Final Disposition (16 page)

      It occurred to Cellars that he was supposedly an Oregon State Police Detective Sergeant, which meant that he ought to be able to drive over to the nearest OSP substation — wherever that was — walk in, be recognized by one of his fellow officers, and get all of the help he needed.

      That made sense, but only if Jeremiah Carter had been right about his true identity and occupation … and how much reliance could he put on the ramblings of a deluded old man?

      
Not much
, Cellars thought,
but what about Eleanor Patterson?  Had she ever actually identified me as an OSP officer?

      He tried to think back over everything the elderly woman had said at the radio station; but the only useful thing he could recall was something about him having shot at his own police car.

      Cellars’ mind immediately flashed back to the scene of his all-too-recent shooting when he’d fired three shots at the shadow reaching for the door of the Humvee.

      
Christ, what is all this, déjà vu?

      Shaking his head in an effort to get the still-frightening shadow-figure images out of his mind, he suddenly remembered something else … something that the old man had said.

      “… a senior crime scene investigator for the Oregon State Patrol who just got transferred down from Portland to take over a major investigation.” 
And that was when, ten eleven days ago?  And I was apparently unconscious in a VA clinic for at least half of that time?  So how many graveyard duty OSP officers are likely to know me here in Medford?  Can’t be many … and, if there’s only one or two, what are the chances that I’ll get lucky and run across the right patrol office or duty sergeant?  And, more to the point, can I really afford to take that kind of risk right now?

      The sudden realization of what he was going to have to do hit Cellars like a punch in the gut.

      Back to Jasper County?  Two more hours of driving … in this weather?

      Oh … crap.

      Resigned, but still muttering to himself, Cellars turned on the wipers to clear the newly accumulated snow off the windshield, sighed, and then slowly drove the heavy military vehicle out of the parking lot and into the stormy darkness.

*     *     *

      Cellars had traveled less than four miles north on the Crater Lake Highway — all four windows open now, which meant the snow drifts were starting to pile up in the freezing but at least moderately better-smelling cab — retracing his earlier route back to Jasper County where he figured he had a much better chance of finding a graveyard OSP officer who might recognize him, when his eyes happened to flicker down to the Humvee’s fuel gage … something he hadn’t paid any attention to before.

      
Oh, shit.

      The narrow gauge needle was flickering on the edge of ‘E’.

      The first thing that occurred to Cellars was that he was going to run dry before he found an open gas station that sold diesel fuel.

      And then: even if he managed to find a station, did he have enough money to fuel the monstrous vehicle all the way back to Jasper County?  He had no idea how much diesel fuel cost, much less what kind of mileage a Humvee got in a blinding snowstorm.

      But ultimately he realized that neither of those things really mattered, because even if he found an open station in time, he couldn’t just drive in and say ‘fill her up” to the attendant.  Not with the filthy body of good old Jeremiah Carter getting progressively riper in the all-too-open back seat … a fact that would be immediately evident to anyone who happened to walk within an eight-to-ten-foot radius of the deceased with at least one of the Humvee’s windows or doors open.

      
And how the hell do I get around
that
?

      Not easily, that was for sure.

      Figuring that he’d better come up with some kind of plan before he drove much further, Cellars pulled the Humvee off onto a side road and shut off the motor.

      He immediately realized his mistake.

      Lacking the cleansing flow of cold fresh air, the smell in the Humvee started getting really bad again almost immediately, causing Cellars to abandon the minimal protection afforded by the open cab and stand outside on the darkened side road, watching the snowflake clumps swirling all around him as far as he could see.

      
Okay, smart guys, now what?

      Cellars was still waiting for some clever plan to emerge from his ominously silent frontal lobes when it occurred to him to wonder what Sergeant First Class MacGregor and Staff Sergeant Harthburn were doing … and if — with any luck — they were having an equally miserable time wandering around the countryside in the storm looking for him.

      “Hate to say ‘I hope so’, guys,” Cellars muttered, staring morosely out into the darkness, “but —”

      He blinked, smiled, and then reached in the Humvee’s open passenger side window, the idea still forming in his mind as he turned MacGregor’s pack set radio back on and began to listen.

      There were sporadic communications going back and forth on the second channel, mostly unknown voices — five different ones, as best he could tell through the static — briefly reporting negative results at specified grid locations.  Cellars ignored them.  He was listening for a voice he recognized.

      Three minutes later, the very distinctive voice of MP Staff Sergeant Harthburn crackled over the airwaves.

 
      
“Where you at, Mac?”
 

      
“South on I-five, just passing the Rogue River exit. How about you?”
 

      
“I’m still at the Grants Pass Army on Brookside, circling the area …
      
but no sign of Cellars or the Humvee.”
 

      
“He’s been a no-show at the Grants Pass OSP substation too,” MacGregor responded. “Nobody’s seen or heard from him.”
 

      
“What do you think?”
 

      
“I think he was messing with the guard at the gate, that’s what I think,” MacGregor growled.
 

      
“Misdirection?”
 

      
“Very possibly.  I’m heading for the Medford OSP substation now, check in with the watch commander there, see if he’ll help us set up a net in Jackson County, just in case.”
 

      
“Want some backup?”
 

      
“Negative, you guys stay put.  If he really is in Josephine County, there are only so many places he can take a Humvee without attracting attention.  If he pops up in one of them, I want you guys on him fast.  I’ll let you know if I hear anything out here.”
 

      
“Roger that.  Out.”
 

      Humming to himself now, Cellars got back inside the Humvee, set the pack set radio aside, and turned the interior light on briefly to check his map.  Then he started the engine up again, got back to the intersection for the Crater Lake Highway, and then turned south … heading back toward Medford.

