Wear Something Red

Chapter 1

FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, Joan McGowan, and her team of Travis Meyer, Erica Jensen, Arnold Davidson, Tommy John (TJ) Eccles and Miranda Wong, rode in her van. James Torres and his team followed in their SWAT van. The lights of both vehicles were off. It was exactly 11:30 pm on a moonless August night when she entered the Crowley farm east of Portland. Maple trees lined both sides of the gravel approach road. Travis rode shotgun. He was looking at the buildings through his night-vision binoculars.

Shit. He pointed to her left. It looks like they have a machine gun nest on the roof of the barn.

Arnie confirmed through his binoculars. I see a square of sandbags six high with two heads sticking up above it. One of them is watching us through binoculars. Joan, we’re not prepared for—

A fusillade of bullets penetrated the passenger side of the van. Erica cried out, grabbed her side and slumped against TJ.

Find cover. She stopped the van and jumped out.

Another round of fire struck both vehicles as Travis and TJ dragged Erica out of the van.

She looked for the SWAT team, but had to duck back behind the driver’s door when three bullets zipped past her head.

Torres and his crew were scrambling for cover. They were dragging two of their men toward the trees away from the line of fire and into greater darkness.

A series of explosions set the maple trees on fire one after another creating a line of torches that illuminated her team and made them easier targets.

Travis hollered at her though he was only two feet away, Erica’s dead. We’re in the kill zone; we gotta move.

The machine gun on top of the barn opened fire on Torres’ unit. Two more SWAT crew were hit.

Two others had raced back to their van and were pulling out whatever gear they could get as fast as they could. One of them was shot in the leg. Before the other could drag him away, the SWAT van exploded.

There. She pointed to a pasture of tall corn.

Torres and what was left of his unit were already entering the cornfield. They had left three of their own behind.

Gunfire came from everywhere. Her team’s arrival had been anticipated. They had been surrounded using precise military countermeasures conceived to be rapid and overwhelming.

Joan, come on! Travis grabbed her to get her going.

Arnie came to her, but dropped to the ground at her feet before he could say anything. TJ and Miranda had made it to the cornfield and Torres’ unit.

Travis pushed Arnie off her foot. Joan, come on!

Gunfire began sweeping across the cornfield from all directions.

There were only supposed to be three of them, she muttered.

Fuck that. He tried to pull her over Arnie, but suddenly jerked back, twisted and fell sideways against the van.

She fired her AR15 into the darkness through a 180 degree arc. It sounded like she had only hit tree trunks.

Powerful explosions started going off all over the farm. Fireballs shot into the sky, adding additional haphazard lighting to the scene.

An explosion on the other side of the van rocked it into the back of her head and knocked her down onto Arnie’s body. She tasted blood when she pushed herself back up. Something had struck her right cheek. The gash was about two inches long and almost as wide as her finger. Blood had run down from it into her mouth.

Torres’ people returned fire sporadically, but mostly they were just trying to find better cover than stalks of corn.

She checked for the flash of the machine gun to see where it was aiming, but it stopped firing. A moment after that, the nest exploded and set the barn on fire. A brief cry of victory erupted from the cornfield before even heavier crossfire strafed it again.

There were only supposed to be three suspected terrorists at the Crowley farm. They weren’t supposed to be this well trained and equipped . . . or reinforced.

She ducked under more gunfire aimed at the van and checked Travis. He’d been struck in the neck just above his bulletproof vest. He spit up blood when he tried to speak.

San Francisco. He coughed and sagged down into death. The apology and regret in his eyes hadn’t been necessary.

She peeked out from behind the driver’s door toward the farm buildings. The barn was fully engulfed in flames. The farmhouse was dark.

Joan, TJ called from across the drive. He was signaling there was cover back toward the entrance to the farm.

Another burst of gunfire swept through the cornfield. Another one of her team cried out.

A man lunged from the darkness at TJ, then another. They knocked him to the ground and clubbed him. Each one looked at her before they dragged TJ up to his knees, grabbed his hair, raised his head so he could face her and then decapitated him with one hard swing of a machete. They were doing all this for her, a display for the commander of the operation. One of them picked up TJ’s head and prepared to toss it at her.

She aimed and fired. They both exploded in flames and dropped onto TJ.

Two more men running along the access road opened fire on her. They passed through the light of each burning tree and vanished into intense darkness only to reappear again at the next tree. They were dressed in the same gear as the other two: cargo pants and hunting vests. All the pockets were likely stuffed with incendiary explosives.

Martyrs to their cause: to attack at the heart of American law enforcement and security. Michael and Shana would never be told how she died. Her casket would need to be kept closed after they were through with her. The critical incident report would be classified Top Secret for reasons of national security and available for high-clearance level Internal Review Only.

