I was handling routine household chores when my phone buzzed. “Jim Stanton here.”
“Mr. Stanton. You don’t sound a bit different despite all those years.”
“Art! I’m amazed and happy that you decided to return my call.”
“Norma couldn’t wait to tell me all about you and your wife visiting her in The Dalles; said you were pleasant in an earnest sort of way. What can I do for you?”
“Well, nothing, probably. I was thinking of you only because of something that took me back to that week of R and R on the beach in Lauderdale; after that cluster fuck in Laos...”
“I remember that week. Some of us would have never known that week if it hadn’t been for you. I know I’ll never forget it. You left early that week; I didn’t go back active for six weeks after that; Gardner took even longer. We only made it home ’cause of your AB negative.”
“That’s not what reminded me about that week; hell, I was only emotionally and physically exhausted, not shot up; a week was plenty to recharge my battery. But...”
He interrupted, “You know that what you did back then still holds weight with me and I’m sure others. What can I do for you?”
“I was just hoping to talk with you about some other stuff that happened that week. Is there a time we could meet? Cup of coffee or lunch?”
“Hell, I live over in Troutdale, pardner... but I have some business over your way next week, maybe I could meet you in Pendleton on my way home?”
“That’d work. Give me a heads up day before, okay?”
“Perfect.”
It wasn’t difficult to recognize Art Truman when he walked into the Great Pacific coffeehouse a week later. He was nearly as tall as I, and I knew under the casual plaid shirt and cowboy-starched stove-pipe jeans he was still as muscular and strong as ever despite the gray curls showing under his Stetson and the salt-and-pepper of his beard.
He veered to the coffee station and gestured to ask if I wanted anything. I shook my head and raised my cup.
I stood as he approached, his hand outstretched. His smile was the same, a little off kilter, and his voice still sounded as if he’d been studying at the Sam Elliott School of Western Poetry. “Jim, it’s wonderful to see you,” he greeted me. “Now what has ignited this long-past-due curiosity about Art Truman?”
I told him about Jeremy and his DNA party. “Do you remember meeting Karen O’Connor and her friend, Renée ?”
“Vaguely. I remember you keeping Karen at arm’s length. Had all of us wondering if you were suffering from battle fatigue,” he chuckled at the idea.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how my DNA markers could end up in her daughter some months later...”
“Even back then, when we all figured you for a Boy Scout, we would have expected you’d know how that birds and bees stuff worked.”
I recognized the joshing tone and delivery of a time gone by. To be a Boy Scout, to be visibly ‘gung ho,’ was to invite friendly ridicule in those days.
“I understood that the exchange of bodily fluids was essential to the process, and I know I never experienced that with Karen.”
“Do tell. Wasted opportunity on your part, that was. So why the big deal?”
“Oh, it’s not that big a deal, Art. Just a long-developed habit, I can’t seem to let a question go unanswered. Kind of an occupational misery.”
“That’s right, I’d almost forgotten! You were something of an investigative reporter weren’t you?”
“No more than most reporters, certainly not like the hot shots in New York, Washington, and Philadelphia. All reporters chase facts with questions and research. It just became a habit with me, I guess.
“I can imagine that might be a dangerous habit to develop in some parts,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s been a time or two, but it’s not like I’m looking for a headline or something. I just...”
“You know what I did after I was shot up?”
“Came home, recovered, earned your degree in sociology and went to work for the state’s welfare department – according to what Norma told us.”
“All true, but there’s a lot she doesn’t know or need to know. While I was working for the state, I was also working for a cause – a cause that knows the will of God is for the White Race to rule the world.
“I see the reaction in your eyes. You’re surprised I’d spout that dogma here, out in the open, but why not? Nobody in this room cares a fig about me; and I don’t give a hoot about them, either. I spent twenty-five years soldiering for the church; doing their bidding, keeping my thoughts and beliefs shielded from prying eyes and ears.
“Then one day, working on a project in South Carolina where a bunch of niggers were in the street protesting for equal opportunities, I and some other soldiers were there to turn that chanting and singing into a demonstration of animal hate. And, it was right then, right there, I had what I now call a “Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus” moment.
“I was face to face with this black bitch, and she was singing Amazing Grace. I was cocked and loaded to break her face, but I stopped at what I saw in her eyes. It wasn’t fear or acceptance. I recognized that look, and it wasn’t a lack of understanding of the reality of her moment. No, it was pure determination that stopped me. That look, that free-will choice not to be intimidated or afraid, told me that no matter what we did, no matter what happened, she flat knew she wasn’t in the presence of a superior being. That look was a promise that she and her ilk would never give up their struggle for equality.
“It was a culminating moment in my life, Jim.”
“What did you do?”
“Walked away. Drove that night to a little cottage I had down on the coast, hung out for two weeks, and then contacted my controller and told him I was re-evaluating my commitment to the church. Next day I hopped in my truck and drove to Oregon.”
I sat silent, wondering what I’d just heard: Confession or rueful regret?
“Yes, Jim; that night in the streets I came to a new religion. A new purpose: The sovereign state of Art Truman. I contacted my controller at the AN and told him I was no longer willing to volunteer for the salvation of the White Race. Instead, I was now available as an independent contractor; ready and willing, – for the right price – to do God’s will on behalf of the movement.”
