Final Disposition (27 page)

      “Because you’d rather sit out here in a freezing snowstorm, under the watchful eyes of four Army and three OSP SWAT gunners, and talk with me?”

      “You’re definitely a hell of a lot more entertaining, Cellars, I’ll give you that,” Talbert smiled grimly.  “But, no, I’m ignoring a direct order because neither my boss or the Governor really wants me to make that call, because they both know they can’t give me the order to ignore federal statues and treaties either.  In spite of the fact that Senator Mariott has been nothing but supportive of the OSP — as well as, I gather, the Governor’s Office — we can’t help her, and that’s just the way it is.”

      Then Captain Talbert stopped talking, cocked his head, and stared at Cellars.

      It took a few seconds for the obvious to sink in.

      “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

      Talbert shrugged silently.

      “You’re —”

      “— not ordering you to do a single thing that would directly violate a federal statute or treaty,” Talbert finished.  “I can’t do that, even if I might want to.  I can, however, assist you in tracking back on your current situation, to find out how and why you started out investigating a major OSP case involving the murders and disappearances of fifty-some Oregon law enforcement officers and citizens … and ended up in an Army clinic with no memories of your past life.  That, I think, is very much an OSP issue that requires some attention.”

      “But —“

      “Fortunately, and conveniently, you have what seems to be a genuine US Army ID card that should authorize your presence on the reservation … just so long as you’re not dressed in any kind of OSP uniform, which is why you
will
dispose of Sergeant Bauer’s uniform before you get anywhere near the Bancoo Reservation.”

      “But how —?”

      “Accordingly,” Talbert pressed on, “you’ll find some additional clothing designed for extreme weather conditions in the back of that SUV, along with a brand new CSI kit — the contents of which are devoid of any OSP markings — some camping gear, food and water, and a few other items that you might find useful in your endeavors.”

      Talbert then reached inside his jacket and pulled out two thick nine-by-twelve manila envelopes, both of which were sealed with evidence tape.

      “You may also find these useful,” he said as he handed the envelopes over to Cellars.

      “What are they?”

      “Two reports … the first one being a summary of major OSP investigation involving the disappearance of approximately fifty individuals — civilians and law enforcement officers — that you came down from Portland to work on approximately eleven days ago.”

      “And the second?” Cellars asked when he realized Talbert had hesitated.

      “The second report is a copy of a recent OSP CSI report, case file nine-zero-zero-six-six-six-six,” Talbert finally said.

      “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

      “Ideally, it would,” Talbert replied, “seeing as how it’s a crime scene investigation report that you wrote ten days ago, in which you describe — among many other things — your discovery of the body of Bobby Dawson up in his cabin, your shooting at numerous shadowy figures and official OSP vehicles, and a lightning bolt that was apparently trying to knock you off a telephone pole in a violent storm.

      “There’s also an addendum ‘A’ to that report” Talbert went on, “ that describes an intimate relationship that you and Dawson supposedly had with an exotic extraterrestrial female named Allesandra who was apparently capable of changing her shape at will … and a subsequent lethal encounter that you and Jody Catlin and Dawson had with this alien creature that resulted in her being killed and turning into a stone … Dawson apparently having risen from the dead prior to the final shooting scene.  There are other fascinating details, including four missing and presumed dead deputy sheriffs who were at Dawson’s cabin before you got there, and the still missing body of my predecessor whose blood was found splattered all over the inside of your house, but I think those are the highlights.”

      Cellars stared blankly first at Talbert, and then at the manila envelope with the descriptors ‘9-00-6666’ and ‘9-00-666A’ hand-printed in the upper right hand corner.

      “I wrote all of that, as official OSP crime scene investigation reports?” he finally asked in a raspy whisper.

      “You wrote them, and signed them, and submitted them to me for approval,” Talbert said; “however, they are not — by any stretch of the imagination — official OSP reports.”

      Cellars blinked in confusion.

      “Why not?”

