April Smith - Judas Horse

I’m looking around, sniffing the air. It is a comfy masculine nest, with a worn leather couch in front of a river-stone fireplace, kindling neatly stacked in a brass pot, driftwood and candles arranged on the mantel. A homosexual liaison between these two is not out of the question. A maple bookshelf holds magazines in plastic holders: Western Gunsmithing and Guns & Ammo.

“Quite a collection.”

“I don’t like guns,” Toby jokes. “I love them.” “Well then, you’re the one to tell me — what kind of a gun would you use to shoot somebody?” “Why would you ask that?”

“Because I’m going to kill that guy, Herbert Laumann. I said I’d do it for Julius.” Toby: “He’s one convincing dude.”

“She can use my Colt.45.”

To Toby: “Is that a good choice?”

“It’ll do the job. Just make sure you’re close.”

“Contact shot.” Stone nods, eyes closed.

“Well then, no problem.”

“How do you know so much about guns?”

Toby grins charmingly. “I’m an old soldier. A tired old soldier.” He sits slowly on the leather couch. “Hear those old bones crack?” Dick Stone gets up and goes into the kitchen.

Toby leans forward and confides: “He doesn’t like me to talk about Vietnam. He flips out, like he’s back in the jungle with us, which he never was. Julius has a way of appropriating other people’s stories.” “What do you mean by ‘us’?”

“Me and his little brother, Colin. The boy died over there.” “Julius has a brother who died in Vietnam?”

Toby nods. “There’s a park back east, named for his brother and his battalion.” I fumble, trying to assess what this means. Stone must have joined the FBI at the same time Colin enlisted. Both young men were patriots — too young to imagine such a thing as death by idealism, or the bitter, vengeful burden for the one who survives.

I need air.

“Nice view of the river.” I crane toward the windows. “Mind if I go down and look?” “You go on. I’m gonna see what our friend is up to in the kitchen.” I smile nicely and pull on the back door a couple of times until it becomes unstuck. Outside, the breath of the river is humid and fresh. My shoulder blades are tight as screws. Despite the coziness, there is a stale repression in Toby’s cottage. I look back at the pumpkin trim and perfectly pruned impatiens. What is going on in the kitchen? A gravel walk leads to a garage. There’s a stylish lantern mounted above a side entrance, indicating use. I open the door and wander in.

The sharp smell of cordite grabs me like an old friend. I am back in the basement shooting range at Quantico; in the gun vault at the L.A. field office. Toby’s shop is basically a Peg-Board and a bench, but at a glance, it has everything the recreational gun owner might need, including the wardrobe, all the clothes neatly hung: camo jacket, wind vest, rain togs, and polished black patrol boots.

There’s a rack of common hunting rifles—7-mm ones and.308s, like the one Sterling McCord was using on the shooting range. The bench is organized for reloading cartridges — bright red cans of rifle powder, a mounted powder measure, a fancy single-stage press, and sets of dies, punches, lifters, wad guide, drop tube, the whole extravaganza for making your own bullets. The dies are organized according to size. A quick glance reveals.30-to.40-caliber ones, neatly stacked. God bless Toby’s obsessive-compulsion: at the bottom of the pile, exactly where it belongs — except it does not belong — is a die for making.50-caliber bullets.

A highly unusual size for your average hunter.

The same-size bullet that killed Sergeant Mackee.

The same-size bullet that matches Dick Stone’s rifle.

Toby appears at the door.

“I see you found my love.”

He offers me a glass of iced tea.

“I didn’t mean to pry. It just looked so interesting in here.” Toby picks up a shotgun and handles it well. “I hope you weren’t touching anything.” “Of course not.”

“Accidents do happen with firearms.”

His big brown eyes are soft and slightly insane.

“I’m getting some weird vibes, know what I mean? Like you’re prancing around in here, trying to pretend to be something you’re not.” “I’m not pretending anything.”

“You’re not some prissy white girl,” he says. “What are you?” “Half Salvadoran. Got a problem with that?”

“Yes, I do. My problem is this: What’s a homegirl doing way up here, no brown faces in the whole damn state?” I hold his look.

“I could ask the same question.”

“I got a job with the town,” says Toby Himes.

“And I’m on a visit with Julius.”

“You gonna shoot someone, just for kicks? Just because Julius says?” “For the movement. For the sake of animals.”

“If you’re the Man,” he says, “I’ll kill you.”

The chow is barking. Outside, there is commotion and the sound of voices and heavy boots on the gravel walk.

“Whenever.”

“You tell me.”

Mr. Terminate crashes open the screen door of the ammo shed and marches through, along with another squinty two-hundred pounder with a full beard and red-checked shirt I call Mountain Man.

“…You can use it underwater,” Mountain Man is saying.

“Why in hell would anyone care? Hey, Toby.”

“Afternoon.”

“Hi, John.” Mr. Terminate ignores me.

“It’s stable,” Mountain Man insists. “Safe to transport.” “Seriously, you don’t want to be around that shit.” “Me? I don’t want to get anywhere near that shit.” “Julius knows you can’t get that shit. The only place you could get that shit is the armory out on the base.” This is it. This is the Big One: They’re talking about meth. They’re running a methamphetamine operation out of a military base.

I am beginning to get excited, when Toby Himes breaks in.

“I guarantee what the Doctor has in mind is strictly MOS.” And then, as we say in the Bureau, the hair goes up on the back of my neck, and I know what I know. In the language of bomb experts, MOS stands for military occupational specialties.

The Army Corps of Engineers, whose job it is to locate land mines.

Mr. Terminate, Mountain Man, Toby Himes, and Stone are not working some ordinary drug deal.

They are talking about military-grade explosives.

Donnato is waiting at the usual rest area off the interstate at the time of another of my alleged appointments with the dentist.

“If the suspects were talking about explosives you can only get from military occupation specialists, it means they’re dealing in very powerful, restricted material. What the bomb techs call ‘high explosives’—dynamite, plastics, TNT, ammonium nitrate — stuff that can shatter things and move things around, like rocks and trees, which is how they use it in the Army, clearing landing zones.” I have brought a cooler this time, and we sit at the same picnic table around back — just a couple of tourists eating tuna sandwiches.

“But those kinds of explosives don’t fit the signature.” “No.”

“The devices that blew up Laumann’s house and killed Steve weren’t military-grade.” “Correct. Now we’re thinking your friends at Toby’s were talking about a special order. For a special mission.” “I don’t like it.”

“Neither does headquarters. Toby is obviously the link. He’s the reloader who made the bullet that killed Sergeant Mackee. He’s the munitions expert getting ready for the Big One. We’ve installed a listening device at his house and put the other individuals under surveillance. Agents are visiting explosives manufacturers in the region, asking for cooperation in reporting anything gone missing.” “How do the bad guys get restricted matériel?”