Chapter 32
Max banged on the conference room door with an elbow, and it was immediately opened from the inside.
His arms were full of serving containers of rice, beans, tortillas, and a dozen fillings and toppings.
The sight of the food caused a chorus of happy exclamations.
The task force was working nonstop with the information he and Noelle had gathered that morning, and most of them had missed lunch.
He’d volunteered to pick up the huge takeout order from the Tex-Mex place downtown, wanting a break from all the questions and bustle in the office.
He’d needed to get away to clear his head.
Noelle had suggested someone else could go, but he’d insisted.
Concern had filled her face until he’d told her in a low voice that he just needed some silence for a few minutes.
And the inside of his SUV had been completely silent during the drive to and from the restaurant. Unless you counted the ruckus of thoughts still spinning on inside his brain. The team was close to solving the murders and car bomb. He could almost taste it.
He and Noelle had grilled Ricky on everything he could recall about the bunkers on Thomas Hammaker’s property.
Max had made some calls, and a team from the ATF and the Portland FBI office were headed to Bend.
They would be in charge of breaching the bunkers, where they hoped to find Uncle Tommy, explosives, and weapons earmarked for . . . something.
Noelle had wondered if Emma was in one of the bunkers.
Max’s source had said that Emma’s cell phone had last pinged near Hammaker’s place yesterday. Her last phone call had been to Noelle.
When they’d stopped by Emma’s home that morning, Noelle had been upset to see the cat’s empty food dish.
The cat was unhappy too. He’d sat at the far end of the porch and glared at them.
“I don’t think he’d come this close to us if he’d already been fed,” Noelle had said.
They’d made a quick detour to buy a bag of cat food, and she’d filled his dish.
“Emma would never let him go unfed,” she’d said quietly. “Something has happened to her.”
Max was afraid she was correct.
Darby had called as he and Noelle drove back to Bend to inform them that Gage Chambers hadn’t used any credit or debit cards since Thanksgiving.
She’d filed a warrant to locate his phone, but Max doubted it would turn up.
Most likely it hadn’t been used since November either.
He’d thanked her and then looked at Noelle, whose eyes were wide with disbelief.
“Do you think Emma’s been alone since November?”
“Sounds like it,” he’d said.
Gage Chambers is likely dead.
“No wonder she’s been collecting cans and bottles.” Guilt had filled her tone. “I should have done more for her.”
Noelle had put together a bulletin alerting local law enforcement agencies to keep an eye out for Emma Chambers, and Max had studied the driver’s license photo.
Emma had a thin face with sharp cheekbones and a strong chin.
There was a spark of stubbornness in the girl’s expression that matched Noelle’s description of her personality.
From the little he knew about her homelife, she was strong and independent out of necessity.
That strength made him cross his fingers and hope she was hanging on somewhere.
Maybe in a bunker with her uncle Tommy.
And not in the woods with two gunshots to the forehead.
Max set the armload of food on a side table in the conference room. New faces had arrived and joined the group since he’d left to pick it up.
“Max.” Noelle pulled his attention. “This is Special Agent Jasmine Keyes from the Portland FBI office and Special Agent Chad Reed from Portland ATF.”
Max shook their hands. “We’ve talked on the phone,” he said to Keyes. “Glad to have the two of you here.”
“Our SWAT team will handle the entry and seizure. Several ATF agents will be on-site to deal with any weapons and explosives we find,” said Keyes. “I expect all of my team members to be in the area within the hour.” She frowned. “Roads were a little dicey coming over the pass.”
“It’s not going to get any better,” said Max.
Keyes nodded. “Unless something comes up, I’d like to plan on being in position around eight p.m.”
“You know we’ve got more snow coming this evening, right?” asked Max.
“We can work in snow.” The agent was confident.
“Good to know.” Max looked at the rest of his team, now focused diligently on their tacos, and noticed someone had added a large headshot of Hammaker to the whiteboard. It showed an old man with a white beard and fierce eyebrows. “What do we have on Thomas Hammaker so far?”
Mercy wiped her mouth with a napkin and went to the whiteboard, writing as she spoke.
“He’s been off the radar for several years.
Before that is a list of arrests but no prison or real jail time.
Charges included DUI, driving while suspended, reckless driving, original trespass, and false information given to police.
He must have turned over a new leaf a few years ago for some reason because he’s stayed out of trouble. ”
“But now he’s back,” Max heard Noelle say under her breath.
“He had an FFL license that expired several years ago,” said the ATF agent.
Federal firearms license.
“He bought and sold firearms?” Max asked.
“Yes. He had a small storefront in Prineville. Closed up shop about a decade ago.”
“He must have made a lot of contacts during that time,” said Mercy. “No doubt he’s still in communication with some of them.”
“Maybe,” said Agent Reed. “He’s sort of faded into the woodwork with the ATF. We considered him washed up and too old. He was injured at some point. Lost some fingers, I believe. Like with Agent Kilpatrick, he hasn’t shown up in any of our reports for a long time either.”
“Agent Reed,” said Noelle. “Agent Rhodes and I were at Hammaker’s last night and early this morning looking for a young woman who was temporarily staying with him.
The house was dark and locked, but we went through the barn, calling for her.
If he has cameras—and he’s sounding more and more like a person who would—he’s going to be on edge about seeing us on his property.
I have no doubt that he suspected we were law enforcement. ”
“Another reason we need to act tonight,” said Reed, looking at Agent Keyes. “He may feel he’s been forewarned, but we’ll be ready for anything.”
“Possibly he believed we were just there to find Emma,” said Max. “Which we were. And won’t connect our presence to anything else.”
“Doesn’t change our plans,” said Keyes. “We assume he knows we’re coming.”
