Chapter Seventeen

“You are in early, Sergeant Hitchens. I did not authorize any overtime.”

“I'm sorry, Chief Halsey. There seems to be a lot going on around the Justice Center here this weekend. I know we are short handed with Kowalski and Wallis off hunting this week. I thought you could use the extra help holding off all of these out of towners. They're kind of the pampered type, if you know what I mean. Extra care and handling prima donnas, if I am not out of line saying so, sir.”

The Chief offered a hearty laugh. “No, you are not out of line at all. I will second that. But don't tell anybody that I said that. Step into my office for a minute, please, if you would.”

Valerie closed the door and pulled up a seat to the desk. “What's up, Chief.”

“Valerie, I need to send you on a special detail. I'm asking, not ordering. You can decline of course, and I wouldn't think badly of you if you did. But I need you to take a risk for our town, along the lines of what we were discussing yesterday about the Constitution. “

“Just tell, me Chief. You know I will step up.”

“Get Mr. Carlo Antonetti out of this building, and hide him somewhere for a week or so, until I can determine what the Department of Homeland Security is up to in our town. Clearly, Colonel Breen intends to take Antonetti to detainment elsewhere in federal custody. I am not certain that it is on the up and up, and that his rights will be respected. You and I both know that he is not a terrorist, like we think of as al-Qaida. I don't know what fevered fantasy the Colonel is working up that has Carlo as a terrorist, but I object dammit. Not on my watch.”

“Get him out of the building? How?”

“Figure it out. You're a qualified law enforcement officer. Make it happen. And quick. Breen will be back here with his men in less than an hour. Go. Get him gone. You are listed on the roster today as on vacation, and you have the remainder of the week on vacation. If you don't have vacation days left, you can have some of mine. Just go.”

“Consider me gone. Text me if you need me. You've got my number.”

Valerie left Chief Halsey's office and headed for the women's locker room. Since she was the only woman on the force, she had the small room to herself. It had a couple of lockers, a toilet stall, and a small shower area. Home away from home all right. She opened her locker and paused to collect her wits as she examined the contents. She took out her warm jacket for starters. She pocketed a small first aid kit. She made sure that she had her large Maglite flashlight, and changed out the batteries with some spares that she kept on hand. She also attached a folding knife to her utility belt, and strapped a spare snub-nosed revolver around her ankle. She had three 15-round magazines for her Glock semi-automatic pistol, chambered in .40 cal. Feeling completely like Rambo, she took a deep breath and left the locker room.

Sergeant Williams was already on duty and was sitting outside of the holding cell that one Mr. Carlo Antonetti was still sitting inside after 24 hours. “What brings you in early, Hitchens?”

“Can you believe it? I screwed up. I thought I was going to get some overtime with Kowalski and Wallis out hunting this week, and came in early. Instead, the Chief reminded me that I am supposed to be on vacation this week, and booted me out. I scheduled that vacation time three months ago, and completely forgot about it. Chief is making me do one job for him, though, as a reminder not to forget my vacation time again. Without pay. Can you freaking believe it. He wants me to take this guy over to the courthouse for a quick arraignment hearing and bring him right back. Then I can go. I am going to get that done pronto, and then go pack up and go down to see my sister in Florida. I'd rather be there than here in September. She just doesn't know that I am coming. I hope that is not a problem for her.”

“Sure whatever. How long do you think you'll have him?”

“Half an hour, tops. You want him back in this cell when I bring him back?”

“Yeah, sure. He doesn't know the difference in cells, and this one is easy to watch. I hope those feds get back soon and take him off of our hands. It's going to be a long week anyway when we're shorthanded. I'm going to run out and get a take-out burger. If I'm not back when you get back just wait for me. Do you want something from Steak-n-Shake?”

“Yeah, I do. Here's five bucks. Get me one of those peppermint ice cream shakes if they've got them yet for the holidays. If not, just get me chocolate. And don't stay out so long that it melts.”

Valerie watched Sergeant Williams head out down the hallway, and knew that there was no way that he would just take a half hour out of the station. He would be headed inside for a meal at the counter, not take-out. She had some time, but she wasn't taking chances. She stepped inside the holding cell, and looked at the detainee. “Hi Carlo. I would ask you how you are, but I can see how you are. I've seen you look better. Listen to me and pay attention. If you are a praying man, then say a quick prayer for us for the Lord's provident hand in the next half hour. And then shut up and stay close to me. Do you understand?”

It was a regular part of Sergeant Hitchens' job to escort prisoners to and from the courthouse for trials and hearings, and she knew the routine by heart. There was, fortunately, a tunnel system under the road for them to transport prisoners without exposing them to the dangers of vengeful families until they were safe within the confines of a courthouse that had a metal detector at the doors. In this instance, it would hide them from prying eyes of anyone who might question her being out of the Justice Center with Mr. Antonetti. It was old, the tunnel system, but functional. With Kowalski and Wallis off this week and Williams out feeding his face, they would encounter no one between the Justice Center and the court bailiff on the other side where the tunnel came out into the courthouse. It was Monday, so Charlie was on duty likely. But, she had no intentions on greeting Charlie today. Not if she was lucky.

Valerie handcuffed Carlo with his hands behind him, took his arm and walked him out of the holding cell and down to the entrance to the tunnels. She unlocked that door, and locked it again behind her when they were in the tunnels. “Whoa! Where are we Val?” Valerie shushed him, and moved along the dimly lit tunnel. She kept her Maglite trained on the right side wall as they walked. It was about a hundred yards from the Justice Center to the entrance to the court house, but she wasn't intending to go that far. She kept going, counting off the waypoint markers that were painted on the side of the tunnel walls. She knew what she was looking for, even though she had never used it herself but had seen it....and there it was. An emergency exit door. She tried her key, and it worked. The door opened onto a stairwell, that lead up to a locked grate. Her key worked on that lock too, and the grate lifted up easily and they exited the tunnel system onto a walkway at the corner of the courthouse. Valerie closed and locked the grate, looked around, and was grateful to see that no one was around to see them.

She was right about where they would come up. She had driven Carlo's truck to work today after she brought it back to town, and it was parked in the employees only lot next to the courthouse, just steps away. She took Carlo by the elbow and walked him crisply over to the truck like she was just doing her job. She put him up in the passenger seat, holding his head so that it didn't hit the doorframe like they did with everyone that they put into a squad car, and went around and slid into the driver's seat. When she was two blocks away from the courthouse, Valerie pulled into an alley, and parked. She let out a long exhale, and then looked over at Carlo – who was looking back at her with amazement.

“Why, officer Hitchens. Did you just assist me with a jailbreak? If so, I am much obliged.”

“Shut up and turn around.” Valerie took her handcuff key and unlocked his hands. She looked down at them, and then started to massage the redness out of his wrists. “You owe me one, Carlo Antonetti. You owe me one big time. You can start by helping me think of a place to hide you, because I don't have the foggiest idea where to go in this small town. Everybody knows me here. I can't be seen with you. Any ideas?”

“I know exactly the place to go. Switch me seats and I'll drive.”

Carlo slid over into the driver's seat as Valerie got out and came around to the passenger side. He popped open the glove box and found a pair of wrap around mirrored sunglasses in there. He put those on, along with a Bass Pro Shop ball cap that was on the floor under the driver's seat. He pulled the sun visor down low and scooted down in his seat. Valerie did the same on her side. Carlo pulled out and drove them up down back streets heading out east of town, and came out by Lake Shore Drive near the High School. He pulled into the parking lot of the Coal Miner's Motel.

“Carlo, Gus is not here. I was with him up North of town today picking up your truck. He was headed somewhere else to spend the day on photography or something. I don't see his car outside of his room, so he is not back yet.”

“I'm not looking for Gus, Valerie. Although tell him thanks for me if you see him again before I do. We're going somewhere else.”

Carlo pulled down past the motel to the new building under construction to the west of the motel. He pulled around and down a slope and pulled up to the back of the building, which was just a block wall with parking spaces in front of it. There was a sign that said “No motorcycles”, and garbage bin up against the wall. Carlo fished around again in the glove box, and pulled out a standard garage door opener. He pointed the opener toward the block wall, looked over at Valerie, and hit the button. The block wall retracted like sliding closet doors with an opening big enough to drive a truck into. The garbage bin was an illusion, just painted on. Carlo pulled the truck into a garage space, and hopped out of the truck. “Did you like that?” Valerie nodded, wide eyed. She followed Carlo up some stairs, around some large brass kettles, and into a room with a desk behind what looked like a bar.

