The black Caprice turned the corner and cruised down a paved street that ran out its length after two blocks and became, instead, a pockmarked dirt road ending, after a short distance, at an iron guard-rail with a red-lettered NO TRESPASSING sign on it. Beyond the guardrail lay a thick forest inhabited by raccoons, a few deer, skunks, possums, a cougar that occasionally fed on local pets, and a family of red foxes. Located in an unincorporated area of Multnomah County, at the base of the foothills on the way to Mt. Hood, it was also the rumored home of a bearded Vietnam veteran and one dazed and beaded sixties-era hippie who lived in a tree house twenty feet above the forest floor.
Rick’s house, being on the same dirt road and a few yards from the guardrail, had the honor of being the nearest civilized dwelling, and of all the houses in the neighborhood the one most likely to be visited by garbage-can-marauding raccoons and the pet-loving cougar. Rick himself did not have a pet, but the raccoons could be a nuisance, and the prowling cougar often used his backyard as a transit point when moving from one house to the next. Being entirely unpredictable in its habits and behavior, it had startled him more than once, and, setting his garbage out in the early morning, Rick had taken to wearing a sidearm.
The Caprice turned into his driveway and stopped close behind the Volkswagen van backed halfway into the open garage of the split-level clapboard house.
Bill Hammerstein and his partner, Tom McCullers, got out. Over the roof of the Caprice, Bill said, “Let’s do a split-up. You can never tell about a fucker like this.”
With Bill going up one side of the van and Tom the other, the two agents entered the garage.
Rick, wearing a pair of mechanic’s overalls, looked up. He had an open can of Budweiser in one hand and a socket wrench in the other. The Volkswagen’s engine compartment had been propped open with a broom handle, and a mechanic’s light illuminated its interior. Rockabilly music blared from a boom box on a nearby workbench, and a six-pack of Budweiser, minus two cans, sat next to it.
Bill walked over and turned down the music.
Rick looked from one man to the other.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you’re either here to sell me something or you represent Publisher’s Clearing House. Which is it? Either I’m a big winner or I need a new insurance policy.”
The two agents chuckled.
“I can tell right now, Rick,” Bill said, “that we’re gonna have a lotta laughs, a whole barrel of laughs.”
“Yeah,” Tom joined in, “we’re gonna have our own little laugh fest. But we gotta get the serious stuff outta the way first. I’m Special Agent Tom McCullers with the FBI, and this here’s my partner, Bill Hammerstein. We wanna ask you a few questions, Rick…civil-like, of course.”
Rick wiped his hands on a rag. “Sure,” he said. “You wanna come inside? I’ll make a pot of coffee…unless you’d rather have a beer?”
“We got our own coffee at the office, Rick, and neither one of us drinks Budweiser. But what we’d like you to do is take a little ride with us. We’d like to have a nice conversation with you.”
“You mean, as in I’m being arrested?”
“Nah, nothing like that, Rick. That’s all passé. Nowadays, we prefer to keep everything nice between us. It’s all part of a recent campaign to create a new image for ourselves. We used to just beat the shit outta guys like you, work up a little sweat using your head as a punching bag. Now we take you down to the office and give you coffee and donuts. It makes for much better public relations.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah…they been givin’ us classes in how to be nice guys. What do you think so far?”
“I’m thoroughly taken in. I just hope it’s somethin’ that catches on.”
The two agents grinned at each other.
“So, we can get started anytime, then, huh?”
“Yeah, we’re ready to leave whenever you are, Rick.”
Rick looked down at his overalls and grease-stained Reeboks.
“Do I look presentable enough? I could shower and change clothes.”
“We got lots of nice clothing, Rick, compliments of the government, if we need it. But don’t worry…you look just fine. And we’re gonna take you in through the garage, anyway.”
“You gonna read me my rights first?”
“Rights? Like I said, Rick, we’re not here to arrest you. We just wanna get to know ya, have a friendly little chat. Trust me, you got nothin’ to worry about,” Agent Hammerstein reassured him.
“Yeah, Rick, depending on how it goes, we could get to be real good buddies. We might even have a few beers together, take in a football game, maybe have ya over for a barbecue.”
“Gee, that’d be nice. I’d really look forward to that.”
“Well, after you, buddy…”
Rick shrugged.
With an agent to either side, he walked out to the Caprice. As he got into the backseat, Bill held the door for him.
“We’ll have you home in time for dinner, Rick,” Tom said, starting the car and looking back at him in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, that’s a promise, Rick. If you got a hot date tonight, you won’t even hafta call your girlfriend and tell her you’re gonna be late.”
“Man, you guys are just bein’ too nice. You almost got me tearin’ up here.”
“We’re just a couple of big teddy bears, Rick. And, as you get to know us better, you’ll see just how deep nice goes.”
§ § § § § §
Windows of reinforced frosted glass provided the room with a modicum of daylight. A ceiling panel of three florescent bulbs burned overhead and accentuated the bare aspect of the room. A table and four chairs sat in the middle, and an oversized mirror spanned a wall opposite the window.
Bill Hammerstein sat on one side of the table and his partner sat at one end. Rick sat across from Bill, with his hands folded together, and looked on as the two agents sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups and ate a powdered donut apiece. A cup of coffee was at Rick’s elbow, but he ignored it.
