Bluetick Revenge (16 page)

The sermon was not filled with hate. The pastor talked about what he called the “myth of the separation of church and state.”
He said the founding fathers had intended for America to be a Christian nation. I had mixed feelings. I knew the founding
fathers had overwhelmingly rejected a proposal to make Christianity the official religion of the new republic. Jefferson and
Adams had been Unitarians who rejected the holy Trinity. Jefferson had gone so far as to rewrite the Bible and had called
his version
The Life and Morals of Jesus
—a sort of atheist’s version of the New Testament. On an intellectual level I supported the separation of church and state.
At the same time, though, I worried that Americans no longer possessed a collective set of core values that united them. At
times I sounded like Pat Buchanan.

We sat through the service and managed not to fall asleep. By the end of the service I knew I had picked the wrong church.
These were just regular folks, nothing sinister about them. After the service we mingled. We’re good at that. People introduced
themselves and most seemed sincere in trying to make us feel welcome.

We repeated the Bobby Jackson story to anyone who would listen. One who listened was a silver-haired man named Frank Prell.
“You guys got a picture of this Bobby Jackson?” he asked.

“Not on me,” I said.

“What’s his beef with Skull?”

I shrugged. “Something that happened in Denver a few years ago. That’s all I know.”

“And you think if you can find Skull all you’ll have to do is keep an eye on him and wait for Jackson to show?”

“We thought we’d give it a try,” I said.

“I’d come up with another plan,” he said. “Your guy ain’t gonna get within five miles of Skull. And neither are you.” He pulled
his wallet out of his back pocket and handed me his card. He was Coeur d’Alene’s chief of police. I showed the card to Scott.
“You want to cut the crap and tell me what you’re up to?”

“I told you,” I said. I handed him one my private investigator cards. “We need to find Jackson and we think he’s going to
try to get at Skull.”

Chief Prell smiled. “Skull lives on a compound about twelve miles east of here,” he said. “The land is owned by a fella calls
himself ’the Reverend’ Howard Biggs. He’s an older man. He was a Klansman for many years in a place called Coosa County, Alabama,
but moved up here twenty-some years ago to start a church. The Church of the Sacred Covenant. It’s a white supremacist group.
Plenty of ’em around here, unfortunately. Anyhow, Biggs made a lot of money off the church. He preaches hate and solicits
money all over the country so he can fight the racial holy war when it finally comes. He has used the money to buy thousands
of acres of virgin timber. That’s where the compound is. There’s only one road in, and it’s well guarded. Ain’t nobody gonna
get in there unless Biggs wants ’em to.”

“You know Skull?” I asked.

“We’ve met. His real name is Anders Riddell. He’s never been convicted of anything serious, but he’s a sociopath. He’s like
a son to Biggs.”

“What does he look like?”

“Six feet tall, about one-eighty. Shaved head.”

“What goes on at this compound?”

“War games. Hate rallies. Arms deals. They publish a lot of racist crap and work real hard at getting people stirred up. They
even have a Web site.”

“Anybody doing anything about it?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t break my heart to see every building out there burn to the ground, but except for the arms deals, they’re not violating
any laws. They don’t make or sell drugs, because they believe white people must keep their bodies pure. Anyhow, it’s out of
my jurisdiction. The compound isn’t within the city limits. The sheriff’s a good man, but he can’t enforce federal laws and
wouldn’t have the manpower even if he had the authority. All he can do is keep an eye on all these crazy groups and make sure
they don’t harm anyone else.”

“What about the feds?”

“The feds don’t tell us much,” he said. “They think some of our rank and file might be sympathetic to the White Power cause,
so they don’t trust us. And these days their focus is on foreign terrorism. The last time I had any contact with anyone from
the federal government, it was a woman from the Federal Communications Commission. Biggs has an illegal FM transmitter out
there, but he claims the laws of the Zionist government don’t apply to him, and the FCC doesn’t want any bloodshed over it.”

“How many people out there?” Scott asked.

The chief shrugged. “Probably less than a dozen on most days,” he said. “Only time he’d have more than that would be when
he hosts a rally, a church service, or something like that. Then he might have hundreds of people out there.”

I looked at Scott and said, “Church is probably over by now.”

“It ain’t the kind of church you can just walk into,” Prell said. “Strangers are definitely not welcome. Most of his so-called
services are at night, anyhow.”

I exchanged glances with Scott. We both knew we’d be heading out to the compound right after lunch.

“Where you two staying?” the chief asked. “Maybe I can swing by and get a picture of this Bobby Jackson from you.”

I told him where we were staying and said, “We just have the one picture right now. We can make a copy for you and drop it
off at your office tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He shook our hands, walked out with us, and followed us all the way to my truck. Prince started barking
as we approached, and the chief peered into the back of my truck. “Bluetick coonhound,” he said. “Don’t see many of those
up here.”

A
FTER CHURCH WE DROVE
back to Coeur d’Alene and found a sporting-goods store. We purchased some topographical maps of the area in which Chief Prell
said Biggs had his compound. We studied them while we ate lunch at a McDonald’s. Even though I sometimes flirt with vegetarianism,
I like McDonald’s. You can’t beat their diet Coke. It’s much better than what you can get in a can or bottle. I give it five
stars.

“The compound is probably here,” Scott said, using a straw to point to a location on one of the maps. “It’s a level plateau,
it’s protected by mountains on all sides, and a river runs through it. Nice little lake, too.”

“Look at the slope of those mountains,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to hike those in the summer, much less in the middle of winter.”

“Let’s drive out there,” Scott said, “and see how far up that road we can get before someone stops us. That will tell us something
about their level of security.”

I refilled my diet Coke and we climbed into the truck. It took less than twenty minutes to reach the area where Biggs had
his land. The land adjacent to the highway was covered in tall pines as well as some spruce. The trees were close together,
and the floor of the forest contained a formidable amount of undergrowth and fallen trees.

“There’s the road to the compound,” Scott said. I slowed the truck and we rolled to a stop at the dirt road that was evidently
the only road to the Biggs compound. Access to it was blocked by an unlocked gate. A sign on the gate read, WHITES ONLY.

“We white,” Scott said.

I held my palms up to my face and said, “Yup.”

I put the truck in park and got out to open the gate. There was a spring on it designed to make sure it would return to a
closed position, but after opening it I placed a rock the size of a basketball up against it so it would remain open. As I
returned to the truck, I noticed a surveillance camera mounted on a tall wooden pole off to one side of the gate. It could
have been one of those phony security cameras that don’t really work, but I figured Biggs had enough money to buy a real one.
Somebody was probably watching us.

I climbed back into the truck and pointed to the camera for Scott. He had a shotgun and a rifle upright between his knees,
and an automatic pistol on his lap. I reached under the seat and put my Glock on my lap. Then I put the truck in gear.

The road was narrow. Vehicles traveling in opposite directions could not pass each other unless at least one driver was willing
to drive over the rocks and seedlings that lined the edges of the road. It had a gentle upward slope. We were not a mile up
it when Scott said, “Here comes trouble.” A silver Dodge pickup was heading our way.

“Put the guns away,” I said. “We’ll just play dumb.” He put the rifle and shotgun up against the passenger door but kept his
pistol just to his right under a map.

The Dodge pulled up to us so that we could not go around it. I stopped my truck. Their truck had two German shepherds in the
back. I got the feeling those two animals took pride in their German heritage.

A twenty-something bodybuilder with a crew cut got out of the driver’s side of the Dodge and approached my window. Another
man, very tall, exited from the passenger side of the Dodge and started peering into the back of my truck. Both had machine
pistols. I rolled my window down. No, I touched a button to lower it. I don’t think they make cars with windows that can be
rolled down by hand anymore.

“You guys are on private property,” the beefy man said.

“We want to do some ice fishing,” I said. “Noticed a small lake on the map.”

“Are you fucking deaf?” he said. “It’s private property.”

“We were hoping the owner might let us do some fishing, maybe camp a night or two,” I said.