She laid down on Arnie and returned fire. Neither man tried to avoid being hit. They were determined to be the one to get the commander. Radicalized young men, they were already the exalted dead.

She squeezed her eyes shut and kept firing. First one man exploded into a running fireball, then the other just ten feet from her. A piece of burning vest with two ribs and tissue stuck to it bounced off the van and landed beside her. A pair of burning legs dropped to the ground three feet to her left.

Spotlights shone down on her as two helicopters flew in.

Miranda stood across the access road just looking down at TJ and the burning remains of his two killers. She was covered in blood.

When Joan detected movement to Wong’s right, she launched herself across the road, but a bullet struck her right shoulder and knocked her back against the van. She could just see Miranda moving in and out of the blazing light while fighting off two men wielding machetes. Lights came along the access road just before everything went dark.

She woke up to Deputy Assistant Director Lorne Wozniak asking, How did we end up with this debacle? Our intelligence was valid and reliable; now eleven of our own are dead.

She was in the back of an ambulance with bandages on her right shoulder and her right cheek and an IV in her left arm. The rear door was open. It was morning.

Wozniak was questioning Torres and Wong. Just how many were there?

We’ve counted what could be nine, Torres replied. There may have been more. It felt like there were more.

Wong, her arms and hands wrapped in bandages, said, They all wore vests containing thermite. There is little left of any of them but ash and smoke.

Torres glanced at her. They used tunnels to surround us.

Tunnels and eleven of us dead in less than fifteen minutes, Wozniak said. You’d think we were in Iraq.

Joan laid back and closed her eyes. She was out again in seconds.

Chapter 2

She turned off Highway 44 to enter Dominion, Oregon, looked over at Shana, fourteen, and swallowed hard. The heat of late August could do nothing against the chill inside her. Her breath caught when she started to speak.

Mattie tells me they expect Dominion to more than double in size over the next ten years now that Do-Dads and Karyon Research are coming.

Good, then it will have twice as many losers in it.

Joan’s face flushed with heat. There are lots of places to ride around here. The highway has a good shoulder. We could go all the way to Widow Creek and back. I’ll show you some of my favorite routes once we’re settled. It’s going to be fantastic, you’ll see.

Shana lowered her head and looked out the window. Every friend I had is back in Portland.

Portland is barely a hundred miles to the west. It’s not like we’ve moved to another galaxy.

You could have fooled me.

You’ll make new friends. You may even find a new BFF. She winced. You have to stop giving her material to work with.

Like you and Mattie Griffin? How long has it been?

Sweat beaded on her forehead. Seventeen years.

"Must be a record for a BFF; seventeen years since you’ve last seen each other. That’s longer than I’ve been your special treasure. And I’ve never heard of her. And then she calls, out of the blue, to offer you this job."

She heard I was no longer with the FBI. She called only to advise me of an opportunity, that’s all.

Of the three survivors, she had lasted the longest at the Bureau after. . . . A year to the date after the Crowley Farm Incident, she was the only one of the fourteen still alive.

And you just grabbed it. She stuck her ear buds back in.

We’re not doing this again. I’ve taken the job. Let’s make the best of it.

She took the Mazda CX-5 downhill from the highway onto Thurlow Street to officially enter Dominion. Her ears popped as if she had just taken them through some barrier that would block any attempt to escape. Shana would love that. She could spend all eternity pointing out to her mother what a mess she’d made of their lives . . . again.

Was this the right time to be making this move? She had to make it the right time. Waiting for the perfect moment and just wishing for a few quiet years with Shana before her bold, courageous, overconfident daughter struck out on her own was too passive. She had to focus on the moment, keep to her plan and hope coming back to where her mother and father had died didn’t somehow cost her Shana, too.

She looked around as they proceeded along Thurlow. Nothing seemed to be in the right place, but she’d never been familiar with this part of town.

Shana tapped the navigation screen protruding above the center console. You just missed your turn.

Her glowing face threatened to burst into flames. Hot on the surface, freezing at her core; that was some way to return to Dominion. She pulled to the curb, checked both ways and then made a U-turn to get back to. . . .

Turn right at Middlemarch. Shana took out her ear buds. Who names a street Middlemarch?

The street didn’t exist when I lived here. The town didn’t come this far west. That’s why I didn’t recognize anything.

This must be part of their rapid growth you were told about . . . or that other galaxy.

Shana, so help me.

Just kidding. She put her ear buds back in. Main Street is three blocks ahead. You turn right there. Her daughter’s naturally condescending and sarcastic tone then added, You’ll probably recognize that one.

Joan sighed and turned right at Main Street.

Mattie Griffin, in her red Griffin Real Estate blazer, white blouse and grey skirt, was standing in front of her office with Harry Madsen, the retiring sheriff. A rotund man in his sixties, Madsen was the one who officially offered her the job of replacing him.

She parked and got out. Shana stayed in the car bobbing her head slightly to whatever song was coming out of her ear buds.

Mattie, thirty-six, her hair short and neat and back to its natural tawny color, still looked like she could perform every wicked cheerleader move as easily now as she could back in high school. She held out her hand but quickly pulled it back.

Oh, I’m being so silly. Mattie hugged her. It’s good to see you again, Joanie. I’ve missed you very much.

Joan glanced at Shana’s bobbing head as Mattie squeezed her hard.

Shana glanced back, deigned to smirk at her and mouthed, Seventeen years.

Mattie released her and stepped back, bent over slightly and waved hello at her head-bobbing daughter. She’s certainly pretty, and tall, too, from the looks of her.

Six feet one inch, she said.

Madsen asked, How old did you say she is?

Fourteen.

Madsen only shook her hand and tipped an imaginary hat at Shana, who had her head down and her eyes closed.

I just wanted to let you know I’ll be hanging around for a bit longer. I still have a couple of cases I’m investigating. But I will do my best to stay out of your way. Take the weekend to get yourself settled. I’ll drop by the office and fill you in on Monday. With first a wave to her and Shana, then to Mattie, he walked off.

What was Madsen up to? Was he lingering so he could look over her shoulder despite having promised when he offered her the job that he wouldn’t interfere? Was he going to stick around just to meddle? Monday, she would set him straight about that first thing.

What two cases?

Mattie shrugged. You know the one. It’s made us famous: Stanford Wiley and his Ponzi scheme.

He embezzled lots of money.

Oh, it’s much more than that. He bilked thousands of clients out of billions of dollars. I think it’s supposed to be the largest haul ever. No one really knows how he did it and not even your former employer can find any of it.

Why is Madsen still involved?

I believe someone there asked Harry to stay on the case.

Her ears joined her face for this new burst of heat.

Mattie said, Never mind about that for now. I’m sure Harry will bring you up to date on Monday. Who knows, he may even ask for your help. After all, you’ll be in charge then.

Mattie could be right. Madsen could be exactly what he said he was. Harry Madsen, Kate Eiger, the former mayor and Leonard Jones, the current mayor, had interviewed her for the job. Madsen had been the most challenging at times because of his experience, but once the interview was over he had also been the one to tell her the most about the changes to Dominion since she’d left. He remembered her and Mattie and their troupe of girls causing minor havoc as teenagers, especially during that summer at Quarrelle Lake. He had behaved as if she were already the sheriff, though there were still two other candidates for the job yet to be interviewed. One, so he’d told her, had more relevant experience as a sheriff.

Shall we go? Mattie was trying to usher her back to her Mazda.

Sorry.

It’s a lot to take in right now, but you’ll settle quickly. She chuckled. It’s like riding a bicycle.

What’s the other case?

Just a local missing person; Albert Nguyen vanished about three weeks ago.

Why is that a case? Are there suspicious circumstances?

He delivers produce to local stores and restaurants. I can’t see anything suspicious in that. Harry’s most likely hanging on to it because he and Albert were friends. She led Joan to her Mazda and then pointed to her silver Mercedes C350 Coupe across the street. Follow me. It’s an old house, a Victorian design that needs a lot of work.

What kind of work?

Nothing serious, just the kind of renovations you told me you like doing. She hurried to her Mercedes, waved and got in.

Joan got into the CX-5, started it and made a U-turn to tuck in behind the Merc.

I guess, Shana said, all sheriffs are allowed to make U-turns anywhere, anytime. Oh, wait you’re not the sheriff until Monday.

She scowled at her daughter, which brought a wider grin to Shana’s face than she could manage in response to Mattie’s greeting. There had to be a good military college in the Ural Mountains, there just had to be.

Following Mattie took them back through the same territory she had traversed after first entering the city.

You remember this part, don’t you? Shana said with a sardonic tone that would make that famous Vulcan greeting sound like an insult.

She just responded with a snarling smile and wondered about Madsen’s two remaining cases. She knew about the Wiley case. She knew about the billions of dollars that no one could find. Looking up as much as she could with the expectation that she would be brought into the case as sheriff; she had soon run into roadblocks from her former superiors with the explanation that she was no longer privy to information on FBI cases.