“Welcome to my office, Valerie. Not my permanent office, mind you. It is just my office during the construction phase of the project. When it is done, I think, this will be the office for the owner to use whenever he is in town.”

“The owner? Who is that owner?”

“That would be our friend, my friend and yours from back in the day, one Mister Marshall Velder.”

“Marshall! No kidding? Is he in town?”
“He will be on Wednesday, I believe. We can hide out here until at least then.

“Okay, Carlo. I just have one question for you. Will he be going to the reunion of Friday. And will you?”

“Valerie, that is two questions.”

Chapter Sixteen

The home inspector was waiting for Gus when he got to his house on Buena Vista. This wasn't going to take long because they were not going to have to repeat the full inspection that they had already accomplished. The inspector just needed to verify that the deficiencies identified in the intial inspection report had been corrected. Gus walked around with him to look at the access ramp that had been built, the termite damage that had been repaired, and a few other sundry items that the men's ministry team had repaired that Gus had not even known about or asked them to. He made a mental note that he owed those guys big time. The inspector seemed satisfied and signed off on the form as completed. He wished Gus luck in his new home, and gave him a card in case he needed his inspection services over at the new house.

Gus stood alone in his empty kitchen and looked around after the inspector left. He felt immense relief at knowing that he would be able to keep his promise to Jocelyn to finish the closing on the house on Wednesday. They had retained a lawyer friend as legal representative at the closing, who could sign for Jocelyn as a proxy, so that she wouldn't have to come back to town to finish the deal. He just had to show up on time at the title company offices on Wednesday, and that part of their life was over. They could focus on the next phase. Hopefully a simpler phase, with just the two of them on a new property. He could retire in a few years, hopefully, if his 401k made a decent rate of return, and they could live out their lives there. Hopefully a few deer would come into the yard now and then and he would get pictures of them. All he had to do was point and shoot.

Gus was surprised to see mail in his mailbox as he was locking up to leave. Didn't he put in a stop delivery for Monday? Oh, it was Monday. Gus was losing track of the days already on his vacation. These letters must have been delivered on Saturday. He counted five envelopes, and sat down on his porch steps to open them. One was from the library for an overdue book on Origami that was probably up at Mark's apartment at college. That one was going to cost him. He may as well just pay for the book and let Mark have it. Three of the envelopes contained bills for utilities, cable TV, and for the newspaper service. The fifth envelope looked very official and was postmarked from the State Police Headquarters in Springfield. The letter was regarding possible suspension of his Firearms Owners ID card, or FOID, that all Illinois residents who owned guns were required to maintain. The letter informed him a resident of this address had reported a long gun firearm in the home on a recent doctor's visit questionaire. Since he didn't have a long gun registered in the state of Illinois, it was deemed to be a contraband weapon. The FOID card holder could present the weapon for inspection at any State Police office in Illinois. If it was on the list of banned firearms identified in the bill recently passed by the General Assembly, it would be confiscated. If it was not, it would be registered. If the long gun was not presented within 20 days of issuance of this letter, the FOID card issued in Gus's name would be rescinded. Please comply.

Long gun? Are they talking about my 7mm rifle that I bought in Alaska twenty years ago? Why would I have to register that in Illinois? And why was our doctor asking Jocelyn or Mark about guns in our house? I have them properly secured. What business is that of our doctor? Did our governor sign a gun confiscation bill, and why didn't I know that?

Valerie was already seated at McDonald's when gus arrived, enjoying a Big Breakfast with Hot Cakes. Gus took a moment to decide whether to wait a few minutes until lunch began or whether to go ahead and order breakfast. He settled on a McGriddle combo, which he knew he would regret for the spike in his blood sugar from the syrup baked into the bread on the sandwich. How did they do that? They must have figured it out at McDonald's university. He put his tray on the table with Valerie, and then stopped in the restroom before sitting down. He was off his insulin schedule, and it would start affecting him soon. He took out his Novolog pen, and dialed in twenty units. The first stick felt like he was right on a nerve in his belly, so he withdrew and moved over an inch or so. That was usually enough. The needle went in smooth as silk there, and he was so grateful. He pushed down the plunger and the twenty units jetted into his fat layer with ease. Pause. Then withdraw. He had gotten through another shot. Maybe it would be enough to counteract the syrupy breakfast sandwich.

“Don't start with me before you answer me one question”, Valerie said with a shush motion as he sat down.

“Anything for you, Valerie. Hit me.”

“Are you going to the 35^th reunion this week, yes or no. And is Jocelyn coming with you.”

“That's two questions, so I don't know if I owe you an answer after all. But, okay. It's a yes and a no. I'm coming, Jocelyn is not. She is out of town, and wants to stay there. I'll be coming stag. Not that that means anything at my age. Are you expecting a good turnout at the event?”

“We didn't ask for RSVPs this year, so we don't know. It's an informal thing. Spread the word and just show up, that kind of thing. But we had hundreds in our graduating class, so at least a hundred or so should show up. Plus you, Gus.”

“I'm looking forward to it, Valerie. I've been to each one, except the year that I was in Alaska. I always have fun. If nothing else, it will get me out of the Coal Miner's Motel for a night.”

“Uh, yeah. What were you thinking there my friend?”

“The price is right. I'd rather spend that money on furnishings for our new home than on a fancy hotel. It's just me, and I really don't care what the room is like. I'm not even in the room all that much, if I am doing my vacation right. Okay, if I answered your question, I have one for you.”

“You did. Show up early if you can. I could use the help setting up. Okay, what is your question.”

“Valerie, what is going on in this town? I thought I was pretty savvy about things, and about what goes on in Pekin. I know you see more things than I do. But good grief. It seems like it's all going crazy this week. I mean, I meet Carlo out of nowhere on Saturday working on the building next door, and then the next day he is arrested, or detained, or whatever. By DHS no less. And speaking of DHS, I never gave them any thought before this weekend, and now I am seeing them all over the place. What is going on?”

“Gus, buddy. Keep your voice down. You're getting agitated. That's not like you.”

“Let me show you some pictures that I took this morning north of Peoria.”

“Ah, cool sunrise. I heard you were a good photographer, Gus. I can see that you are.”

“Thanks, Valerie. Those are not the shots that I am agitated about. Let me skip ahead. These, here. What do you see in these photos?”

“Radio Controlled aircraft? Were you out at their airfield?”

“No. This is downtown Peoria. They don't fly there. That's what I thought too, when I first saw them. No, if I am not mistaken. These are drones. In Peoria Illinois. Drones. Like they fly over in Iraq and Afghanistan and Pakistan. Military craft. What are they doing in Peoria? Did they notify the police department about these things.”

“No. Not that I have heard of. But that doesn't necessarily mean that they are doing anything wrong. They could be DEA property looking for drug deals going down. I can't tell you much about it, because I would have to kill you, but I did sit in on a briefing Saturday about a serious escalation of drug enforcement activity in the area. There are bad guys coming our way, and I am going to guess that the drones – if that is what they are – are looking for those bad guys. All I can say is that Pekin is on the verge of “Breaking Bad” on the Meth front. What else have you got.”

“MRAPS. Lots of them.”

“What is an MRAP? Is that some kind of new sandwich at Subway. I like wraps.”

“It is a military assault vehicle. Mine Resistant. Ambush protected. Bad ass stuff for the battlefield. You are looking at a picture of twenty of them, lined up on rail cars outside of East Peoria. They could be passing through headed somewhere military. Likely. But right now they are parked. And they look an awful lot like the three MRAPs that I saw arrest two guys in downtown Peoria just the other night, DHS logos and all. Again, I ask, what is going on?”

“Is that it, Sherlock? Any more clues for me?”

“Well, you can add that to the picture that I posted on InstaPic of a floating jail cell on a barge down at the river. Again, with a DHS logo on it. I'd show you that picture, but DHS had it deleted from my InstaPic gallery. Really. Colonel Breen told me so himself last night in our charming encounter.”

“Yeah, I was surprised that he let you walk out of there. He could have detained you too just for knowing Carlo. They don't need much in the way of probable cause anymore, like we do in the department. It seems like there are different rules for the feds than for us local cops.”

“Valerie, what do you know about what Carlo is up to. You seem to know him better than I do. I just see him around church now and then. This weekend was the most that I've talked to him since high school. He was talking about a 'Group' of some type. Are you part of his Group?”

“No, I am not. He's talked to me about it before. But it has always seemed a little out there to me. Plus, I am a cop. I can't be part of any 'Group' while I am on duty. It's a conflict of interest to be honest, and it wouldn't do me any good in my career. I have to be careful with that. But, I like listening to him talk about it when he'll talk to me about it.”

“Really! What have we hear. It sounds like you're a little sweet on our friend Carlo. Is there something in the works here?”

“Hey, we're consenting adults. We are both unattached. I might be a little interested in Carlo. It's not a crime, is it? As to whether anything is developing or not, you will have to ask Carlo. And then tell me. He just likes to talk about the Group.”

“I'll make it a point to ask him, next time that I see him.”

“Don't you dare. And I don't know when you will see him next. The Chief said that the DHS guy was talking about relocating him to some facility around here. We need to help him, Gus. We're his only friends in town that know about him being detained.”

“Okay. I am game. What do we need to do?”

“We need to go get his truck for him, for starters.”

They left Valerie's car at the motel, and took Gus's car out north of town to retrieve Carlo's truck. While he drove, she told Gus the story that Carlo had shared with her last night at the jail. Apparently, Carlo had gone looking for a missing friend that had called him from somewhere out there with a stuck car. Carlo had gone out to find him and only found his Sport Trak. He drove the friend's truck back into town and was driving that when he was detained. That's all he told her, she said, except where to find his F150 truck. She had gone by his house this morning before breakfast and found his spare keys.

It took them a bit, given that the truck was pulled off of the frontage road into the corn on purpose, but they found Carlo's truck. Gus checked and, remarkably, the bugout bag and the bag of firearms were undisturbed in the tool area behind the seat. Gus pointed them out to Valerie, and she whistled. Oh boy. That was a serious stash of weaponry. She promised that she would take care of it, and slid behind the wheel of the Ford.

“Gus, I've got it from here. Go back to the motel and get some rest. Finish your vacation. Take some more of those great sunset pictures, and less of the MRAP's. And for God's sakes, don't post those pictures online! I'll see you at the reunion on Friday night. Make sure you get there. And say hello to Jocelyn for me, alright.”

Gus got back into his car as she drove away in the truck, and considered her advice. Pretty good advice, he thought. She is the professional, and she can handle it from here. Let her handle it. Let. It. Go. Back to photography if you are as smart as you think you are, good man. Gus took out a notebook that was full of his ideas on what images he hoped to capture and ran through the list in his mind. Old distillery buildings along the river. The river itself. Coal mine entrances, if he could find any. Downtown architecture, in the aspenglow of sunset if he was lucky. He was already north of town, so he opted to try to get some shots of a cliff area in a state park up near LaSalle. Maybe he could tie that in with the history of explorers in the area, and stop by Creve Couer on his way back and get the historical marker that recognized the explorer LaSalle and his contributions to the area. He should be able to get back by sunset.

Gus opted to take the frontage road a little further north to catch an exit back onto the interstate for the two hour trip north. Hmmm, he thought. There was more activity at the old storage unit than he expected to see when he passed it. Wasn't that thing out of business a while back. Maybe the recession was affecting people in different ways than he thought. What was it about the recession that was making a storage unit a booming business. People must be using it at night a lot, given the big lights that they were installing.

Chapter Fifteen

It was a rare day when Gus Kesselmann was sitting patiently behind his Canon T3i camera body on a tripod awaiting for sunrise to appear. Sunrise. The Golden Hour, flipside. But here he was as Monday morning dawned on the sprawling city of Peoria Illinois, just down the river from his high perch across the river in East Peoria. Sleep had been elusive for him, with all of the days events, and he might as well get up and stay on plan as best as he could. That plan was for photography, his way. He wanted to indulge his creative side every now and then. He needed to self-actualize, as Maslow would say, even if it was self-indulgent and even selfish. He needed a day, even a moment, to sit still in the chilly September morning and just be. Just breathe. He needed to turn his brain off and create automatically, as he knew he could do.

It would be easier to justify if his hobby was a profitable one. Why don't you sell your photographs? People often asked him that, as if it was the easiest thing to do in the world. As if the ability to capture an interesting still photography – a skill honed through pressing the shutter button approximately two hundred thousand times more than the average joe did – equated to the marketing skills necessary to sell his pictures. Sure, he was a skilled salesman, when it came to selling the industrial services that he had grown up engaged in all of his life. But he had no idea how to run a business of selling photographs. Most photographers that made money at it, as far as he had seen, made money shooting people. Weddings. Proms. Graduations. None of Gus's pictures had any people in them, so....no one to buy the picture. Landscapes had a place, for sure. But, he just did not know how to ask people to buy his pictures. They were his art. He took the pictures for himself. Maybe, someday, he could figure out the stock photo market and see one of his best shots on a postcard or calendar. Maybe. Someday. He wasn't holding his breath.

There was one other possibility, and he reflected on it as he sipped his warm coffee and cycled through his camera settings again before dawn. Jocelyn and Mark had always encouraged him to set up a booth at Pekin's annual Marigold Festival. They'd been going to the Art in the Park portion of the Festival since they were in high school together, and he remembered many fine days walking and shopping with Jocelyn at the rows of white booths. Some years in good weather, some years in rain. They had some favorites of the arts and crafts booths, places that they shopped at every year. Jewelry and clothes, mostly. A tie-dyed shirt and a new ballcap for Gus every year. Home knick knacks for Jocelyn. Sports gadgets and Monster shirts for the boys. Every other year or so, there would be one or two art photography booths in the Festival. They didn't allow professionals to set up, but artists were in. They were his kindred souls, and there was nary a person in their shots either. Wow. Impressive. Gus was impressed. Not just with their photography – he was thinking that he had shots just as good or better than these in his website galleries. He was impressed with their gumption to actually get a booth and put their work out there for sale. He always bought one of their framed pieces by way of a standing ovation.

He almost joined them this year, he did. He almost got up the gumption himself to get his own booth for Art in the Park 2013. He even did the prep work. Gus thought back through the research that he had done. How do you even get a framework booth to set up for one weekend at an art fair? What did that even cost? Where would he get the prints made? He never printed out his work otherwise. They just lived digital lives online. Could he make a good markup on the printing prices? How about framing the pictures? Should he pay to have his photos professionally mounted? Could he buy cheap frames for each? Should he worry about the color of the mounting mattes, or just get them all in white? What sizes should he have available for purchase? A whole range of sizes, or a limited range? What would he price them at? A reasonable price for his friends, or extravagant art prices? Who would pay that? The most difficult question of all, of course, was: which images would he put up for sale? He had some four thousand quality images from the hundreds of thousands that he had taken and deleted. Most of them only a few people had seen, and only a glancing look. He knew what he had stored up, but he didn't know what would sell. He just wanted people to see them and appreciate them.

Gus heard the sound of a moving train coming to a stop in the tree line below the road. Brakes and a horn in the quiet morning darkness. He couldn't see it, as much as he strained. He finished his coffee, and allowed himself a moment more of reflection of what it might have been like to be an art picture seller at his beloved Marigold Festival. It would be living out his favorite saying by Henry David Thoreau:

“Most men live lives of quiet desperation, and go to the graves with the song still in them.”

That first part was certainly famous. And relatable. Ninety eight percent of modern America could relate to “quiet desperation” no matter how much you made or how many possessions that you have. It was that second half of the quote that made it meaningful to Gus, and caused him to reflect on it often. Going to the grave with the song still in you. That was the scary part. How many people got to sing their song, whatever that was. Maybe it was actually singing or music. More likely it was art or sports or entrepenuerial business success. Or photography, of course. He was convinced that much of social media chatter was people trying to sing their song to each other and trying to live a bigger life than they in fact did. Taking exquisite pictures was, of course, his song. Taking the interesting picture of an element of nature or architecture that everyone had walked past but no one had captured in that way. That was his song. He sang it every day. But, if no one hears you sing your song do you go to the grave with the song still in you? If no one saw and appreciated his pictures, had he in fact sung? He wondered about that now and then. Having that booth at the Marigold Festival would have represented getting his song out.