      “Because as far as the OSP is concerned, these reports don’t actually exist, apart from the signed originals — which I fully intend to keep for my memoirs — and the copies you have in your hand, of course,” Talbert said, and then paused.  “I’m sorry, did you have a question?”

      “No, I guess not.”  Cellars shook his head.

      “Good, glad to hear it.” Talbert smiled in satisfaction as he reached into his jacket pocket again and tossed Cellars a set of keys.  “The SUV is privately registered.  You and I are going to transfer all of your gear to the SUV, and then I’m going to take Sergeant Bauer’s gun belt, pistol and patrol unit back to the station.  I don’t need his uniform — you can drop that off whenever it’s convenient — but I would like to give him back his badge —”

      Cellars quickly unpinned the glistening badge from Bauer’s jacket and slid it across the table to Talbert.

      “Oh, one more thing, Cellars.  This vehicle I’m turning over to you happens to be a very expensive replacement for a previous SUV that I’d planned on giving to our Search and Rescue Team … before, that is, I assigned it to you, and it ended up in the wrecking yard a couple of days later full of bullet holes … fired — so I’m told — almost entirely by you.”

      “Me?”

      “Yes, which also happened to be the second assigned OSP vehicle you managed to shoot up in so many days; not counting, of course, your previous Captain’s vehicle which you simply blew up in the station parking lot … interestingly enough, with his assistance.”

      Cellars’ mouth dropped open.

      “In point of fact, Detective-Sergeant Cellars, over the past couple of weeks, you’ve been what we might describe as a one-man wrecking crew — at least as far as the Region Nine’s vehicle fleet has been concerned.  So you’ll understand, perhaps, when I tell you that, first of all, my expectations for the safe return of this particular vehicle are minimal at best …

      “… and secondly,” Talbert went on when Cellars just sat there staring at the envelope, “I would suggest to you that the fact you seem to have no memories of your past life may not be a completely bad situation, all things considered.  In fact, you might even consider destroying that report instead of reading it, and then pretending that everything I just told you never happened.”

      Cellars continued to stare at the sealed manila envelope.

      Talbert cocked his head again.  “Any further questions, before I send you out on a mission almost certain to involve a great deal more mayhem and destruction of State government equipment?”

      “I can’t think of anything,” Cellars whispered, his mind reeling.

      “Excellent.  And if you should happen, in your endeavors, to run across those kids I mentioned, kindly don’t shoot at them … or at any vehicle they might be in.  Their mothers will undoubtedly be displeased if you do.  Just bring them home safely.”

      “I’m sure I’ll be too busy trying to arrange a meeting with General Byzor to get into any trouble like that, sir,” Cellars said in a raspy whisper, “but if I do happen to —”

       “General who?” Talbert asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

      “Byzor.  Brigadier General Malcom Byzor, the guy apparently in charge of secret federal investigations in or around the Bancoo Reservation, according to Tillman, anyway,” Cellars answered.  “He was also the matchmaker who called when you and I were talking over the radio, and put this meeting together with Montgomery and Gladstone.”

      “I see,” Talbert said hesitantly, clearly suggesting that he didn’t at all.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “I don’t know,” Talbert said after a moment.  “I guess I just find it strange that several days ago, you and Sergeant Bauer were working with a NSA official by the name of Malcom Byzor, investigating the disappearance of some stones that you claimed — in a supposedly official OSP report that doesn’t actually exist — moved of their own volition.”

      Cellar’s already dazed and thoroughly confused mind seemed to take a double-flip.

      “NSA — National Security Agency?” Cellars asked, trying not to think about stones that moved as he stared at Talbert incredulously. 

      “The very agency that seems to have gotten quite proficient at monitoring all kinds of secured and encrypted phone calls these days,” Talbert nodded, “possibly even extending to encrypted police radio transmissions in remote parts of the world like Jasper County, Oregon.”

      “Oh.”

      “Even stranger,” Talbert went on, “and again, according to Sergeant Bauer, Byzor’s rank at the time was lieutenant colonel.”