Madsen was still privy to information on FBI cases. Why ask him to continue rather than pass the case to her? She may not have enough relevant experience for sheriff work, but she certainly had enough FBI experience to know how to work that type of case.

Before she’d been cut off, Colin Foster had told her Wiley’s schemes even threatened national security. Would Madsen know what that threat was, or was his handler at the FBI keeping him on a short leash?

Nestled in a crescent-shaped valley on the west side of the Cascade Mountains sixty miles south of Mt Hood, Dominion had grown from a Department of Forestry fire monitoring station prosaically nicknamed Firetown to be incorporated in 1928. During her time here, the only outsiders who ever came to Dominion were the campers, and later the cabin folk, who came for the area’s one natural treasure: Quarrelle Lake. Campers favored the Midnight Fire Campgrounds at the north end of the lake, the cabin folk resided just west of that in Cabin Country, away from where Dominion’s boisterous children, including her troupe in her day, hung out in the south at the end of Ditchburg Road.

Dominion had done a competent job of keeping up with change even after two of its main employers, Timber Brewery and its companion Treeline Winery, closed their doors just before she left seventeen years ago. According to Madsen, all 6,897 citizens of Dominion were excited about the coming of Do-Dads and Karyon Research and the plans to develop both summer and winter sports facilities for tourists. There were plans to expand Cottage Country to go with ambitious plans to revitalize Dominion’s core. And in amongst all this anticipation, Stanford Wiley, a local financial advisor, had developed an internet-based investment con to both embezzle billions of dollars and then hide it where no one could find it.

Shana said, Unless you want to change your mind and leave, which is all right with me, you better make the turn.

Mattie had moved to the left-turn lane at the corner of Lafleur and Madigan, two streets new to her.

She quickly checked, saw that no other car was coming and slipped the Mazda in behind the Merc.

I suppose sheriff’s get to do that all the time, too.

Joan glanced at the Cascade Mountains to the north and east. If she took Shana up the old forestry road and dumped her, it would take her at least two days to get back on her own.

Mattie turned left when the light changed.

Joan had to wait for two cars coming the other way before she could follow.

Shana muttered, That must be rush hour.

She floored the gas pedal as she made her turn. The CX-5 didn’t have enough power to win a race with a running Harry Madsen, something she couldn’t imagine him even doing anymore, but combined with the sharp left turn she’d just made, it created enough centrifugal force to knock her daughter into her door.

Shana sneered at her before continuing her search for some song on her smartphone. She had stopped slouching, however.

Sorry.

No you’re not.

Ours is a special relationship.

Whatever. Shana found her song, started it and put her head back against the headrest. She closed her eyes and hummed along to the songs every now and then.

Joan stayed behind Mattie as they passed through a newer neighborhood—newer in that it wasn’t there when she’d moved away after the murder-suicide of her parents.

Finally, Mattie reached Yew Street and pulled over to park.

Joan parked behind her. It was an older neighborhood, but well maintained. Smaller homes and tract houses dominated the area. The occasional newer home, and even a couple of new ones currently being built, stuck out amid the modest residences like ostentatious neighbors. These homes weren’t built to last forever, but seeing old ones go down always seemed cold and sad. It was a sentiment she and Shana and Michael shared.

She remembered this area of Dominion. Riley Hitchcock, the biggest liar in her class, who had always claimed to be related to the famous movie maker, had lived on Oak Street a few blocks away. The first time she had ever exposed her breasts to a boy was to Riley in his basement when she was fourteen, her daughter’s age.

Shana was a gorgeous young woman with long, fine brunette hair like her mother, a tall, lean, athletic body, brown eyes sparkling with shards of bronze in them that were only going to break more hearts as she became a full grown woman, and breasts that were perfectly sized and perfectly shaped for her frame. While Riley Hitchcock had been fascinated and thrilled, he’d also been a bit disappointed at her lack of substance at fourteen. He would have fainted if he’d seen Shana topless.

Mattie was out of her Mercedes and standing by the gate before Joan had turned off her Mazda.

Her throat felt dry. The list of things she and Shana needed to talk about was just getting longer with every day she put it off.

Oh, look, Shana said in an almost flawless imitation of Mattie’s voice. It’s even got a white picket fence. Isn’t that delightful?

How could she have even heard Mattie with the window up and those damned buds stuck in her ears?

Shana was a mother’s dream come true, but surely a quick smack up the side of her head might be enough to bring about a change in her attitude. The risk was that it would probably just get worse. And she would never hit her daughter anyway so it was an empty threat.

Joan got out, surprised to see Shana also getting out rather than remain in the Mazda. Having to stretch out cramps and find relief from a numb bum was a great motivator.

