Читать книгу MacAvity's Burning - Dan H. McLachlan - Страница 8

The two lane highway that passed five miles west of Ryback dropped over the lip of the Bench and fell two thousand feet down to the Clearwater River. It had enough twists and hair pins to put a water slide to shame. And I never grew tired of the panorama it provided.

To the south, lifting from the horizon like a distant unknown continent were the snow capped Wallowa Mountains where I loved to mountaineer. And to the southeast were the Seven Devils that lifted like a mouthful of broken teeth. The Devils sat perched above an eight thousand foot deep river gorge called Hell’s Canyon. A little known fact was that it was much deeper than the Grand Canyon, but unlike the Grand Canyon, it was absolutely filled with big horn sheep, elk, deer, cougar, sturgeon, and salmon, and it was pretty much void of RVs, iPods, and camera toting throngs.

From a distance Smoke and I followed the white Expedition. We were facing the sun which didn’t reflect off of the hood.

I decided I wouldn’t mention that fact.

One thing on our side was that Robbins Brunn drove extremely fast and well, which had a calming effect of Smoke. Smoke was very edgy when it came to people driving the speed limit, or worse, below the limit. And as for old shits in little ratty two wheel drive Chevy Luvs or Mazda pickups poking down the road at the speed of cattle, he grew apoplectic. His contention was that they should be killed immediately and their “fucking shit heaps” crushed and tipped into land fills. He also said that permits should be given to armed citizens to thin out the population of any drivers over the age of sixty. He tended to overlook that the two of us were seventy and Hammersmith and MacAvity were eighty. Apparently, we were the exceptions.

In all the years since Smoke showed up back in town in his beautiful GMC pickup, I had only been allowed to drive his gem once. It was after we demolished an evening at the pub, and I suspect he simply wanted me to experience unleashed vehicular power and all-consuming terror. He accomplished both by making me drive through the night at the contrail speed of one hundred and twenty miles an hour. Since that night, I felt content being the passenger.

The Red Lion in Confluence was about the only place within a radius of one hundred and fifty miles where a person could stay and enjoy having a room, a micro brewery, a cocktail lounge, and a fairly descent restaurant all under one roof with a sweeping view of the Clearwater River. Not bad.

Bruun lead the way through the lobby to the two elevators, and all five of us were soon on the top floor where four suites were rumored to exist. We followed him down the hall like a line of preschoolers going to the zoo, and he let us into his room.

Or, more correctly, rooms. Apparently he and Billy The Wonder Boy had terrific per diems. There were two bedrooms with showers and walk in closets, one off of each side of the main room, and the main room looked more like a hotel lobby than a hotel suite. It had a flagstone fireplace, large round conference table with leather over-stuffed seats, a full wet bar, two desks with electronics, a huge flat screen, and a killer view of the Confluence Valley. Plus, adorning a long leather couch and sipping an amber liquid was one rather short, rather plump, strawberry blond Irishman named Billy.

He sat the MacPro computer he had in his lap aside on the couch, got to his feet with a devilish grin and walked over.

“About bloody time you guys got here,” he said, shaking hands. “And since our phone conversation, I’ve stumbled onto a few more interesting tidbits about this bucolic backwater you so lovingly call home.”

Bruun had already made it to the bar and was getting down glasses to accompany a nearly full bottle of twelve year old Redbreast Irish Whiskey that Billy had been sipping on. We went over, armed ourselves, and took seats around the table. Billy joined us with his laptop and drink.

“And you won’t believe how interesting all this is.” Billy enthused.

He flipped open the computer, glanced at the screen, then back at us and waited.

“Okay, Billy. You can tell us any moment now.” This was the lieutenant commander in Hammersmith talking.

Billy nodded.

“Well, Ryback was settled by a heap of Scots, Irish, Norwegian and Finnish settlers,” he began. “The usual bilge.”

“We know that,” Hammersmith replied.

“Okay. Well, the Finns are the ones I’m interested in,” Billy pointed out. “They were from northern Norway, and they were also--like the Norskies--Lutheran. But unlike the State Lutheran Church--the official church back in those days--these Finns were very fundamental and militant. So a riff developed between the two groups. All this was happening about the time here in the States that Butte’s Grandpa Coe came to build MacAvity’s Pub and cathouse.”

“Easy on the cathouse thing,” Butte said.

“Sure. So there was this guy presiding named,” Billy checked his screen, “Lars Levi Laestadius, of Pajala, Sweden, who was a fly in the ointment and was kicked out of the church along with his followers.”

Billy stopped long enough to take a good swallow from his Redbreast.

“So naturally, these outcasts formed their own very fundamentalistic church known as the Salomon Kortheiemi Lutheran Society. In 1879 they changed their name to the Finnish Saulite Lutheran Congregation...or later, Church.”

“Is all this going to be on the midterm, Billy,” I asked.

He ignored me.

“Now here’s the wrinkle. In Finnish mythology, there was this wicked goddess called Tuonela who they recognized as the Virgin of Death and Goddess of the subterranean worlds.”

“Virgin?” This was Smoke.

I was beginning to worry Billy was about to lose control over his class.

“And no, Smoke, I don’t understand why there were so many virgins running around in the ancient days. But this one has had quite a following recently, particularly down around Saddle Rock, over by the Cascades. In fact, as the best investigative reporter in the world, I have learned that a splinter group of the Saulite Church, what with their pioneer ways of dressing and having the women wear their hair in buns and dropping kids in litters--a rogue splinter group has gone underground and formed what they call the 666th Lightfoot Militia.”

He stopped and let this sink in.

“Oh oh,” Hammersmith said. “Does your research say anything about the Finnish Resistance Movement being involved?”

Billy grinned. “Yes. A militant neo-Nazi organization called the SVL, the Suomen Vastarintaliike. They’re active, as we speak, all over Finland.”

MacAvity shook his head. “What does all this have to do with Donny’s murder and my place being fire bombed,” he said.

Now Billy shook his head. “I don’t know, Butte.” He took a sip. “But the 666th Lightfoot seems to want to be what’s called True Finns, and they seem to want to fundamentalize American Lutheran churches in the Pacific Northwest to steer them away from what they consider their liberal agendas. And check this out, “He added.

Billy turned the laptop around in a circle so that all of us could see the screen.

What I saw was the Washington scab lands, and sitting on a large valley of sand and sage between a wall of basalt rock and a sweeping horizon was a circle of single-wide manufactured homes made up of nearly forty units. And in the center was a fifty foot perfectly square building that was obviously made of prefabbed units the same size as the homes, and all buttoned together. It was a typical military or North Slope instant compound. An instant village. Cheap and portable.

We were silent.

Finally Billy said, “That, my friends, is home to over 150 members of the rogue Sons of Tuanetar, the 666th Lightfoot Militia, and that compound you’re seeing is fifteen miles north of nowhere, an abandoned railroad track and a tiny ranching town called Saddle Rock, Washington.”

He let that sink in.

“And guess what, Butte?” he added. “They’re probitionists to boot.”

“And,” Bruun added, “remember, they’re neo-Nazi and very dangerous. I know that because we suspect they employ arson and evangelistic cleansing.”

“Any proof of that?” Butte asked.

“Only my suspicions. My hunch is based on the three unsolved cases of missing persons in the area. One was a long haired college kid hitching home to Seattle for Christmas. Another was a young botanist out by himself doing studies for his PhD on the flora of the Columbia Basin Eco System. And a third was an elderly woman who had pulled over to fix a flat on her classic VW bus.”

He paused.

“What strikes me is that these three all had one thing in common...”

“They were Liberals?” I said.

“Exactly.”