But, that was delusional thinking. He had always known that really, down deep. There were too many issues spinning in his life for that plan to come off as he had imagined it. What was he thinking? His sales route took a lot of his time and kept him out of town servicing his clients. Mark's struggles at college needed attention. Kurt had his own challenges in school. And that was before the accident that took him away. Gus stopped there, and let all thoughts of everything else evaporate. He was struck deeply in the stillness of the morning with how deeply he missed Kurt. What a privilege it had been to be his father, challenges and all. He would take the challenges again to have more time with Kurt. He pictured his face the way he had last seen him, smiling and laughing before he headed off to that fateful party. What a deep loss. What a painful separation to be without him. As he thought of his song, Gus bowed his head and prayed a short prayer that God would care for Kurt throughout all eternity, until he could get there. As he opened his eyes and lifted his head, the sun peeked up over the horizon and it was sunrise. It seemed to him an acknowledgement of his simple prayer. Thank you, Lord.

Gus thought rapidly through his four rules of travel photography, as he leaned forward and began operating his camera:

1. Travel. You can't get the interesting shots you want in your backyard.

2. Composition. Know the simple rules of composition that artists have employed for centuries. Think of your viewfinder of your camera as your canvas, and compose your shot right in the camera. Know, live, and love the Rule of Thirds.

3. Lighting. Contrast is the key to an interesting shot. Get the shot when the light is there, and walk away when it is not. Know your camera settings to take best advantage of all ambient light conditions.

4. Editing: The key to interesting photography. Don't show people your bad pictures, and they will think you are a good photographer! Delete, delete, delete in the digital age.

Gus had charged his battery, and had a fresh memory card in his camera. He made the most of the rising sun as it came up over Peoria and the river valley. He caught light reflected off of the downtown buildings in an early aspenglow. He caught the sunlight reflected off of the interstate highway bridge. He swiveled his tripod and caught different vignettes up and down the river from where he sat off of the road up high. He swapped out his lenses to get varying focal lengths and depths of field. He caught some of the contrails up high in the sky from the early morning flights to and from Chicago. He popped the camera body off of the tripod, put the shorter lens back on the camera, and played with some close-ups of the foliage around him. He even took a couple of shots of the road he was parked on as it snaked further up in the hills. He had learned over the years to look around him and find the unique thing whether it was near, mid-range, or close-up. Just compose the shot well. He would edit later back in the motel room.

What was that flying low over the downtown area? He would have guessed eagles, given that they were often spotted in various places along the river this time of year. But, they were on the wrong side of the river. He didn't see them downtown usually. Gus retrieved his 300mm zoom lens and attached it to the camera body. He snapped the camera back in on the tripod and pulled back to the widest angle to locate the flying objects in the viewfinder. Once he had one, he slowly zoomed in on it, keeping it centered on the screen as it flew. This wasn't a bird. It looked mechanical in nature. Radio-controlled aircraft? What would they be doing flying in the downtown area? They have their own park outside of town where they fly unhindered and away from danger. Gus followed the craft as it flew in a lazy-8 pattern over the city maintaining a constant altitude. He thought he had seen that shape of craft before. In the news. This was a drone aircraft, and a fairly large one, flying over Peoria Illinois. Did the local police know about that? Gus snapped a few more pictures, and as he snapped the last one he saw several small projectiles eject from the drone body. The much smaller craft stabilized into flight over different parts of the city, and the larger drone left it's station and flew off downriver toward Pekin.

Wow. Had he just seen what he had just seen? Gus replayed various events in his mind as he packed up his camera bag and tripod and headed his car down out of the hills. He thought about Carlo's conspiracy theory ranting at the gun range yesterday about how it was all going to fall apart soon and the government was going to clamp down on the population soon. Crazy talk. And now Carlo was arrested, and by the Department of Homeland Security no less. Was he really involved with a dangerous group? Were they stirring things up here in town. What was going on?

Gus stopped his car on the railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill, and rolled down his windows on both sides. This was a habit of his, one that he tried not to indulge when there were other people in the car with him. He looked up and down the track in both directions. There was often a unique picture to be had from this vantage point. The tracks going away gave a vanishing point feel. Proper composition could play that up into a nice shot. Depending on where the sun was, and at what angle, there could be a nice lighting effect playing off of the rails. Sometimes he could get the shot from his car seat. Sometimes he would leave the car parked on the tracks and jump out to get the right height and angle for the lighting to work. That all depended on whether or not a train was coming. Details, details. He hadn't been hit yet, and wasn't planning to be. A train coming would be a more unique shot, and he was the risk-taker to get it. More often than not, as was the case today, there might be an engine idling some distance down the track, and he could get a still picture that just looked like a train was coming.

Gus pulled up off of the tracks and over onto the side of the road. He grabbed the point-and-shoot camera between his seats, and jumped out of the car and tracked through the woods alongside the tracks to get a closer look at the engine. Someone had told him once that there was a law detailing how far you had to stay off of the tracks, and that this law had some hefty fines attached. That law was for the sheep to follow, though. They never got the interesting pictures that he did. Still, he wanted to see if someone was in the engine cab or not before he popped out to position himself for the shot angle. When he got close to the engine, though, his eyes were down the length of the train instead. There were four engines in total pulling the train, and the cars weren't the usual coal cars headed to the power plant. No indeed. These cars were all flatbed cars, with vehicles attached. Gus now recognized the shape of this particular vehicle. He marveled as he snapped a picture, as he counted twenty flatbed rail cars caring one MRAP vehicle each curving back into the woods. “Hey!” shouted the engineer in the lead engine cab, and Carlo scurried back down the tree line to his car. If you can peel out in a Taurus, Gus was burning rubber to get out of there.         

Chapter Fourteen

“Hi Sam.” Now and then Valerie Hitchens had occasion to interact with Sam Patel at the Coal Miner's Motel in the course of a shift. Some of the occupants ran afoul of the law, usually at the end of a work project, always in some state of inebriation. She was on a first name basis with Sam. “Can you point me toward Gus Kesselmann's room? Is he back in for the night?”

“Is he in some trouble? I don't like trouble here, as you know.”

“No, Sam. No trouble. He's a friend of mine from high school, actually. Our 35^th reunion is coming up and I'm on the organizing committee. I heard he was here and I need to work out some last minute details with him. Can you ring his room for me, and ask him if I can drop in. Won't take long.”

“Just go on down, Valerie. He's in that last room down there by the new construction. The one with the Taurus parked out in front.”

Valerie walked by the down the parking lot slowly, checking out cars out of sheer habit. She stopped at Gus's car and wrote down his license plate number in her notepad, again out of habit. She wasn't expecting that to lead to anything. She looked over at the construction equipment that had been left outside of the building that was going up next to the motel. She had been wondering what it would become, but had not seen a sign of any kind yet to announce “opening soon” of any kind. Oh well. They looked almost done. She would know soon. Satisfied that everything was alright at the motel premises, she walked over to the last motel room door and knocked. She saw an eye at the peephole, and then the door opened slowly with the security chain still on it. “Open up please, Gus. We need to talk.”

********

“They're here, Chief”.

Chief Halsey hit the intercom button. “Thank you, Sergeant Williams. I'll be right with you. Hold them there at the front counter for me.” The Chief wasn't looking for a confrontation. Not at this point in his career. Not on a Sunday night, that was for sure. It looked, however like a confrontation was coming to him. He headed out to the front counter and saw that Carlo Antonetti was in fact in his lobby, in the apparent custody of two out of town gentlemen wearing security uniforms from an outfit that he didn't recognize as operating locally in Pekin.

“I'm Chief Halsey of the Pekin Police Department. Can I help you gentlemen this evening?”

“Sure, Sheriff. I'm Manny Juarez. I need to drop this guy off for you to hold until he gets picked up. Can you do that?”

“Well, first of all, I am not the Sheriff. You might have just heard me introduce myself as the Chief of Police. We're not getting off to a good start here. Is there a charge that we are booking Mr. Antonetti here on tonight?”

“I didn't say anything about booking. Colonel Breen from DHS should have called you by now. He'll be by later to pick him up. This guy, Antonetti did you say, was trespassing on a federal installation near here and we took him into custody. We just need you to hold him for the Colonel.”

“I'm not aware of a federal facility near here for Mr. Antonetti to trespass on. Would you like to clue me in on that little technicality?”

“Colonel Breen will brief you when he gets here. He's somewhere in town as I understand it. This guy is yours until then.”

“Mr. Juarez, this is your lucky Sunday night. I will take him off of your hands and let you get back to your business at this federal facility, wherever that is. Sgt Williams, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Antonetti here back to holding for me? I'll be right back with you. Mr. Antonetti, I don't know what trouble you've gotten yourself in, but please follow Sgt Williams and don't give him any trouble, if you would sir.”

*********

“Is this official and okay, me getting in to see Carlo tonight”, Gus asked as Valerie drove down to the Justice Center.

Valerie had interviewed Gus in his motel room. She kept it informal, asking Gus for his help rather than interrogating him. She asked him a standard set of questions to set the stage. Why was he living at a motel rather than at his house? What kind of work did he do? How did he know Carlo? What was his involvement with Carlo? What were he and Carlo talking about at lunch yesterday at the diner? Was Gus mad at the government for any reason? Was he part of any plot that the federal government would be watching him for? As he answered her questions, Valerie pieced together the basic story of Gus's vacation and plans for closing on his house, and his running into Carlo yesterday and hiring him to help fix up his house so that he could sell it on Wednesday. It sounded logical, and innocent, and airtight.

“Valerie”, Gus had said to his old friend, “I don't know what is going on with Carlo. He's the same Carlo that I know from high school, with just a few road miles on him. But, yeah. He was talking a lot of smack about he government yesterday when we went shooting at the gun range. He was way out there. I think he's a 'prepper', from what he was saying. One of those guys who think it's all going to hit the fan, and he may have to bugout or go to shelter somehow when it does. He was talking about being part of a Group, and having a backer that was fronting their expenses for preparing, I guess. He didn't say who that was, or what the group does for that matter. It sounded pretty out there, I thought. Somewhat 'wingnutty', as they say online. But, hey, if I can help you figure this out I'll go with you to see him tonight.”

Valerie pulled in to the underground parking area for officers at the Justice Center and killed the engine. “I don't know if this is entirely by the book, to be honest. But a lot of things are happening out of the norm. Let's just get in and get out. Stay with me.”

“Valerie, one more thought before we go in, if you don't mind. This doesn't have to do with Carlo. But it does have to do with what Carlo has been talking about. I've been seeing things around here that are, as you said, happening out of the norm. I saw three military vehicles with DHS logos on them in downtown Peoria stop and detain two guys last night. And earlier today I saw a barge on the river that looked like a floating jail cell that had the DHS logo on it, and they were transferring those same two guys up on to that barge. I don't know if they're part of Carlo's “Group” or not. But, oh hey. I got a picture of the barge and uploaded it to InstaPic. Let me show you.” Carlo started fumbling with his phone, but couldn't seem to locate the picture.

Valerie took Gus in a back door of the Justice Center and was headed for the Chief's office when she saw Sgt Williams standing guard outside of the holding cell. She was hoping that the Chief had included her colleague in on the plan, and flinched when he saw Gus following her. “Antonetti's in here. You've got ten minutes.” Willams opened the door and showed them both in, and resumed guard.

************

“Chief Halsey, I appreciate your consideration in the matter at hand tonight. It's a federal matter, really. I hate to even bother you with it. I'd like to take the suspect with me tonight to my facility, but it is at max capacity until I can transfer two other gentlemen to a more permanent situation. If you could keep Mr. Antonetti here overnight, my department will reimburse you for your costs at the standard daily rate of housing an inmate. And you'll have my gratitude.”

“Colonel...Breen, is it? Never let it be said that the Pekin Police Department – small as we are – is not cooperative with our federal colleagues. We've worked quite well with Agent Watkins in our joint operations to solve our Meth problem. I do, of course, have some questions. First of all, I personally know the suspect in this case, Mr. Antonetti. I don't know of any history of his that would involve federal law enforcement officials. Nor am I aware of any federal facilities in our area that he could have trespassed on. Nor do I know of any local federal facilities that you could transfer him to. There are a lot of unknowns in this situation that you've presented me tonight.”

“Chief, I can assure you that there are answers to those question. And I assure you that we are operating within the scope of our authority under the Patriot Act and the NDAA to minimize the threat of terrorism to the homeland.”

“Terrorism? In Pekin? Involving Mr. Antonetti? I think we're a little off the map of terrorist profiling here. Carlo doesn't strike me as someone in league with al-Qaida. What are you talking about?”

“Chief Halsey, the threat to the mainland of the United States doesn't come exclusively from al-Qaida. Or even predominantly from al-Qaida. There are plenty of homegrown threats that I deal with every day. You should see the dossiers that come across my desk. Right-wing militia types are springing up all over the Midwest. Former military. Paramilitary. Milita wannabees, all convinced that the end of civilization is coming and that they are all that's standing in the way of full on revolution in this country. It's building, and I don't have all of the resources that I need to keep it all in check. That's why I need your help tonight.”

Colonel Breen paused and looked at a computer tablet that was vibrating. He read the message, and then looked up at Chief Halsey. “Speaking of that, Mr. Antonetti is not the only one that is raising an alarm here in Pekin. A user named GK1978 uploaded some suspicious images to an InstaPic account earlier today, and I would like to have a conversation with that gentleman as well. NSA has resolved that user name to a Mr. Gus Kesselman of Pekin, Illinois. What's more, NSA has tracked the GPS information from his cell phone, and has located him within six feet – somewhere in this very building. What's say we go find him and have a little talk with him.”

Gus had finished talking with Carlo, and Valerie pointed him down to Chief Halsey's office while she moved Carlo to a holding cell further back in the building. Gus knocked on the Chief's door and poked his head in to say hi.

“Mr. Kesselmann. Come on in. We were just discussing you. I'm Colonel Breen. Take a seat.”

“How do you know who I am? And who do you work for?”

“I work for the Department of Homeland Security, Mr. Kesselmann. I know a lot about a lot of people. It's my job. And it's how we keep the country safe from people that want to do it harm? Does that include you, Mr. Kesselmann?”

“Of course it doesn't. And I'm not inclined to take a seat. What did you want to discuss?”

“Well, for starters, you can tell me about an image of the river that you uploaded today on InstaPic in the gallery for GK1978. Is there a particular reason that you took that picture?”

“DHS is looking at my InstaPic gallery? Really? Well if you look at my whole gallery, you'll see that I am a hobby photographer. I take a lot of pictures for that gallery. Mostly landscapes and architectural detail. I'm on vacation this week, and I plan to take a lot of pictures of the river. And of the buildings downtown. And of sunsets. It's what I do. But if that picture bothers you, for whatever reason, I'll be glad to delete it from my gallery.”

“Oh, we've already taken the liberty of deleting it from your gallery for you, Mr. Kesselmann. You photographed a federal facility that we would rather not have everyone looking at. It's need to know, and you don't need to know. I would strongly advise you to stay away from that part of the river as you go about your vacation, sir. Stick to the sunset shots. Those were quite good, if I do say so. Now, take a seat and let's talk about how you know Mr. Antonetti.”

“Am I being detained?”

“No one said anything about detaining you, Mr. Kesselmann. You're free to go. Stay out of trouble, or you will be seeing me and my men again soon. And please know that I can and will detain you at will.”

Gus closed the door to the Chief's office, and exited the Justice Center expeditiously. Valerie pulled up in her police cruiser and said “Get in”. She was pulling away from the curb to head back to Gus's motel when Gus noticed a Humvee idling in front of the Justice Center. Was that Colonel Breen's driver. They decided to wait and see and pulled discreetly back into a parking space. Gus slouched down in his seat, and Valerie pretended to work on paperwork. Sure enough, within fifteen minutes the Colonel came out the front door, shook hands with Chief Halsey, and stepped crisply to his waiting vehicle. Valerie and Gus followed at a respectable distance as they went through downtown, turned up Broadway, and travelled the short distance to the former West Campus of the Pekin Community High School. The Humvee parked in the back, and the occupants exited the vehicle and entered a boarded up door in the back of the school.

“I thought that place was due to be torn down next month. Shame we couldn't save it. Looks like it has one purpose after all. I think that we've just located the Pekin Headquarters of the Department of Homeland Security. Given the secrecy we're seeing here, I don't know yet if that is a good thing.”

Valerie dropped Gus off back at his room at the Coal Miner's Motel, and made arrangements to have a late breakfast with him at the McDonald's down the street at ten in the morning – before breakfast officially ended on McDonald's time.

Chapter Thirteen

“Sergeant Hitchens, can you step into my office for a minute?” Chief Halsey closed the door behind her as she sat down at his desk, and then took his own chair. He looked as unsettled as Valerie had ever seen him in the twelve years that she had been in the department. He was the rock of the division. He had seen it all in his career and was generally unflappable and calm. They called him “Mr. Spock” behind his back, in fact, because he so rarely showed an emotion. But he was a good mentor and he looked after his team.

“What are doing in tonight, Chief. It's a quiet Sunday night, and second shift no less. Isn't there a football game you would rather be home watching?”
 

“I would actually. Although you and I both know that my team is not going to win today. Sure is fun watching them lose though. I've been following the Bears since I was a kid. Who knows, maybe today is the day they surprise me and win. But, to answer your question, I wanted to check in here with you folks. How was your patrol tonight?”

“It's pretty tame in P-Town tonight, Chief. I had to chase some skateboarders out of the McDonald's parking lot. That's the extent of the crime spree so far. You look worried though. Is there something that I don't know about?”

“Yeah, I think there might be. It's got me a little on edge, truth be told. You've noticed, I imagine, that there are a lot of out of towners around this weekend. Washington DC types. Right?”

“Well, yes. Of course. We had that DEA briefing yesterday in the break room. Something about the cartels from Chicago coming down here to get in our Meth operators. I saw a lot of black sedans parked at the Coal Miner's Motel tonight. Are there more of those gorillas coming in? Is there cartel action happening already?”

“Valerie, it's more than that, I'm afraid. I can't be quite sure, because I haven't been officially briefed yet. I'm not in the loop so to speak. I don't have a 'need to know' as they call it.” The Chief was looking a bit peeved that there were out of towners operating in his town without his blessing or the courtesy of briefing him. “There are people in town that are not DEA. They are after bigger fish than the cartels. That's what I know.”

“There are bigger fish than the cartels? In little ole Pekin? How can that be? Those are some mean bastards, per the briefing.”

“Agent Watkins had breakfast with me this morning. He was concerned. I've known Darryl for a long time through our Meth busts, and I haven't seen him rattled before. Really. But, there's a bigger boss in town than him, and he's not sure where this is headed.”

“Okay, I'll bite. Who's the honcho in town. Is the Attorney General here to give us all medals?”

“Ha! I wish. You guys deserve some more recognition. No, it's another alphabet soup group. DHS. The Department of Homeland Security is here.”

“Really? Is our homeland insecure, here in Pekin?”, Valerie asked. She was leaning forward in her chair now.

“Apparently so.”

“Al-Qaida? We've got AQ in Pekin now? Are you kidding? I've always wondered if they would come to Peoria, if they understood the PR value of hitting the twin towers on the Peoria Riverfront. Would al-Qaida “Play in Peoria”, and all that jazz. I bet they haven't heard that expression before though.”

“DHS is domestic. Domestic terrorists don't necessarily have to be of the Middle Eastern persuasion. We have our home grown versions too, every now and then. I take it, from what I am seeing today, that this is what we will be dealing with. I want you guys to be safe, and to be on guard at the right levels. So, I'm sharing my suspicions with you outside of channels.”

“Cartels? Terrorists? In Pekin? Chief, did I mention that I have some vacation time saved up that I'd like to use?”

“Valerie, I wouldn't blame you if you cashed it all in this week and headed out of town somewhere. That would be a good thing to do actually. But, before you did that I would like you to look in on a prisoner first. I got a call fifteen minutes ago that DHS was bringing in a detainee, and that they would like to use our holding cell for the night. I don't like how this feels at all. Not one little bit. For one thing, they asked me to not book him in using our regular booking procedures. They just want to detain him while they talk to him. They are invoking the Patriot Act to hold him. I'm not a lawyer, and I haven't read the dad-blasted thing. But I've been a lawman most of my life and I will tell you one thing. I do not like where we are headed in this country with the erosion of civil rights of suspects inside our borders. People have rights, dammit. We don't just detain citizens without due process. Not on my watch.”

“How do you know that this detainee is a citizen, Chief?”

“Because, Sergeant Valerie Hitchens, I know this young man. And so do you. They are bringing in Carlo Antonetti for detention.”

Valerie sat back in her chair abruptly. Her head was suddenly spinning. She started processing what she had just heard like a lawman would. Carlo? Terrorism? What possible evidence could they have of that? Carlo Antonetti had lived in Pekin his whole life. Valerie had known him since high school. Sure, he had a rough life growing up and got into a spot of trouble now and then. Sure, he'd been down since Lisa had left. She saw him every now and then at the diner with a regular group of friends. They seemed aggravated at the President, and at the direction that the country was headed. But, he was a good man. She was sure of that. Her lawman instinct stopped there, and she reacted as just his friend.

“Carlo? That can't be right. Terrorism? No. I just saw him yesterday at the diner having lunch with Gus Kesselmann. I knew them both in high school. They were discussing Gus's misfortunes and fixing up Gus's house so he could sell it this week. Telling military veteran stories. That kind of thing. Who could think he's a terrorist?”

“Valerie, we're in this thing whether we like it or not. We're just a local police force, and we're going to have feds big-footing us all over the place in very short order. I've got enough time in to retire, and I should. You've got vacation time, and you should take it. Those are the shoulds. But here's what I know. You and I both took oaths to serve and protect this community. We take those oaths seriously, even at our level. That oath used to be a simple thing. Protect our community from the bad guys. But this world has gotten so much more complex in my time here on it. What does that even mean anymore. 'Bad guys'? It means our local run of the mill crooks. It means these gangs running dope. It means international cartels setting up shop. It means terrorist who have ungodly intentions for destruction. And Val, it may mean one more thing.”

“What's that Chief?”

“It may mean US federal agents who are operating outside of the bounds of the Constitution as I know it. That may sound radical. But we are in radical times. We didn't come this far in this experiment of America to forfeit the Constitution in the name of security. That would be a foolish and irretrievable mistake. It may take guardians at our level all across America to preserve it. I'm going a long way around to say that I do not trust these particular set of gung-ho feds as far as I can throw them. And if they come in here pushing us around, I am going to want to throw them. Out.”

“Okay, what do you need me to do Chief?”

“Protect that young man's rights at reasonable costs. We didn't give up our badges or that oath just because some feds come in and act badly. We're going to do our best to book that young man by our standard practice, and to get him in front of a judge as quickly as we can. I'll handle that. I have a different assignment for you, if you are game.”

“Name it, Chief, and I'll do it.”

“Do you know where Gus Kesselmann lives?”

“I do. They were talking about it at the diner. Gus is selling his house. He's moved everything into storage, and is staying at the Coal Miner's Motel.”

“Go see him. Ask him if he'll come in and talk to me. Unofficially. We're not arresting him. We don't have any probable cause to. But I want to know what exactly is going on here. Bring him in the back door and here in to my office.”

“I'm on it Chief. I'll be back in thirty minutes.”

Chapter Twelve

The rental pickup truck held all of the wood and materials that were on the materials list that Carlo had given him, which made him think that the home repair job was possible after all. Gus paid for the material at the front counter, and picked it up around the side at the construction materials dock. His next stop was for pizza and soda for the work crew, who had declined a sitdown lunch after church. Carlo had recruited a couple of men from the men's ministry group that were handy with tools and had some construction experience. They wanted to get the job done early on a Sunday afternoon and get back home to their families before evening set in. That was just fine with him.

Gus volunteered to help with the work, of course, since it was his home that they were repairing. He was reminded quickly that manual labor wasn't his forte and sometimes it was the better option to just stay out of the way of the people who knew what they were doing. If they could get the access issue solved with a small ramp and repair the termite damage, as Carlo thought that they could, then Gus could still hope to close on the house on Wednesday as he had promised Jocelyn that they would. He offered moral support to Carlo and his team, and watched them work for a bit of time. Truth be told, though, he was still moved by the church service this morning, and he wanted to be by himself to reflect on what had happened. He hummed the chorus of the song that they had sung to himself – Lord prepare me to be a sanctuary... - as he set up his laptop on the breakfast bar and connected to his mobile hot spot on his smart phone. Technology is a wonderful thing.

A quick YouTube search yielded several versions of the song that Gus was still humming - “...pure and holy, tried and true...”, and he selected a cover version by a young lady with a guitar and put in his earbuds to keep from bothering the others as they worked. Nice. He listened to a choral version from some church in Alabama while he opened his private email account. Jocelyn had written him a quick note with an update on her time at the college with Mark. He was struggling at college she reported. It would be a difficult semester for their young man. He was struggling with being engaged with his classes, and was considering changing his major. He was struggling with learning to live in an apartment setting instead of the dormitories that he had loved / hated as a freshman and sophomore. Mostly he was struggling with the loss of his younger brother and with his own injuries healing.

Jocelyn closed her email with questions about how things were going on closing on the house, and with admonishments for him to be safe while she was away from him. Gus often worried her with his stories of the risks that he had taken over the years to get this photograph or that video. He was a risk taker, not by nature but out of a desire to get the unique shot that no one else got and that spoke to him and him alone. It was his passion. His addiction, really. And addicts take risks. He hadn't told her all of his stories of the photo locations that he had risked on the road and the situations that he had been in. Not even half. But, the ones that he had told her worried her enough. She had expressed her worry level often enough and admonished him to be safer, please, for her and for Mark. “You're going to disappear one of these days, and I won't even know where to find the body.”

Gus closed his email and absentmindedly surfed the internet as he watched the guys scurry around his house with lumber and tools, serving him with their ministry to the men in the church that had needs. He had done it himself years ago, and it felt odd to him to be on the receiving end of the help. He surfed some business websites with tips for salesmen. Some of them felt old hat to him, like Sales 101. But there were some new trends that he needed to keep abreast of if he was going to keep his edge. There was a lot to learn about “personal branding” in the internet age. He felt like a dinosaur reading through the tips, and it wasn't doing any favors to be reading this material on his days off. Gus flipped over to news websites to change the subject, and pulled up a news aggregator site to see what was going on in the world on a Sunday afternoon. Bad news, wall to wall, that's what. China was threatening Japan over some disputed islands, and ratcheting up the war talk. Russia was hosting an international conference with some rogue nations that needed weapons for oil. The stock market was building toward a bubble, and the Fed intended to keep pumping dollars for “easing” - whatever that was. Someone was raising an alarm about the Department of Homeland Security buying a billion bullets. Was that even possible? Were there a billion bullets being manufactured?

Time was getting by as Gus surfed website after website chasing the various news stories. I guess that's why they call it surfing, he thought. He opened his Facebook account and scrolled down through the stories in his timeline posted by his friends. Some were about family events. Some were photos of food that his friends thought worthy of memorializing, or recipes to share. More than one were cute dog or cat antics. There was the usual post from his friend Jerry who was passionate about politics. He had apparently not liked the last president but loved the current occupant of the oval office, and was promoting a bill that was up for a critical vote in Congress. Whatever. Gus rarely commented on those posts and skipped on down. When he scrolled back up to the top of the page, he realized that there was a Direct Message back from Robert Ellison. He was answering his question about the vehicle that he had seen with a video clip.

“What do you have there”, Carlo said as he opened the video clip. He came up behind Gus to tell him that they were finished and that the guys were loading up the tools and supplies. Gus took out his earbuds, and showed him the video from someone named “Judge Betty” on a news channel who was talking over news footage of vehicles like the ones that Gus had seen. The judge was apparently vexed about increase in the use of military equipment by domestic police agencies. “This is a 'MRAP' vehicle”, the judge intoned, “a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle designed for the battlefields in Iraq and Afhanistan where our soldiers were endangered by IED bombs and other threats. What possible threats exist in Chicago and Dallas and Atlanta that require this technology in law enforcement hands, and will they be turned on us as citizens? I ask you.” After the video clip ended, Gus saw that there was an additional note from Robert identifying the logos in the pictures that Gus had provided him. “I've seen them here on the base now and then. The logo is for the Department of Homeland Security. Where did you see them, again?”

Carlo was reading over Gus's shoulder. “Did you see some of those vehicles?”, he asked Gus.

“Yeah. I saw three last night in Peoria while I was taking pictures downtown in the warehouse district. It seemed odd. They were detaining two guys that they put in the vehicles, and then drove off. I stayed out of sight.”

“Judge Betty is right, Gus. We've made a serious mistake in this country since 9/11, vesting so much authority and firepower in the hands of civilian authorities. Posse Commitatus has been seriously diminished because of that. We're free-born citizens of this country, and we are not supposed to be threatened domestically by military power at home in the hands of a tyrannical leader. But, man, that is right where we are. We need to be prepared for it to go bad. And soon.”

“Carlo, you were talking like that yesterday at the gun range. Don't you think that's a little over the top? There are real threats out there. Real bad guys. Bad guys that we weren't prepared for on 9/11, that were right here in the States. We learned some lessons, and beefed up our security at home, and are hopefully safer. Don't you think?”

“We went too far, Gus. We gave too much power to the power structure elites, who are naturally inclined to tyranny. The danger they pose to the Republic is greater than the danger of terrorists. I believe that. DHS has too much power. The president has too much power, which he granted to himself in signing the NDAA bill. You can be detained now without warrant or cause, and held anywhere in the world indefinitely and without counsel. That's not a theoretical power. It's going to be misused. Here, in our country. With citizens who are deemed a threat to the powerful. A threat to patriots.”

“So, are you prepared? I mean beyond the bugout bag in your truck? Are you a prepper?”

“Not just me. There are several of us. We have a backer, and we have the means to do what we have to do when it hits the fan.”

“A backer? Who is your backer?”

Carlo looked at Gus pensively. “I've said too much, Gus. You've got other things on your mind. We're all finished here. You should pass your inspection tomorrow and have no problem closing on your house on Wednesday. I'm going to get out of here with the guys and let you get on with your photography plans. It's almost Golden Hour isn't it? See, I'm learning from you.”

**********

There wasn't time for Gus to get to out of town to some of the spots that he had scouted out for landscape photography at some point in the week. The Golden Hour was on him and he needed to make it count. He was hoping that he could catch some aspenglow reflected off of a structure, like the bridge, and the river was close. He remembered talking with Carlo about their hanging out at the river at the firepit just up off of the beach back in their day, and thought that there might be a vantage point there with a good angle on the bridge in sunset light. He headed down Main Street to the frontage road behind the ethanol plants, and found a place just off of the gravel road to park. Gus grabbed a monopod and his Canon t3i, locked his Taurus, and headed off into the woods toward the beach below the firepit.

Walking through the stand of woods above the river was difficult. There were a lot of trees down, and some mounds of dirt that were dug out up the road to lay pipe in his way. He marvelled at how the trees in this bottom land were tilted at odd angles. This area had flooded so many times that the root systems were shallow and frequently muddy, to the point that the trees leaned all different ways. Strange landscape. He snapped a couple of pictures as he walked toward his destination, and almost tripped over the firepit as he walked. Ah, here we are. He walked around the firepit, taking pictures from various angles and distances, and noticed that there were signs of people living down here. Homeless people? There was a trash bag tied up in a tree with food stores, and beer bottles strewn around the firepit. Gus wasn't keen on encountering anyone out here alone, and moved on toward the shore.

The tugboat searchlight stopped Gus at the treeline. He was familiar with the tugboats working the barges on this part of the river. He knew them by name, he had photographed them so often from the pier at the foot of Court Street. He had rarely seen the tugs using the searchlight before sundown though. They seemed to be searching the treeline along the beach. Stepping back away from the beach, he crouched down behind a pile of fallen trees and stuck his long lens out through a gap between the trunks. He pivoted the lens back and forth up and down the river, viewing what it captured on the 3” display on the back of the camera body. Something looked different than normal, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Gus pulled the lens back as the searchlight came across the pile of trees, and then put it back through. He scoped out the tugboat wheel house, and then scanned across the deck of the barges pushed down the river.