The Mazda was a bit short for Shana’s length, especially with the rear of it full of stuff pressing against the back of her seat. It also drove like a go-cart, complete with point-and-shoot handling and transferring to its occupants everything the road had to offer by way of bumps and noise.

Mattie started her spiel the moment they got to her. As I told you in my email, this house had been tied up in probate, but that’s settled now and the executors are eager to clear the estate. We’ll finalize the paperwork once the other executor is back from Eugene. Shall we go in?

As she looked at their new home, Joan realized she hadn’t been inside a house in Dominion since the night her old home burned to the ground with mother and father inside. She had spent the last few weeks in a motel room, having lost everything in the fire, before leaving to attend UCLA.

That neighborhood we passed through, she said.

Fleetwood Grove.

Named after the dowager, Abigail Fleetwood, who spent her husband’s fortune reclaiming areas he had clear cut to make.

See? It’s all coming back to you.

Shana said, Just another thing to look forward to.

Mattie’s smile didn’t waver a bit. Albert Nguyen lives there.

The man who disappeared?

See? Shana said. You remember that, too.

Shall we? Mattie took hold of the gate.

Chapter 3

Mattie opened the loose, creaking gate, careful not to break it off, and proceeded ahead of them. At the front door, she fumbled a bit with the key before getting it open.

She and Shana remained at the bottom of the six steps leading up to the front porch of the narrow, mostly yellow, Victorian-style, three-storey house. The porch had a small gable roof over it. The living room, and the bedroom above it, both had bay windows. There were touches of green and blue gingerbread trim on the porch and around the bay windows.

Shana pointed to the basement window facing front. I hope we don’t find any bodies hacked up down there.

Joan glanced at the window and shivered.

Mattie called down, Come on, you two, let’s have a look.

They went up the stairs together.

Shana took out the ear buds and put away her smartphone. Not much of a house compared to the one we left behind.

Joan flushed again and muttered a curse. Shana had that natural gift of meaning much more than she’d just said when she wanted to, particularly when she was being snide.

Mattie let them get to the porch before opening the door with a grand gesture and stepping aside to let them go in first.

Immediately inside the door, an opening on the right led to the living and dining area. An open pocket door from there led to the kitchen. A set of L-shaped stairs to their left ascended from the front and offered a door to the basement at its other end. The bathroom came at the end of the stairway. There was a closet against the stairway wall and two more where the wall of the bathroom formed a passage about three feet wide with the dining room wall.

Shana noticed what she was looking at. I think we need an exit from the dining area about there.

She pointed past the bathroom. We get a nook and a dining room. That’s a bit of a surprise for a house like this.

Mattie said, It was actually quite a unique home in its day, larger than similar designs in this neighborhood. You’ll notice the chair rail throughout and some really nice egg and dart crown molding work on both floors.

It’s still puny, though. Shana looked back and forth between front and rear doors. Good fortune in the front door and out the back. I don’t think there were any offers from Chinese members of the community.

That’s true, Mattie said as she came in behind them. She left the door open. You wouldn’t believe some of the superstitions I’ve encountered selling houses: the number of steps must be just right, the sellers can’t be divorcing, can’t have someone die in the house, can’t have any windows open in the house when you move in, must have at least one window open when you move in. I’ve dealt with superstitions from Chinese, Japanese, Italians, Mexicans and Americans.

Shana said, I thought we were all Americans.

You’re right; a bad choice of words on my part. And I’d be the first to say that everyone is entitled to their own beliefs. Mattie stepped into the living-dining area. With the three floors, you have a total of twenty-eight hundred and eighty-two square feet.

An unlucky number, I’m sure; too symmetrical, Shana said as she came into the room. Portland had a good number.

Joan gave Mattie a welcome-to-my-world smile.

We should check the foundation first thing, Shana said and headed for the kitchen. She closed the pocket door to reveal a stained-glass center. A moment later, footsteps raced down the stairs to the basement.

Mattie said, She seems to be warming up to the place.

We were always doing work where we lived. You couldn’t get her away from Michael’s side. She’d be his gopher, then his cutter and then she was right there with us, tearing out, measuring, hammering, building, painting, planning everything. She was never happier than when she and. . . .

I’m so sorry, Joanie. I meant to offer my condolences about Michael, about your FBI . . . experience, but we were just too busy with getting you your new job. How long was he in the coma before . . . ?

Three months. We better catch up or she’ll start tearing things apart before we can stop her.

On the way down the stairs, Mattie asked, How many stitches?

Eight.

It’s hardly noticeable.

Thanks for noticing. The scar on her right cheek was a two-inch long, thin, shallow indent now.

They found Shana inspecting the concrete foundation below