Chapter 10

At 7:30, the Moosewood lodge received a call for Agent Dunham. When she answered, it was obvious that the agent on the other line was not happy to have been dragged across the state on a moment's notice. Furthermore, it was clear that he was not happy to be working with a woman.

"Look, darling," the agent said condescendingly. "We just got off the plane. I understand that you're set up at a hotel west of town. Why don't we meet you out there, get some grub, settle in, and we'll be ready to go in the morning."

"No, why don't you pick up some drive through, get out here to pick me up, then we can all go to the Sheriff's office and find Peter Bishop before something happens that you'll regret," she said.

"That I'll regret?"

"When I tell your supervisor that you did not take this assignment seriously and, God forbid, a consultant to the Department of Homeland Security was murdered on your watch—yes, you'll regret it."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Olivia pressed her advantage. "Now, I expect you to be here by eight. I'll make arrangements with the sheriff's office. This is going to be a long night, boys, so you may want to get some coffee with your take-out. Understand?"

There was another pause. Eventually, Agent Ford muttered, "Got it."

"I'll see you in thirty minutes, then," Olivia clipped just before she hung up the phone.

With a sigh, she turned around with a mind to ask Maggie if she could brew some coffee. But, as she was walking to the kitchen, Walter intercepted her. "Was that Peter?" he asked anxiously. "Have they found him yet?"

"No," Olivia said, trying not to let the anxiety and frustration she felt slip into her voice. "But we'll find him—soon. And I'll make sure he calls you when we do."

"This is all my fault, Olivia," Walter continued. "Peter was right. I should have stayed with him and his mother all those years ago. If I had acted like a father just once in my life . . ."

"It's not your fault, Walter," Olivia said as she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There is no way you could have ever known."

"You say that as if cognizance of end-results dictated the morality of the deed. Goodness knows that I have not always acted morally, and occasionally the end-results have justified the means. But not this time. Not if the end is Peter in danger. No benefit could possibly outweigh that."

"When we find him, you need to tell him that," Olivia said. "He needs to know how much you love him."

Walter scoffed, "He would know, if he paid attention. The boy resists the deeper realities as often as he can. He's like his mother in that way."

"I don't mean to correct you," Olivia said. "But, whether or not Peter would know you love him if he was paying attention is, sort of, beside the point. Maybe he needs something to open his eyes."

"You don't know him," Walter said, shaking his head. "What he can be like. I've never seen a person with more bitterness and anger. And I spent 17 years in an institution for people with mental and emotional problems."

"You're right," Olivia agreed. "Peter is angry. And it's going to take a long time for him to let go of that anger. But, I think if you stepped forward and told him how you feel—about twenty years ago, about what's happening now—maybe he could let go of some of it."

Walter looked at her for a moment, then smiled. "You remind me of a bartender I met once in Atlantic City. I don't usually remember bartenders, but she made the best high-balls I'd ever tasted. She had a way of twisting the whiskey bottle with her wrists—it was like magic."

Olivia blinked, startled by the abrupt change of subject.

"I wonder if Maggie could make a highball," Walter said. Then, turning to Olivia conspiratorially, "I'll have to make the PCP last you know—until I can get back to the lab. Alcohol is an inferior drug, but at least it is ubiquitous."

He turned and started walking towards the kitchen. For a moment, Olivia stood still, trying to figure out what had happened. She wanted to stop Walter and ask if he'd understood a word she said—or even if he remembered what they'd been talking about. She wanted to explain to him that it was behavior like this that he had to make up for—it may not be the root of Peter's anger and bitterness, but it fueled it.

In the end, Olivia just sighed again and followed Walter to the kitchen, where she hoped to find some coffee. She'd promised herself she wouldn't sleep until they found Peter, and she anticipated a long night.

* * *

"Ma'am?" a young woman in a sheriff's uniform said, as she touched Olivia gently on the shoulder. "I don't know how you got back here, but you're going to have to leave."

"I got back here because I'm heading the FBI task force," Olivia snapped back.

The young woman looked skeptically at Olivia's inappropriately casual outfit. She was still wearing the tracksuit from the Moosewood lodge because Al had forgotten to get the suitcases and Olivia wasn't going to waste time changing clothes while Peter's life was in danger.

So Olivia was standing anxiously outside of one of the interview rooms, waiting for the people who were not wearing white track suites and who had not been the victim of a violent crime only the night before to come out and let her know what was going on.

Fortunately, before the young woman could ask any more questions, Sheriff Waala opened the door for the two agents from Helena. "Blondie," Agent Ford said sharply as he passed her, heading down the hall to the front of the building. "Confab in the sheriff's office. Now."

Agent Deeter followed Agent Ford, and Sheriff Waala stepped out to close the door on their suspect. "Tiffany, you watch that door and make sure Gladys don't come out, all right?"

"Yes sir," the young woman said, obviously confused by the order. "She in trouble, sir?"

The sheriff didn't answer, instead he turned to Olivia. "Agent Dunham, I think we should talk in my office." He gestured that he would follow her, either as a nod to old-time gentility or because he didn't want her out of his sight.

Olivia nodded and started walking towards the sheriff's office. When they reached it, Olivia couldn't help but smile at the decor. The right wall was entirely was covered with fishing trophies, while the left had a large map of the county with pins stuck at seemingly random places and a bulletin board covered with wanted posters and the occasional child's drawing. The mug on the over-piled desk read "World's Greatest Granddad." It was a claim that Olivia did not immediately dismiss. From what she'd seen the three hours since she'd arrived and they'd started searching for Peter, Sheriff Waala was kind, generous, patient, and methodical. She almost wished she'd been able to meet him outside of work, because she would have loved to sit and listen to his stories about life as a small town sheriff. She had a feeling they'd be humorous and heartwarming.