Mercy attached several satellite photos of the Hammaker property to the board with magnets. “This one was taken within the last few months,” she said. “And I’ve added others from a few years back.” Several people, including Max, stepped closer to the board to get a look.
He recognized Hammaker’s home and barn in each photo. In some photos, the landscape was green, and in others it was the dry light brown of late summer. “Where are the bunkers?” he asked.
“They’re hard to see,” said Mercy. “If your witness hadn’t been very specific, they would’ve never caught my eye.
” She indicated a point some distance from the barn.
“You can see here that it’s green on these two patches of land.
But the green shade is different from the surrounding area.
He must have planted some things on the top after the bunkers were dug out and built.
But they don’t match the other flora quite right.
Too structured and symmetrical, unlike the surrounding areas.
Supposedly they’re mostly aboveground but have been well disguised.
” She indicated an irregular patch of green that was clearly a grove of trees.
“There is also a very faint path that runs from the barn to the bunker area.”
Max had to take another step closer to verify the pale line. “What about here for a staging area?” He indicated a clearing approximately a half mile from the bunkers and glanced at Agent Keyes.
The woman eyed the photo for a long moment and then nodded.
“I’ll have someone check it out first. See if we can get a drone up while there is a break in the weather.
Can I borrow that?” Max handed her the photo, and the agent stepped out of the office.
The staging area would soon be under a foot of snow no matter where they set up.
“What else?” asked Max.
“Simple Google searches turned up these photos,” said Special Agent Reed. He added a few photos next to Mercy’s satellite imagery. “They’re a little old. But this one was taken during a Fourth of July parade in Prineville. According to the caption, Thomas Hammaker is the third man from the left.”
The photo showed a group of men wearing old-time buckskin pants and shirts and Davy Crockett hats marching with ancient muskets against their shoulders.
Two were in the act of loading their muskets.
“I went to a few parades as a kid where they had that sort of thing,” said Mercy.
“They’d fire those muskets as they marched.
They were incredibly loud. I’d always cover my ears when I saw them coming. ”
The face on the third man was younger, but it was definitely their subject’s.
One of the other photos had been taken in front of the courthouse, which gave Max pause, as he recalled being there after the car bombing.
Hammaker was part of a large group casually standing around and chatting with rifles slung over their backs.
Again it was an older photo; Hammaker’s beard was brown.
Agent Keyes returned to the room. “We’re still going to aim for staging at eight p.m. I’d like your county SWAT team to clear the rest of the property before we surround the bunkers by ten. We’ll have constant eyes on the bunkers and the other buildings starting in about an hour.”
Max noticed Mercy had taken her seat, her face slightly pale, and she pushed her food around on her plate. He glanced at Agent Keyes. Her gaze was on Mercy too, a small frown on her lips.
The raid on America’s Preserve didn’t go well for Mercy.
Agent Keyes is aware of it.
In the two months he’d known Mercy, she’d proved to be a hell of an agent. Fear wasn’t something he associated with her. She might be uncomfortable with the memories this operation was bringing back, but he knew they could count on her in the field.
Max picked up a plate and dished up some rice, realizing there wouldn’t be any food left if he waited much longer.
“Here are some old aliases for Thomas Hammaker,” said Agent Reed as he stepped to the whiteboard. “Let’s get research going on these too. Perhaps he’s been using one of them more recently.” He started a list of names under A.K.A. next to Hammaker’s license photo.
Max loaded some shredded pork onto a few small tortillas and sprinkled them with red onions, a little cabbage, and cilantro. He munched as he watched Reed write on the board.
Tobias Hammaker
Tobias McHale
Thomas Navarro
Max’s gaze locked on the name Tobias McHale, and his mouth went dry.
Coincidence.
He forced himself to swallow the bite of taco and grabbed a water to wash it down and then moved to where Noelle was working on her laptop.
“Noelle,” he said quietly. “Can you see if Tobias McHale is linked to either a Robert McHale, Jacob McHale, or Lorelei McHale?” He swallowed and added, “In the Medford area.”
She held his gaze; she knew one of the names. “No problem.”
The three names were burned into his brain. But Tobias McHale was a new one.
He looked away from her screen, not wanting to see what she found. Everyone else in the room was focused on their work or in conversation with a colleague.
Noelle gave a slight gasp.
I was right.
“Max, did you know about this?”
He looked over her shoulder and saw the name Tobias McHale grouped with the three names he’d given her, along with several more relatives. Jacob’s was at the top. Max dropped into the chair next to her, his palms suddenly sweaty. “I didn’t. Can I use your computer for a minute?”
She silently slid it to him, and he ran a quick search for a specific press conference from twelve years ago. It was the one in which the large McHale family had gathered behind their lawyer to condemn Max and the Medford PD for killing their son, Jacob.
He found the video and played it with no sound, studying the emotionless faces behind the lawyer, who wore a righteous mask and whose mouth wouldn’t stop silently moving as he berated the police department.
There.
Max paused the video and zoomed in.
In the very back of the family group stood Thomas Hammaker, a.k.a. Tobias McHale. His round face and graying beard were very clear in the video. Anger emanated from his stiff shoulders and neck.
“What’s the relationship to Jacob?” he asked softly.
Noelle switched tabs. “Not his grandfather. Looks like paternal great-uncle.”
“I know both Jacob’s grandfathers have passed since the shooting,” said Max. He occasionally Googled Jacob’s family, but he’d never paid attention to a relative named Tobias McHale. Possibly because the man didn’t live in Medford and hadn’t spoken publicly about the shooting.
Max sat back in his seat and stared at Hammaker’s photo on the board as memories of Jacob’s death slithered through his brain.
Is Thomas Hammaker the person harassing Keira and me?
And who killed our three victims?