      “That’s quite a jump in rank … especially in only a couple of weeks, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, it is,” Talbert agreed, “but Bauer also mentioned something else that strikes me as being especially relevant to these circumstances.”

      “What was that?”

      “At some point in your conversations, you apparently told him that Malcolm Byzor was one of the three best friends you had in the entire world, the other two being Bobby Dawson and Jody Catlin.”

CHAPTER 19

      Cellars waited until the donut shop parking lot was finally empty of threatening vehicles before walking back over to the white SUV, opening the right front door, and tossing the cardboard box and sealed manila envelopes into the front passenger seat.

      Then he paused to reconsider his options.

      He’d intended to change out of Bauer’s uniform — and into his old jeans and flannel shirt — in the back of the SUV; but it was obvious that he’d have to be a fairly skilled and limber contortionist to do that amid all of the boxes of equipment and supplies that now filled the cargo bay and rear seats.

      He wasn’t going to change clothes out in the open, and in the middle of an intensifying snowstorm either … among other reasons, because he didn’t want another shadowy figure to show up and catch him in a literal ‘pants-down’ situation.

      And the idea of changing in any publicly-accessible structure was also out of the question, for pretty much the same reasons.

      
I could just go home and change, like any normal person
, Cellars thought grimly,
but I haven’t the slightest idea where home is because the driver’s license in my wallet lists a Portland address … and the local phone book wasn’t of any help … so now what?

      Then he blinked as the words popped freely into his conscious mind.

      
Oh … sure, why not?  Never hurts to ask.  Isn’t that what good Jeremiah — or whoever the hell he was — said?

      He reached into his field jacket pocket and brought out the little j-Connector.

      He listened to the distant phone ring a third … and then a fourth time … and was about to disconnect the call when a sleepy but beautifully melodic voice said “Hello?”

      “Hi, this is one of your hopefully less-disturbed but decidedly more mobile patients calling,” Cellars said into the j-Connector.  “Hope I didn’t wake you.  I wasn’t sure when you got off shift.”

      “Cellars … is that you?”  Her voice sounded sleepy … and wonderful.

      “Apparently … or, at least, that seems to be the consensus of pretty much everyone I’ve been meeting up with lately … especially the ones who’ve been trying to take me into custody, club me to the ground, or burn me at a stake.”

      There was a long pause, then:

      “Sounds like you’ve been having a pretty rough time of it out there in the real world.  Want to come back to a place where things might be just a little less hectic and stressful?”

      “If you mean the clinic, no thanks, I’ll pass.  MacGregor’s probably still a little upset that I tasered and drugged him twice and stole two of his MP rigs.  I’d probably have to nail my door shut at night … and that would put a real crimp into our blossoming nurse-cowboy relationship.

      “You tasered and drugged MacGregor twice, with —?”

      “With your Mini Stun Baton® and the ‘U’ version of your sedative collection; although it was actually four times, if you want to count the double doses,” Cellars confessed.  “He’s a big fellow, so I wanted to make sure he stayed down for a while.  Oh, and by the way, you were right about the safety factor.  He seemed just as ornery as ever — maybe even more so — after he woke up from the first overdose.  Don’t know about the second one, though; haven’t heard from him yet on that.”

      “Yet?”

      “I’m sure he and Harthburn are still looking for me, which is actually one of the legitimate reasons that I’m calling.  The other is to give back some things that I —”

      “You want to hide from those two goons in
my
apartment?”

      “Well, not exactly hide.”

*     *     *

       “You know, Cowboy, this really isn’t an acceptable nurse-patient relationship.”

      “No?  Well, it should be,” Cellars said, feeling himself starting to drift away again amid the addictive timbres of ‘Symphonic Rock’ flowing out of four expensive and well-placed speakers, the deliciously soothing harmonics of her voice, and the incredible warmth of her sweaty and muscular naked body.  “I think I’m definitely feeling … better —”

      “Hey, don’t go to sleep on me, bud!” Lisa Marcini growled as she elbowed him in the ribs, and then promptly rolled herself back on top of his sprawled and equally bare torso.  “We’re not done here.”