I closed my mouth before my tongue lolled out, but just barely.
He was nodding, a smile flickering around his mouth, as he took another swig of his coffee. “That’s right, Jim; and I gotta tell you, that has worked out just right for Truman. Truman’s financials are a lot healthier than this country’s. No deficit at all for Truman.”
He took another swig, and I could see him measuring me, weighing my reaction to his story, and I almost thought I saw a smile, maybe even a nod. “Jim, I know that what I’ve just told you doesn’t make you happy. I also know that you are inclined to think you could use what I just told you to make my happy life a lot less pleasant...” He took another swig of his coffee, then put the empty cup on the table and locked his eyes on mine, “But you could only do that by risking lethal harm to Jan.”
My blood went ice cold as his eyes locked on mine. His affable smile remained in place, but his eyes were as cold as a corpse’s. He continued, “You carry weight with me, Mr. Stanton; so you’re getting this one warning. You mess with anything to do with my activities relating to the Aryan Nations and you’ll never see Jan again. I know you’re going to want some time to think this through, so here’s the drill: Five minutes after I leave here, you climb into your vehicle and drive to Hermiston. Have a cup of coffee; then go home. If I know you have done that, and not used your phone to contact anyone – haven’t even answered it – then when you’re home, your woman will be there waiting for you, safe and sound.
“You maintain the rational position that whatever I’m up to has no impact on your life, and that will become the reality. Now, call Jan’s cell.”
The phone rang and rang, never going to voice mail.
“I disabled her voice mail. You can set it up again when you see her tonight.”
He stood, stretched a bit, towering over me. “I hope to never see you again, Jim, but if I do, know that we’ll be even then.”
My mind was in turmoil as I watched him leave the building, and five minutes later I found myself in my truck, my hand on the ignition, but I stopped.
“What were the odds?” I wondered. “Where’s my center?”
I focused on my situation and felt my body slow down, my pulse and heart rate returned to my normal at-rest levels, and I thought it through.
“What ifs” crowded for attention in my mind. I fought off the jumbled thoughts and forced my mind to orderly thought:
Option A: Race home; move Jan to a safe place... My thinking was a kind of debate, waiting for some kind of moderator to instill calm reason.
“What if she’s already dead?”
“Then what’s the loss?” I argued with myself.
“What if you’re not first; and he kills her on your arrival?” That possibility was too strong to ignore. The urge for action and vengeance were argued down by my experience with Jan in jeopardy; the upside for following the instructions was time. She’d be safe, and I’d use the time to ensure she couldn’t become leverage again.
I was shaking a bit, but I started the truck and headed for Hermiston.
The drive to a coffee shop in downtown Hermiston takes anywhere from 20 to 35 minutes depending on how much you want to meet and greet an OSP trooper or Umatilla County Sheriff’s deputy. I ordered my coffee to go just 40 minutes after I left Great Pacific.
Just under an hour later I pulled into the garage at our house. I listened to the engine cool as I removed the Taurus from my console, and waited to see if anyone would greet me in the gloom of the building.
I then moved as causally and quietly as I could to the door that connects to our mud room and then the kitchen. The only sounds I could detect inside the house were the normal buzz of a light, and hum of air conditioning.
I crept around the kitchen island and poked my head around to survey the great room that combined our dining and living areas. Jan was sitting at the dining room table, backlit by the giant windows overlooking the Columbia Basin. Her chin was on her chest and I thought she might be sleeping. Judy was lying at her feet, looking expectantly at me.
“Jan?”
Her head snapped up and a look of joy lit her face, “Oh, Jim; thank God!”
She bounced out of the chair and into my arms. Judy came alive, dancing around us. I held Jan away from me, and studied her face. “You okay?”
“Oh, yes; now I am. He said I’d hear someone come into the garage. If you had followed your instructions, it would be you; if not, well, he said I should sit with my eyes closed and pray... That’s what I did.”
“Oh, honey; I’m so sorry. I had no...”
“You owe me no apology, honey. That prick thinks he can control you through me; he has no idea who I am. I won’t be without my Colt again anytime soon.”
I hugged her close to me, and we stayed like that until my knees started complaining, so we sat. “What happened, Jan?”
“You left to meet him, and a few minutes later, the doorbell chimed. I went to answer it, but there was nobody there. I started to look at my phone, and he was behind me, a gun out.
“He told me to sit in that chair, and I did. He cuffed me to it with wire ties, both hands and both feet. Told me to be patient, it wouldn’t be long. And then he was gone.”
“Just like that?”
“No. He took my phone, fiddled with it for a moment, and then left it on the kitchen island and left.
“When he returned he told me we were conducting a test of the Jim Stanton Survival Training Course, and in short order we’d know if I was going to live or die today. Then he went through the house, like a search, but when he came back he didn’t seem to have anything, like he didn’t take anything... He just cut me loose and told me to sit tight.”
I hugged her again, pulling her out of the chair this time. We stood there swaying, then I whispered in her ear, “I’m going to look around, try to figure out what he did, what he found, what he took... he didn’t just poke around. Sit quiet, okay?”