Unfortunately, the Andy-Griffith-like atmosphere was ruined by her fellow FBI agents. Agent Ford was conventionally handsome, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a chiseled jaw—even if he was a little short. He was also haughty and full of himself. Olivia had worked long enough in law enforcement to know his type. He was going to call her 'blondie' and 'sweetheart' and even 'darling' because he was so self-confident he didn't care if she found this offensive.

His partner, Agent Deeter, was taller, but less handsome than Agent Ford. He was also less attentive, less verbose, and less obnoxious. Olivia knew that type, too. He was a good agent, diligent if not brilliant. Unfortunately, Ford's ego kept Deeter from every truly accomplishing anything, and Deeter's temperament kept Ford from getting the ass kicking he deserved.

"How did it go?" Olivia demanded as soon as she stepped into the office. "Does she know where he is?"

"Oh, she knows," Sheriff Waala sighed.

"Or, if not," Agent Ford said. "She knows who knows."

'Then she didn't tell you?" Olivia asked, looking from one man to the next.

"We certainly caught her in lies," Ford asserted.

"We could get her on perjury," Deeter added.

"The hell with perjury!" Olivia yelled, exasperated. "Where is Peter?"

"She's not going to tell us that," Sheriff Waala said. He sounded heartbroken. "When her boys died, she took it hard. And, when we found Kenny this morning . . ."

"Who's Kenny?" Olivia demanded.

"Ken 'Kenny' Roberts was, we assume, one of your kidnappers last night," Ford said, as if that information was obvious. "According to Duvais, your friend Peter and his nut-job father blew Kenny to kingdom-come."

"Peter told me there was an explosion," Olivia said. "He didn't say anyone died. I thought the kidnappers just made that up."

"Kenny's dead, all right," Sheriff Waala said. "When we found him this morning Gladys . . Deputy Duvais acted strangely. Usually she's the one that calls the family, breaks the news. She's got a good heart that way. But she couldn't. She was beside herself, bawlin'. Wilson seemed off too—distracted. But I didn't think much of it. He was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve."

"But it was more than that," Olivia said. "When he found Kenny dead, he realized that Peter and Walter Bishop were alive. He realized that his revenge hadn't worked and, moreover, he needed to get to them before they got to you."

"Then how did he get Duvais to work with him?" Deeter asked.

"She always was," Olivia said, making an intuitive leap and finding herself on solid ground. "She must have been one of the snowmobiler's last night. That's why she was so upset about Ken Roberts' death—she realized that she was partially to blame."

"That's a big assumption to make," Sheriff Waala said.

"It is," Olivia agreed. "But it's a working theory. What we need to do is figure out who else was in the conspiracy—who else wanted revenge."

"Wait, wait?" Ford interrupted. "Revenge for what?"

Olivia ignored him. Instead, she turned to Sheriff Waala. "Wilson McKeith, Gladys Duvais, and Kenny Roberts—they all lost someone at the same time, didn't they? All of McKeith's sons died . . ."

"Well, three of them," the Sheriff said. "They all got sick 'round the same time. And, Joey Duvais was sick too. So was Tim Roberts. All them boys died of appendicitis. It was a real tragedy."

"There should be another father or brother," Olivia insisted. "Last night, when they kidnapped us, two men and one woman said 'You killed my son', and one man said 'You killed my brother.'"

"Kenny was Tim's younger brother," Sheriff Waala explained. "So that's him. Wilson's wife left him after the boys died. Last I heard, she was in Arizona. And Mary Roberts died last year. So Gladys must have been one of the kidnappers like you said . . ."

"We already established that, Grandpa," Agent Ford said. He was obviously annoyed that he was bringing nothing to the investigation other than his haughty presence.

"Now, there's Luke, Gladys' husband," the Sheriff continued in his slow, methodical tone ignoring Ford's insult and interruption. "And Mick Roberts, Kenny's father. Could be either of them."

"Then we find them both—and we bring in McKeith. Someone has to have Peter."

"Unless he's dead already," Deeter said.

"Don't say that," Olivia snapped. "Thinking like that is not an option. We will find Peter alive, and we will find him tonight."

* * *

Peter hoped that they'd kill him soon. What twenty minutes in a large cave filled with many types of minerals and rocks had failed to do, three hours in a car trunk stuffed with Walter's toxic catalyst had achieved. A sharp, grinding pain had settled in his abdomen. It felt like someone was using a lawn mower on his intestines. He'd long since vomited up the scarce food he'd had in his stomach (a particularly unpleasant processes because he was gagged—though thankfully they had not taped his mouth shut), but still, the convulsions in his stomach caused him to gag now and then, spitting up putrid acid.

And, the pain in his stomach wasn't his only problem. Even though he knew he was running a fever as his body tired to burn away the poisons, he was miserably cold. He'd heard the weather report at the hotel. He knew the night's low was 12 degrees Fahrenheit —and the trunk of the old Chevy Celebrity did nothing to insolate him from that cold. If they hadn't let him keep his gloves, hat, and coat, Peter was sure he'd have frozen to death. But, as his stomach twinged in a new convulsion of pain, he couldn't help but wonder if that wouldn't have been preferable.

Suddenly, the car started to speed up and, muffled by distance and dirt, Peter was sure he could hear sirens. Peter's heart rate jumped, as he realized that he'd be found, and it stayed high as his kidnapper's driving got faster and the old car's engine groaned under the strain. The chase, though high-speed, would not last long. Whatever was going to happen, would happen very quickly.

Peter wasn't sure if he was relived or terrified. At least, he thought, trying to be hopeful, it'll all end soon.

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .