Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three (2 page)

Mac knew the old man had his storage buildings, workshops, and other accoutrements arranged so he didn’t actually need to go outdoors for days at a time, during the worst of the brutal Maine winters. Even Smitty’s stash of firewood stayed neatly stacked inside an attached garage-like building.
I’m good at organizing my stuff,
but I could take a few lessons from the old codger
.

Bertie of the superb lasagna said that Smitty had lived in the city of Augusta with his wife, a kindergarten teacher. They’d never had children, so when pneumonia took his Elsa five years before, Smitty had made a permanent transition to his woodland hunting retreat. Except for his regular Friday sojourns into town, he had only the wildlife for company. He seemed to prefer it that way.

Deputy Collins piloted the big, black, Dodge Ram SUV along the woodsy roads.

Mac leaned back against the headrest, tried unsuccessfully to close his eyes. The trail’s overgrowth grew thicker and the ruts cut deeper as they drove on, which made his planned power nap impossible. If it wasn’t for his seatbelt, the sheriff would have been airborne.

“Damn, Smitty needs a bulldozer out here, and about a hundred tons of gravel, just for starters.”

Collins chuckled as he negotiated the truck around huge downed trees with exposed roots. “Tells everyone he prefers his privacy. Says the rough road keeps the riffraff out.”

“Yeah well, privacy he has, the old goat. We’d better find him rocking on the front porch. I have no intention of searching any deeper into the freakin’ woods without dragging out the ATVs.”

Smith’s old-but-serviceable Jeep Cherokee could usually be found parked in the courtyard framed by the horseshoe-shaped footprint of the buildings. No vehicle in sight today.

Mac stepped out of the SUV, stretched his aching body.

“Hello the house!”

Nothing.

“Smitty, it’s Sheriff MacBride. Hello!”

Still nothing.

He pulled his piece, nodded to Joe to do the same. “Check the front door. I’ll go

‘round the back.”

Mac knew that every room was accessible by a maze of interior corridors and doors. He circled the buildings, inspected the outer doors and windows for signs of vandalism. All the outer doors of the surrounding buildings were securely locked.

Tough to tell if any footprints were fresh; they all looked dusty.

The facility appeared tightly buttoned up.

Around to the front again, he climbed the three stairs to the porch, walked inside the main residence. Everything looked neat and orderly, as if the old man just stepped out for a moment. Mac met Joe in the living room.

“Boss, looks like a rifle, fishing pole, and tackle are missing from the racks in the mudroom. No disturbances, no signs of trouble. But it doesn’t make sense that the front door was unlocked, when he’s so particular about security everywhere else. I got as far as his bedroom.”

“Check the other quarters anyway. I’ll finish nosing around here.”

The townsfolk might shake their heads at the thought of the old geezer living like a hermit in the woods, but everywhere Mac looked, Smitty had everything organized, everything in its place. The dwelling held a citrusy scent, like the old man used orange furniture polish on all the wooden surfaces. Mac perused the gallery of photos over the big fieldstone hearth in the living room.

There were photos of Smitty and his wife at various times through the decades of their long marriage. In the wedding photo, Elsa had been an absolute stunner, a real Gibson girl, as Mac’s granddad would say. But most of the photos were snapshots of Smith and his buds during their military days.

Mac leaned forward, toward one of the larger framed photos, a group shot—

The screen door slammed.

“Boss,
whoa
! Don’t touch anything in here. Stick your hands in your pockets, then follow me. You really need to see this.” Joe, usually steadfast and unflappable, sounded shaky and looked pale.

“What’s up?”

“Trust me, ya gotta see it to believe it.”

When they reached the front porch, Joe handed the sheriff a Kevlar flak jacket, then slid into his own. He tossed Mac a pair of latex gloves. He’d already pulled on a pair.

“Joe, why am I—?”

“Come around to his workshop by the rear entrance. I opened it from the inside.

And don’t touch a damned thing, gloves or not.”

* * * * *

Tuesday

It took the FBI field office in Massachusetts a surprisingly short time to get a bomb squad wagon to the site with an Explosives Ordnance Disposal team.

Mac yawned widely, then stepped out of his SUV into the morn’s early light, unwrapped the sleeping bag from around his body. It had been his turn to keep a fuzzy eyeball on the place until the Fibbies arrived. The autumn temperature had dropped overnight, low enough to cover the truck with frost.

“Catamount Lake Sheriff Brian MacBride. Call me Mac. Didn’t know you boys were anywhere in the vicinity.”

“Special Agent in Charge Will Chandler, Boston field office.” The agent gave a half-assed grin as he shook Mac’s hand. “We weren’t in the vicinity, exactly.”

He turned deliberately, took in a panoramic view. “Then again, is anything up here actually in the vicinity? Got the call to reroute to moose heaven before we returned to domicile.”

Mac gave him a questioning look.

“Don’t ask.”

Mac shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “Be right back. There’s a tree callin’

my name.”

When he returned, he’d straightened his uniform and ran his fingers though his hair in lieu of grooming. “So, what’s your take on this little cottage enterprise?”

Chandler handed him a large container of coffee, pointed to the creamers and sugar packets on the side of the cup carrier. “Honestly? I haven’t seen a setup this neat and organized outside of Quantico. What did you say this guy did for a living?”

Mac dumped three packets of sugar in his coffee instead of his usual two, needing the quick sugar fix added to the caffeine. “Retired, as far as I know. Thought he’d been with the Army Corps of Engineers or some such, before he gave it all up to hunt, fish, and play Dan’l Boone. After a few beers, Smitty’s been known to spout off about blowing up bridges, moving mountains of rock, stuff like that. Never stepped outside the law; no reason for me to do a background check.”

Mac took a deep swallow of coffee, felt somewhat renewed.

“According to the locals, he owned the property, built the cabin, used it for the aforementioned hunting and fishing during the seasons. Each year for decades, he expanded the buildings, did more work on the place. Moved here permanently after his wife died. That was probably about five years ago, when I left the SEALs and landed up here. Don’t see much of him except on Fridays, when he does his weekly errands in town, then heads for the diner. Churlish on occasion, but never a problem.”

“Churlish?” Chandler chuckled as he scrolled through screens on his handheld satcom unit. “Hold the phone. Check this out. He was an engineer all right, but not exactly the bridge-building kind. Explosives Engineering Specialist in our own United States Army. Interesting.”

He flipped through more screens. “Instant intel. Ain’t technology grand. Looks like Bernard Smith could build or defuse just about any explosive device on the planet.

Meritorious medals out the whazoo, all sorts of commendations for putting his life on the line for the good ol’ U. S. of A. Looks like his health took a nosedive after 9/11—he spent time at ground zero. Medical discharge not long after.
Hmm
.”

As MacBride opened his mouth to respond, a Special Agent Bomb Technician in full gear trudged up, pulled off his helmet to suck in clean mountain air.

“We have an issue.” He looked pointedly from Chandler to Mac.

“Take it easy, I’ll vouch for him.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know too many guys who are going to have clearance for this.” The SABT looked at his feet, shook his head.

“Sheriff, I understand you were a SEAL explosives specialist, right?” He waited for Mac’s nod. “You’re familiar with the Larsson case?”

Another nod. Mac’s expression changed to a thoughtful squint as he recalled the details. “John Larsson, demolitions specialist. Killed in a freak bomb blast about two or three months ago. Sporadic intel chatter at the time suggested it was an al-Qaeda op, but no one came forth to take credit for the job. The bomb signature was not previously identified. Appeared to be a timer within a timer.”

“Yeah, well, it might be identifiable now.” The agent had the attention of both men. “We won’t be sure until our squints check the photos and get actual samples back to the D.C. lab, but the components look familiar. The timer on the Larsson device had a peculiar set-up. That’s why I remembered it.”

Chandler shook his head. “The next question: what was our little ol’ bomb maker doing in the middle of moose country Maine, followed closely by who ordered the device to be built? So far, his profile does not point to a man who didn’t love his country.”

Mac headed for his vehicle. “People’s politics have been known to change. More to the point, where is the bomb maker himself, so we can ask him those self-same questions? I need to call this in, get an APB out on Smith.”

He glanced at Chandler’s man. “Your secret is safe with me. The last thing our little town needs is a bomb panic during the height of the fall tourist season.”

* * * * *

Thursday

Two days later, Game Warden Abigail O’Connell left a brief message on the sheriff’s satphone. “Meet me at these GPS coordinates a.s.a.p.”

An hour after that, Mac, O’Connell, Collins, Deputy Medical Examiner Thomas Blake, and Jack, the M.E.’s assistant, stared at the raggedy human remains at the bottom of a cliff.

“Are you sure?” Mac gazed up the nearly vertical rock face as he directed his question toward the M.E., but he didn’t particularly care who answered.

Abigail responded immediately, shifted her stance. “Yeah, it’s him. Even with the scavenger damage, that’s him. His hair, his clothes, his old military ID in the front vest pocket. He mentioned a time or two that he still had all his own teeth, so Army dental records should do the trick. Or maybe DNA testing?” She turned to the M.E. “Right?”

“The identification and autopsy will be complete, Abigail, not to worry. Mr.

Smith’s death was probably accidental, considering where the body came to rest.

Landing at the bottom of a hundred-foot rock face would account for the skull trauma and broken cervical vertebrae, but I certainly won’t rule anything out until I do the postmortem examination.

“Can’t be certain until the bugs attached to the remains tell their stories, but he probably died the same day he went missing. Thankfully for us, he landed in the shadow of the cliff. With the temperatures dropping, the remains stayed cool enough to delay decomposition. Now, all of you need to skedaddle. Inspect your accident scene while I get to work on our victim.” The M.E. motioned for Jack to haul over the body bag.

When they reached their vehicles, Abigail turned to Mac. “We have a problem.

Or, rather, you have a problem, since this is your jurisdiction.”

Mac cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

“I found Smitty by following crow sign. They were circling overhead, which meant something died on the ground. That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that I didn’t find his Jeep.”

“Really.”

“Really. But I
did
find his hunting rifle and his fishing pole.”

“So, what’s strange about that? They were missing from his cabin.”

“Yeah, well, I would have expected the rifle and fishing gear to have fallen close to Smitty’s point of impact. Providing he slipped off the mossy edge of the rock face.”

“Abigail, I already have a blasting headache. I’ve been chewing aspirin like Jujubes. Where are you going with this?”

“Mac, work with me here. Smitty had his favorite fishing spots. His body is at least half a mile from the nearest water source. He’s nowhere near where he usually parked his Jeep when he fished, or even when he hunted. I’d run into him every few weeks, so I have a fairly good idea where his favorite sites were. No Jeep between here and there. As a matter of fact, no Jeep anywhere. Now check out the markers I laid down for his rifle, rod and creel, and backpack.”

She pointed to an area about forty feet from the body, where several yellow plastic crime scene markers had been placed within a corral of crime scene tape.

Mac was relieved to see that she’d secured the vital elements as soon as possible, but not surprised. O’Connell was a hell of an officer, even if she wasn’t one of his.

She swept her arm in an arc, from the position of the body to the nearest of Smith’s belongings. “There’s no way those items should have landed so far from his body,
if
they went over the edge when he did. The ground is too soft for any serious bounce and ricochet effect. Animal activity could account for some movement of the backpack and creel, if they contained food or fish, but I’d hazard a guess that coyotes or foxes didn’t move his rifle or fishing pole.”

He had a feeling his headache was about to get worse. “Shit. Anything else?”

“Yeah. There are tire tracks near the top edge of the cliff. Then they disappear in the pine needle ground cover. Since his Jeep isn’t anywhere to be seen, I’d be making tire casts before the tracks are lost due to weather or animals tracking over them.

“Care to make an educated hypothesis?”

Abigail gave half a headshake. “Best guess? Either he flung them over the edge, then jumped to his death—highly unlikely—or his gear ended up being tossed over the edge after he was pushed. Or thrown.”

Her blue eyes flashed. “Mac, I’m thinking our accident isn’t an accident.”

“Damn it to bloody hell, Abigail. We don’t need this right now, with tourists bustling in and out and all over for leaf-peeping and craft fairs.”

“I know. I know.”

She leaned against her Land Rover’s hood, kept her voice low. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Blake that might influence his investigation, not that I think he’d do anything less than his usual best. I’m just saying, I think this whole scene is hinky. It looks staged.”