guy.”

“Local? You mean a
permanent resident? Who was it?”

“Guy named Madigan. I’m
only telling you ‘cause he’s dead now.”

“Dead? How?”

“Car accident,” he said,
in a tone that made it clear he didn’t believe it.

“When was this?”

“Less than two weeks
afterwards.”

“Alright, go on with
what happened that night.”

“Ten minutes ahead of
schedule, man, it was Mt. St Helens up there.” He made a blast gesture with his
hands. “Boom. Explosions, fire.”

“Did you hear anything
from your team?”

“Nothing I could
understand. The radio transmissions were garbled. Then I hear shooting up
there, on the mountain. All of a sudden there's a helicopter with searchlights
sweeping the area. Cars with flashers coming up the fire road.”

“You left.”

“We ran like hell.”

“We?”

“Madigan and me.”

“You didn't take the
van?”

“No, they spotted it
before I could get back. The chopper was circling, beam right on it. I couldn't
take the chance.”

“How did you get away?”

“Preparation, man. I've
been doing this a long time. I knew every way in and out and I have people in
Colorado. I just kept moving from safe house to safe house until it was okay to
catch a freight.”

As if to punctuate his
story, a train whistle sounded in the distance.

“So you never saw, or
heard from, any of the five again?” I said.

“No. I made my way here.
Took me a month.” He smiled his annoying, lascivious smile. “Stayed with some
lady friends along the way.”

 The door opened
behind me. It was Epstein.

“It's getting late,” he
said. “Time you went back.”

“You wouldn't want the
Feds to get worried about ya, man,” said Roger.

“I think they already
know,” said Epstein. “Someone is watching from the hill.”

“Let 'em watch,” said
Roger. He uncoiled from the desk and dropped the chair back to four legs with
force that rattled the floorboards. Then he got up and switched off the
vibrator. He picked up the rifle, holding it casually at his side. He went
outside and down the steps while Epstein held the door open. I followed him
outside. The train whistle sounded again, closer. I could hear the rattling of
the cars in the distance.

“Did you get what you
needed?” said Epstein.

“I think so. Enough to
know where to start looking for answers.”

We went down the steps
and started across the yard towards the warehouse. Roger was already at the
snowmobile, inserting the key. He picked up the spare helmet, came a few feet
towards us, then tossed it to me. I caught it one handed.

“I gotta get mine,” he
said, then turned and went into the warehouse.

“You made that exception
to your rules you never make,” I said to Epstein. “Thank you for that.”

“These are unusual
circumstances. Our cause is important, but no one is supposed to get hurt. I do
hope you will remember to contact me if you learn anything.”

“Count on it.”

We stood facing each
other as a slow freight approached, pulled by two diesel locomotives. The horn
wailed again, now much louder. The tracks began to rattle and the wind carried
the faint smell of diesel fuel and overheated brakes. A rush of air pushed
through the yard and then the locomotives were going by. Once they passed, the
sound level dropped from ear-shattering to merely mind numbing. About a dozen
freight cars rolled by with a rhythmic clumping. Behind them were flatbeds
bearing shipping containers.

Roger came out of the
warehouse, holding his helmet. He no longer had the rifle.

I turned to Epstein and
shouted over the noise. “So where are they watching us from?”

There are moments where
time seems to slow down and you see everything with startling clarity. The
bullet hitting Epstein was one of those moments. At his temple, where there had
been just thinning grey hair and pale skin, there was now a red hole, a perfect
circle. His eyes bulged briefly from the pressure inside his skull, only to
collapse back when the round exploded out the right side of his head, just
above the jaw line. A bright red mist of blood touched my face.

I somehow noticed all
that, even though I was already diving for cover, rolling between two of the
snowmobiles before Epstein's body hit the ground. I heard a metallic thud,
followed by the sound of another shot. I rolled to the front of the sled and
saw Roger standing against the warehouse, a stunned look on his face. He slid
slowly to a sitting position, leaving a bloody smear on the metal wall. He may
have been dead already, but someone made sure. A second bullet took away the
top part of his head. His body jerked sideways and toppled over.

I ventured a quick look.
There were two of them halfway up the hill beneath one of the electrical
towers. The spotter was already sitting on a snowmobile. The shooter was
flailing away at a tower leg with the rifle. He tossed the mangled weapon aside
and climbed aboard.

I put my helmet on and
jumped on the snowmobile, reversing away from the building and turning towards
the trail. The killers' sled was headed away, up the slope, and the train
blocked my way. If it didn't end soon, I'd have no chance of catching them.

Two men in coveralls
ventured out the door of the warehouse. One of them, an older man, had the
Winchester. He looked at the two bodies, then at me, then back at the two
bodies. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed it at me. I gunned
the throttle and took the sled in a wide arc away from the tracks, towards the
gate. When I got close, I saw it was not just closed, but padlocked. I
continued my turn into a circle. The old man fired, missing me and hitting the
trailer.

This was not going well.
I could only circle like a duck in a shooting gallery, hoping he didn't hit me
before the train ended, which wasn’t happening anytime soon. The container
laden cars were giving way to a string of five empties. Behind them were more
containers. I looked from the train to the rotting wooden platform, whose
sloping ramp might give me just enough height.

The last of the empty
cars was passing the platform. I redlined the throttle and took six hundred
pounds of metal and plastic up the ramp and into the air.