“We always ask permission before hunting or fishing on private property,” Scott added with a straight face. “It’s the polite
thing to do.”

“You two turn your fucking truck around and git out of here,” he said. “And don’t come back.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Hey, Tommie,” the tall man yelled from behind my truck, “I think these are the fuckers that were asking about Skull down
in Boise.”

The bodybuilder looked confused for a fraction of a second, then started to raise his weapon. I didn’t wait to see what would
happen next. I slammed the truck into reverse and said to Scott, “You best lay some lead on these boneheads.”

I backed up as fast as I could on the narrow road, using my rearview mirror to see where I was going. Scott started firing
at them with his rifle. I heard the fire of their automatic weapons, and I know at least one round hit my truck. In the mirror
I saw a clearing where I might be able to back up over some young trees and turn the truck around. I backed right over them
and turned so that the truck was headed downhill. I punched the gas and guided the truck as best I could as we bounced along
the road at what I had to assume was a record speed for it. The gate came into view. I didn’t stop when we reached it. I turned
right and shifted into overdrive.

“Are they on us?” I asked.

“Not that I can see. I’m pretty sure I hit the tall guy in the leg.”

“I guess we’re going to threat condition red,” I said.

“That’s the last time I ask permission,” Scott said. “From now on I hunt or fish wherever I goddamn please.” I allowed a nervous
laugh as I glanced at the speedometer. One hundred and two miles per hour in an aging F-150 isn’t bad.

That night at the cabin we dined on beef stroganoff and discussed the big picture as the dogs slept in front of the fireplace.
“Okay,” Scott said, “I figure Skull knows we’re here. He knows we’re looking for him, but he doesn’t know why. He knows what
we’re driving. It’s a safe bet we’re not camping out in the middle of December, so he knows we’re staying with someone or
in a place like this. What are we going to do when he finds us?”

“Prell’s description of him is identical to the description the Denver cops got four years ago. All we have to do is get his
voice on tape. Then the cops can do a voiceprint analysis to compare our tape to the recording of the guy that called the
radio station after Hal was killed.”

“Even if this is the guy that called the radio station, it doesn’t prove he killed your cousin.”

“Yeah, but it makes him a pretty good suspect. It gives the cops someone to focus on.”

“So we have to have an encounter with Skull and get his voice on tape.”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Scott said. “We’ll just park your truck in downtown Coeur d’Alene and wait for Skull to try to kill
us.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said.

W
E ATE BREAKFAST
M
ONDAY
at the International House of Pancakes. We ate lunch at the International Houses of Pancakes. My truck was on the street,
the Colorado plates and the bullet hole clearly visible.

We didn’t have to worry about eating dinner at the International House of Pancakes, because Skull walked in just after one
and headed straight for our table. He had the build of a light heavyweight fighter, the eyes of a rattlesnake, and the words
WHITE power tattooed across his knuckles. He wore tight jeans, black combat boots, and a jean jacket with lots of Aryan Resistance
crap on it. He had recently shaved the blond hair from his head. He had two skinhead buddies with him, and both looked formidable.
These guys weren’t like the jokers we had encountered in Boise. These guys were the real deal.

“You two looking for me?” he said.

“You Skull?” I asked.

“I know you?”

“I think you knew my cousin,” I said. “He used to be a cop in Denver.”

“I’ve never been to Denver.”

“I’ve never been to Spain,” I said, “but I kind of like the music.” He was too young to know it was a line from a song written
by Hoyt Axton and made famous by Three Dog Night.

“You two know what’s best for you, you’ll get in your truck right now and head on back to Colorado. You’re not welcome here.
You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“We go wherever we want to,” Scott said, not realizing he had just uttered the first line of the Monkees’ theme.

“Can’t travel tonight, Anders,” I said. “The Broncos are on
Monday Night Football
. Against the Chiefs. At home.”

“Mile High Stadium,” Scott said. Though the new stadium is officially known as Invesco Field at Mile High, we hadn’t been
allowed to vote on it and didn’t view the decision as binding on us. To us and a lot of other folks who had grown up in Colorado,
it would always be Mile High Stadium.