“Go on, have a donut,” Bill said, pushing the box across the table.
“Yeah, humor us, Rick…we’re trying to be nice here.”
“I gotta watch my weight, guys, really. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Bill said and opened a manila file folder containing a thick packet of papers. He picked up the top one and read through it quickly. “It says here you’re a vet, honorably discharged. That right?”
Rick slipped his Zippo lighter back into his overalls and blew a stream of smoke away from the two agents. He dismissed the question with a shrug: “Must be true if it’s there. Government never lies.”
“It also says you were trained in demolitions. That right?”
“Two outta two so far.”
Bill replaced the paper and leafed through the packet to another section. He pulled out two sheets of paper stapled together at the corners and, scanning the first sheet, flipped it over and scanned the second.
“You’ve also been arrested three times since your discharge, twice for assault and once for disorderly conduct?”
“You guys are amazing. You already know everything about me there is to know. It makes me feel like my being here is somehow redundant.”
“We just wanna make sure we’re all on the same wavelength here, Rick,” Tom said. “And you’re right, we know quite a bit about you already, but we need you to bring us up to date. So tell us what you’ve been doing with your time lately, starting about, oh, three or four months back?”
“You mean it’s not in there?” Rick grinned.
The two agents glanced at each other.
Bill took a contemplative sip of the coffee, then set the cup on the table.
“We’re trying real hard to restrain ourselves here, Rick. But this nice guy routine doesn’t really suit either one of us. So why don’t you just keep us happy? Oblige us. Answer our questions so we can all go home.”
“Yeah, Rick, pretend like we’re your father-confessors, and you need to unburden your soul. If we feel you’re being honest and up front with us, we’ll grant you absolution. On the other hand, if we feel you’re lying to us—well, to make a long story short, we’re underpaid and overworked, and that’s a bad combination when it comes to dealing with a crap artist. We need you to cooperate…you can make it easy on us and on yourself if you do. Understand?”
Rick shrugged. His shoulder and neck muscles had tensed up, and he wanted to get up and move around. He wondered if anyone else might be listening—looking on and recording everything while he sat there nervously trying to decide what they could charge him with. Destruction of private property and illegal possession of explosives seemed the two most likely offenses. Domestic terrorism loomed as a possibility, but only if he talked about the group and its goals. If he kept his mouth shut, claimed he had been hired as a private contractor (and he had once worked in that capacity for a private company), he could sanitize his own involvement. He could claim neutrality. On the other hand, if they didn’t buy that (and he didn’t expect them to), he supposed he could tell them whatever they wanted to know, and hope for the best.
“I’ve mostly been hangin’ out. Civilian life’s a little dull, you know.”
“Right. So who ya been hangin’ out with?”
“Unsavory types,” Rick answered, unable to suppress a grin.
Bill ignored the grin: “Like, for example…?”
“Biker buddies, mostly. That kinda thing. You know, cocktails in the evening, charity runs for muscular dystrophy, bake sales for the homeless…”
“Yeah, well, apart from all that shit, anybody else you wanna talk about?”
“Uh…my girlfriend and my dog.”
“We didn’t notice a dog, Rick. We usually look for that kind of thing when we go out to someone’s house, especially if we have reason to distrust him to begin with.”
“He’s there. He just sleeps a lot.”
“No shit? A real sound sleeper, huh? Not much of a watchdog, is he?”
“He sleeps near the door. Anybody that comes in that shouldn’t be comin’ in, they trip over him. That wakes him up, and he starts barking.”
Bill folded his hands together and leaned forward on the table. He looked at Rick for a long second, then said: “Right from the start, you’ve kept up a steady patter of being a smart ass, Rick. By doing so, you’ve managed to hang on to your dignity. And you’ve let us know you can take the heat. We appreciate all that, and we’ve also been entertained. We’re even willing to give you some grudging respect. But your attitude is starting to wear. Like we tried to make it clear to you earlier, we usually don’t have a lot of patience for fun and games. We deal with bullshit artists all the time, and we’re not big on tolerance. So let’s cut to the chase…
“We got all the evidence we need to put you in a shower stall for a long time to come, with a lotta of nice fellas who, on a daily basis, are gonna be checkin’ your butt for access. On the other hand, you tell us what we want to know, and we’ll cut you a deal. And who knows? After it’s all over, you might have some new stories to tell your biker buddies.”
“And you won’t have to worry every time you drop the soap and bend over to pick it up,” Tom added.
Bill chuckled.
“So, are we getting through to you, Mr. Rick?”
Rick looked at both men, then said, “You told me this was gonna be off the record. How do I know you’re not shittin’ me? I mean, I’m sitting right here in front of this goddamn mirror, and I got no way of knowing whether somebody on the other side is listening or not. For all I know, they could be taking notes and making a tape, too.”
Bill sat back in his chair and gave the matter a moment of serious thought. He looked inquiringly at his partner. His partner nodded; then Bill said to Rick: “Valid concern. But you’re gonna hafta trust us on this one. Nobody is back there, and anything that’s been said so far, and anything said from here on out, stays between us. As long as you play ball with us, it goes no further than the three of us. It’s our little secret…we’re all in on it, and nobody else. Comprende?”
Rick nodded.
“Good. Now listen here…”