She nodded, and I could feel her trembling a bit, so I asked, “You okay?”
“Just pissed, that’s all; I’ll handle it.”
I knew from past experience that was true. I was familiar with the razor-sharp anger in her voice, and it calmed me to realize once again just how strong her will was, and how she had focused that will on enemies in the past. I gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to see if I can trace Truman’s search of the house.”
“I’ll sit here and plan my revenge.”
I found her Colt Mustang in the snazzy little purse holster hanging in a spare bag in her walk-in closet. I knew one reason for Art’s tour would have been to ascertain our preparedness, and I knew he’d have found that weapon. I quickly broke it down and found the firing pin had been removed. Otherwise the gun was loaded and appeared ready for action.
I went to my gun safe in my writing room and used my key to open the door, knowing Art hadn’t left even a scratch to indicate his entry. All the weapons in the cabinet – shotguns, rim fire .22s, and an old Browning 1911 .45 pistol had also been rendered harmless by snapping off the firing pins. The only missing weapon was the Winchester .308 elk rifle with the 3-9x variable scope. I checked, and a box of 180-grain Core Lokt loads were missing as well.
I then started a room-to-room search for listening devices. I didn’t completely buy Art’s claim that he was cutting me slack for an ancient donation of blood, and knowing how he was trained, I figured he had some way of keeping track of me.
I found the first transmitter – a self-contained, voice-activated unit stuck to the back of the headboard on our bed. It appeared to be Vietnam-era technology, self-contained, with about a mile line of sight range. That would mean he had a receiver – probably a voice-activated tape recorder – stashed somewhere on the property.
I didn’t find anything in my work room, or the bathroom. I carried Jan’s colt downstairs and continued the search. I found another transmitter stuck to the back of the coffee maker. This was smaller, newer, and probably more powerful. I had no clues to how any of this would work, and even wondered if they were there simply to be found, thereby providing me with a false sense of security. I didn’t even remember what secure felt like, so I kept moving.
I completed the search in the garage with Judy shadowing me, her eyes tracking me as I searched for a needle in the mess of a haystack that describes my outbuilding.
When she followed me into the kitchen, I gave her a second look. She seemed subdued somehow, cowed. I knelt to her, and she stuck her face into my hands so I could gently knead her behind the ears. Her stub of a tail was normal; her nose was cold, but she was holding something back.
“What’s with yo...” I stopped. I ran my fingers along her collar, and felt the transmitter, a tiny thing that fit right under the buckle. I couldn’t help but smile. I patted her gently and kissed her between the eyes.
I took a roll of masking tape from the kitchen “junk drawer” and with a marker put big bold “B”s on three pieces of tape. I stuck one on Judy’s collar; another on the coffee maker and the third on the headboard of our bed upstairs.
I took Jan by the hand and pointing at Judy’s collar, I put my index finger over my lips. Her look of disgust sent the silent message, “Is nothing sacred?” I showed her the other two bugged locations before leading her out of the house, and up the road to Jack and Shirlee Nelson’s; our only neighbors.
I left Jan and Judy on the patio, found Jack making coffee in his kitchen. Shirlee saw me from another room, “Hello! What brings you around today?”
“Just visiting. Jan and Judy are outside, but before you go out, let me brief you on our day.” When I’d finished, both of the Nelsons were wearing looks of concern, “So, don’t say much around Judy. She’s wearing a bug on her collar. I don’t want to disable it yet...”
“Just general conversation? Weather, roses, like that?” Shirlee asked with a smile.
“Right on.”
Jack had listened to my spiel and had put the coffee pot down and was mixing Martinis in a beaker, “Most days I stick with coffee,” he said without looking up, “but this is no longer just another day. What can we do to help?”
I put Jan’s Colt on the counter. “I’d like to trade this for Shirlee’s version.”
He picked up the automatic, worked the slide and ejected the clip, then racked the chamber empty before looking a question at me. “There’s no longer a firing pin in it,” I explained. He worked the slide open again and examined.
“Pretty cagey. Who’s the all-star dropping bugs and tinkering with your weapons?”
“Long story that won’t mean a thing to you, but I do need a favor.”
“Shirlee’s pistol? No problem, you know that.”
Jan had made a present of a duplicate of her weapon to Shirlee in honor of our beloved neighbor’s 80th birthday, and then had accompanied Shirlee to the classes and the range where she qualified for a carry permit that she never used. “I’m just not the rough-and-ready type,” she tried to explain away her distaste for the idea of violence, but she had become proficient at making little holes in targets, and took great pleasure at being Jan’s practice partner.
“I would like you to take Jan’s weapon to Harold’s over by Pilot Rock. He can fix it. If he has any questions, show him Jan’s permit,” I said as I handed the paper to him. “If he can wait, I’ll pay for it when I pick it up; if he needs to order, you pay and I’ll reimburse. Will that work for you?”
“I’ll make it work. This Harold; a friend of yours?”
“Good guy; not prone to curiosity or gossip. Good guy.”
“Tomorrow okay?”
“Of course. Thanks.”