       At the Vilas intersection, just inside the northeast Medford city limits, he turned right off the Highway, and kept on driving — keeping an uneasy eye on the gas gauge — until he neared the next intersection at Table Rock Road.  There, he pulled off onto a mostly vacant lot now covered with a deep layer of snow, and parked the Humvee in between a pair of closely-parked empty flat-bed trucks, giving himself as much space to open the door and get out on his side as he could.

      Then, still humming to himself, he reached over to the non-functioning GPS unit, reattached the power cord, turned the unit on, and waited.

      It didn’t take long at all.

 
      
“Jesus Christ, Mac, his GPS unit just lit up!”
 

      
“Where is he?  I can’t tell. I’m getting a broken signal at my location.”
 

      
“He’s in Medford, north-east corner, at the intersection of Vilas and Table Rock roads.”
 

      
“That SOB … I knew he was gaming that guard.  I’m on my way there, right now!”
 

      
“Hey, don’t forget, we know how he’s armed. You want to hold back until we can get there?”
 

      
“Negative, this guy seems to be a lot smarter than he is aggressive. He probably read the instruction card, and just turned the GPS on to get a sense of where he’s at.  I want to get there ASAP and put a tail on his ass before he shuts the unit back off.”
 

      
“What about local backup?  The Sheriff’s Office or Medford PD units?”
 

      
“Negative, we’re going to handle this fubar entirely by ourselves. I want Cellars in custody and back on base before the General even knows he was gone.”
 

      
“Roger that.  We’re enroute to your location now.  Figure a minimum ETA of forty-five in this weather, maybe more if it starts getting worse.  Watch yourself out there.”
 

      
“Copy that.  Out.”
 

*     *     *

      Cellars watched MP Sergeant First Class MacGregor approaching the intersection of Vilas and Table Rock roads at high speed — his front tires sending snow spewing in all directions — with a sense of satisfaction born of a feeling that he was truly beginning to understand the man.

      
One-track mind, indeed, nurse Marcini … couldn’t have described him better myself.

      In truth, he was actually a little surprised that the MP non-com was coming on this aggressively against a presumed whack-job Army Major known to be armed with a 9-mm Baretta and forty-five rounds of military ball ammo —
no, make that forty-two
, he corrected — but he was even more surprised at the sight of the vehicle MacGregor was driving.

      I
must have done something right in a previous life
, Cellars thought cheerfully as he watched MacGregor come onto the intersection with no apparent reduction in speed.

      
Not exactly your standard ride, is it, sergeant?  Bet you want your old Humvee back real bad.  Can’t wait for you to get a good close-up look at it; especially your rear side window.

      He didn’t have to wait long.

      MacGregor accelerated through the intersection, swerved off the road in a wild skidding turn, and brought his lumbering vehicle to a snow- and gravel-spewing stop at a forty-five degree angle to — and less than two feet from — his old Humvee.

      A second later, MacGregor had his door flung open, and was using it as a barricade and brace for the 5.56mm M-4 assault rifle he was aiming directly at the Humvee’s intensely fogged front windshield.

      “COME OUT OF THERE, CELLARS … RIGHT NOW!” MacGregor screamed into the cold night air.

      No response.

      “I SAID COME OUT OF THERE, GOD DAMN IT!” MacGregor screamed again.

      Then, a moment later, when he still failed to get an answer, the MP non-com fired a burst of three rounds into the left front tire of the Humvee, the fireballs erupting from the M-4’s muzzle lighting up the small parking lot as the concussive blasts echoed loudly off the flat-bed trucks and nearby buildings.

      “OKAY, CELLARS, THAT’S IT — ALL OVER FOR YOU, NOW. YOU CAN’T GO ANYWHERE ON THREE TIRES, SO COME OUT AND GIVE YOURSELF UP!”

      Still getting no response, MacGregor threw the assault rifle onto the driver’s seat of his vehicle, and then — emitting a guttural roar that sounded more like a howl — came lunging around his door barricade with a flash-bang grenade held out in his right hand.

      Pausing to pull the pin with his left hand, he took three lunging steps that brought him up to the Humvee’s driver-side door … ducked down to use the armored door as a shield … yanked the door partially open … started to fling the grenade inside through the narrow gap between door and door frame … and then staggered backwards at his first whiff of the intense and completely unexpected stench.

      MacGregor’s upper back struck hard against the unyielding metal edge of the adjacent truck’s splintered flatbed platform, causing the muscular MP to grunt in pain.

      Then, an instant later, he felt a hand close tightly around
his
right hand, and he yelled out — first in surprise, and then in shocked rage — when he felt the blunt end of the Mini Stun Baton® suddenly press against the back of his neck.

      Kneeling down on the flat wooden truck bed, Cellars watched MacGregor’s entire body spasm violently for half a second before going limp and crumbling to the snow-covered ground.

      Then he waited patiently for a count of three, just in case the hapless MP had managed to develop some kind of sensory immunity to a one-million-volt Taser®.

      
Probably not too likely
, Cellars finally decided.  He hopped down with the armed stun grenade held tightly in his left hand, pulled a 3-cc syringe out of his jacket pocket, thumbed the protective needle cover off, knelt down and stabbed the syringe into the    MacGregor’s big shoulder muscle right next to his thick neck.

      
Okay, let’s hope intra-muscular route works fast enough; don’t want to fry your brain with another intra-venous shot
, Cellars thought as he began to fumble around for the discarded pin in the glare of the other military vehicle’s headlights.

      He finally found it, carefully slipped it back into the grenade where it belonged, and then cautiously loosened his grip on the arming spoon to make sure it was going to stay in place instead of springing away and — in doing so — igniting the grenade’s fuse.