Don't Order Dog_ 1(181)
Tom grabbed the steel rail that ran along the side of the bed and pulled himself upright. “Stop fucking around Alex!” he shouted angrily. “Right now the people responsible for all this are getting further and further away, and you’re
standing here wasting time with these bullshit accusations! You want to catch
the real terrorists, you stupid fuck? Start with the man at the center of this!
Start with Chip Shepherd!”
A brief flicker of uncertainty crossed Alex’s face. “Who?” he asked, raising his hand at Tom in a gesture to calm down. “Chip who?”
“Chip Shepherd,” Tom replied irritably. “An old regular at the bar. He’s the one behind all of this – the killings, the letters… everything. He was there when I walked into the saloon this morning, but he wasn’t alone.” Tom paused and slowly rubbed his forehead, trying to coax the vague threads of memory back into focus. “There was another man – a huge, muscular guy. I think… I’m pretty sure he was the one who attacked me.”
Alex shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He knew the man Tom was describing. It was the man he and his men had pulled from the utility pole on the street in front of the saloon – the same man who’d overpowered the officer assigned to guarding him before escaping. Now, hours later, an ever-expanding search for the man and his service van had turned up nothing. Even road blocks on Interstate 40 and 17 had failed to produce a single lead. It was as if the giant man had disappeared into the thin Flagstaff air. Of course, Alex had no intention of divulging this information to Tom. Nor did he have any intention of telling Tom, nor anyone else, about the conversation he’d had with the anonymous man on the other end of the laptop inside the saloon just moments before it was blown to hell. Such things would only complicate matters further, and additional complications were the last thing this investigation needed right now.
“So we should immediately drop all charges against you and start looking for an old drunk named Chip Shepherd, is that what you’re saying?” Alex asked sarcastically.
Tom nodded. “We were sitting at the bar, talking,” he replied flatly. “And that’s when I figured it out.”
Alex looked at him curiously. “What?”
“He mentioned that the terrorist had already killed his last target, but there was no way he could have known that from the letters.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Jesus Christ, am I the only one that read the fucking letters?” Tom replied, shaking his head in frustration. “Yes, I’m sure. The terrorist referred to his victims by the name of some stupid toys, and in his last letter he said he still had one more to collect.”
Alex’s stern look suddenly eased into a sarcastic grin. “You mean the Brainy Buddies?” He laughed and again started pacing the small room.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Tom said cautiously. “What’s so fucking funny?”
“A terrorist who collects toys, Tom. That strikes me as very funny. Especially those particular toys. Do you know how many times my girls have pleaded with me to get them one of the Brainy Buddies for Christmas?”
“It’s a fucking code word, Alex. He wasn’t actually collecting the damn toys.”
Alex reached into his pocket. “Oh, but our terrorist was collecting them,” he said as he pulled out a photo and tossed it on the bed. “We found them in his Santa bag. Congratulations, Tom… you managed to get all four.”
Tom picked up the photo and studied it carefully. The photo showed four small stuffed animals packaged in new, brightly-colored boxes lying on a sidewalk next to a red Santa bag, a large evidence tag tied to each. He shook his head in disbelief.
“This can’t be happening.”
“Of course it’s happening,” Alex replied matter-of-factly. “You made it happen.” He stared at Tom with a detached look of disgust. “This whole situation is just Afghanistan all over again, isn’t it? You’ll do whatever it takes to get what you want, regardless of who has to die for it.”
He limped closer to the bed.
“You have two options, Tom. You can either accept the pile of evidence against you, admit to conceiving an imaginary terrorist, and face a list of felonies that include falsifying evidence, misleading federal agents and two counts of voluntary manslaughter for your fallen marines. Or, you can deny everything, pursue this ridiculous fantasy story of corporate terrorists who miraculously evade capture when they’re not killing international scientists, and spend the rest of your miserable life in the psych ward at Belmont. Either way your life is over. Either way you’re going to be locked up for good.”