Ah, that's it. They don't have the low-slung profile that the coal barges that are the mules of the river typically have. This was tall, like containers on container ships were. Gus could see doors on the sides, and barred windows. It looked like a floating office. He could see lights on inside the container, and people moving around inside. He pulled his lens back and waited for the search light to go past again, and saw movement when he poked his lens back through. A speedboat came up next to the container barge and tied up quickly alongside. While Carlo watched, two men in handcuffs were transferred up onto the the barge and in to the container office. Gus recognized them as the two men that he saw arrested last night. He snapped a picture of them, and of the logo next to the door on the container, which he now recognized as the Department of Homeland Security logo. What were they doing operating on the river? Was it for the same reason that casinos boats worked the river – because the river was national waterway outside of the control of the state? That didn't mean good things for those two prisoners.

Gus pulled out his phone, selected the camera function, and took two quick snaps of the barge: one long view and one close up of the logo. He dropped both pictures into his InstaPic app and selected filters that lightened up the scene. He posted both pics to his gallery with the hashtag #government ? Then he sent a quick text to Carlo saying “You won't believe what I am looking at!”, as the sunlight faded out.

*******

Montel Smith was working at his station at the National Security Agency outside of Salt Lake City Utah. “Hey, Mike. Come look at these two pics that were just uploaded. We need to alert DHS that their logo is online on InstaPic. Who is GK1978? Do you know that user.”

“No”, Mike replied. “Start a new file.”

********

Carlo felt the text notification buzz on his silenced smartphone on his hip, but ignored it. He was working his way up the break in the corn rows in parallel to the storage unit complex. Where was Donny May, and why hadn't he called in? The Group was waiting for a report, and Donny had gone silent. He thought Donny had gone on a bender and had forgotten to do the simple job that the Group had asked him to do. Check out the storage unit, and call in. But nothing had come in, and the other members were getting worried. Carlo had done a cursory look for him down the frontage road and was about to give up when he saw Donny's Ford Explorer parked just off the road at the break in the corn.

Carlo walked bent over down the row, trying not to be seen in the high intensity lights that were coming from the storage unit compound. There seemed to be more activity there than he expected. It was a good thing that the corn rows here hadn't been harvested yet in September, and he had some cover. He thought he would walk up the row another hundred feet or so, and turn back. He was trying to decide on a landmark feature that would mark the turn around point, when he tripped and fell face first in the dirt. Dang! He looked back to see what he had tripped on and was surprised to see a hand sticking out behind a corn stalk. Dread came over him as he backtracked and walked down the row to find Donny May, dead as can be. Shot, by the look of him, and bleeding. Apparently, given the blood track trailing out behind him, Donny had been shot up closer to the storage unit, and had crawled out the break in the row. He hadn't made it back to the truck, though, before he succumbed. Carlo got a chill down his back as he realized that he might be in the same danger. He turned Donny May's body over and searched his jacket pocket for his truck keys. He found Donny's cell phone in the hand that had been under his body, and he tucked that in his jeans.

Carlo ran down the break in the corn rows back to the vehicles. He made a quick decision and beeped his own keys to lock his own truck, which was hidden well off the road. He jumped in Donny's Sport Trak and turned around and headed back toward town. Dialing a number on his cell phone, he made quick arrangements with a member of the Group to meet him at a gas station where he could take Donny's vehicle and bring him back to his own truck. That plan was interrupted by Manny Juarez and his Security team blocking off the road and stopping Carlo's vehicle. “Get out of the truck, and get on the ground!”

******

Col Skip Breen was getting another cup of strong coffee in the classroom at the West Campus command post. It was from one of the security contractors that he had talked to earlier this week. Manny Juarez. It simply said: “Detainee inbound your location.”

Chapter Eleven

“No, that is not the right squadron patch. I need the 55th”, Gus mumbled. He was walking up and down the aisles in the Base Exchange looking for the right collection of patches for both the stripes for his rank and to identify his unit. He would need new boots, and five new sets of fatigues in his size. He needed a cap for when he was outdoors. Five sets of undershirts, which were required under the fatigues. He found the elastic bands that he would need to keep his pants up off of his boots on the endcap of the next aisle. He hated those things because they cut into his leg and left a mark. This wasn't working, and Gus was starting to panic. How would he get the stripes and patches sewn on all five sets of fatigues in time to report to his unit in time for his Chief Master Sergeant to not chew him out? And why had he gotten called back into duty in the Air Force anyway? He was running out of time...

The alarm on the nightstand next to his bed began to blare loud music from the rock station the previous guest had set it to, and Gus reached over and slapped the snooze button. Hard. He drifted back to sleep for the nine minutes that the snooze function allowed him, and then hit the button harder this time. Gaining consciousness, he opened one eye and sought out the red LEDs that would orient him in time on the planet. 9:10 am. What day? Sunday, he thought. Sunday? Yes, Sunday. His awakening mind slowly sorted it all out as he stretched and pushed off the thin comforter with cigarette burns in it. Friday was the bad night, tattoo and all. Saturday – was that just yesterday? - was the long day where he met up with Carlo and went shooting. He looked down instinctively to see the yellow and black bruise on his right shoulder where the rifle had kicked him on the first shot. Sunday. Today is Sunday. 9:15 now. Church would be in an hour. Better get moving, he thought sluggishly.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with the fog of sleep slowly clearing from his brain, Gus relived the dream that he had just woken up from. It was an old familiar dream that he had woken up from on many mornings, increasingly so in the last year. It was one of his two 'stress dreams', and he hated them both. This one had him getting called back into military service and floundering to get uniforms together to report for duty in. It was painful, a stress-filled night of failure, as was the other dream. That one had him running fruitlessly around a college campus trying to locate the lecture hall that his midterm exam was being held in. That one had actually happened to him and must have been traumatizing enough that it seared into his brain and resurfaced periodically to torment him when he was under stress.

Am I under stress, Gus thought? He thought about that while he was heating a pack of weak instant coffee at the bathroom vanity. This room was cheap, but at least it had a coffee maker as an amenity. He stirred in two packets of sugar substitute, and sat down on the chair beside the bed. Gus didn't want to think very often about the stress level that he was experiencing, but the stress dream did not lie. Nor did the tattoo, and the message of the verse that he had chosen.

“God is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Sitting there in the chair sipping coffee in the cheap motel, alone, Gus admitted to himself that he was both of those things. Brokenhearted. Crushed in spirit. He hadn't really talked to anyone since Kurt had died in that car accident about how crushed he was. Talking about it yesterday with Carlo had brought it all back. He couldn't hide from it this morning here alone with his thoughts and his stress dream. There was so much stress with his children's issues before the accident. But hey, everyone deals with family problems. Right? His were tough, but weren't special. They wore on him. Wore on his wife. But didn't everyone have trials and tribulations? Wasn't that just life? That's what he told himself to get through. To keep going. But burying your child, well that will just take you down. Lord, how do you carry on brokenhearted and crushed in spirit? Gus picked up the tin of tattoo wax and rubbed it in slow circles deeply into the fresh tattoo on his left arm. Not a lot of people he knew would believe that he had gotten one.

Glancing at the clock again, Gus gave quick thought to skipping church this morning. He wasn't feeling particularly sociable this morning, and the thought of greeting people and putting on the “I'm okay” smile wasn't appealing. He hadn't been attending Sunday School class for a very long time, and no one would miss him there. He hadn't been very active at church at all for a while now, for that matter if he was being honest with himself. But then he wasn't being very honest with himself at all either. He was just surviving. He had found a place to hide out in ministry service on the tech team, and it surved that purpose well. He couldn't just not show up for his role this morning, though. That would be unfair to someone else who would have to cover for him in his job. No. He needed to get going and be on time for sound check. Gus jumped into the shower and dressed in slacks and a dress shirt and headed that way.

Parking was tight in the overflow parking lot, which was a good sign for growth, and he parked off in the grass in the back of the building so that visitors could find a space. Gus went in a back door and up the long hall to the sanctuary. He could swear that he past a hundred people in the hallway that he had not met yet. How could that be? He's been a member here for 25 years now. Were they growing that much? Or, was he hiding that much? Gus headed to the tech area to check in with tech team leader Brian Halloran for his role on the sound board. Brian would know if there were any specials on the program today, and if anyone needed to practice on the microphones before the service began. Gus had been looking for a new ministry opportunity five years ago to slow down from his teaching roles, and had volunteered for the tech team at a ministry fair. An opening came up for the sound board and he volunteered to take it on. He wasn't a singer or musician, and didn't have the best ear for how things sounded. But, he was an electronics guy and liked managing the pots and sliders on the board to try to get the best sound. He could handle the pressure of 32 channel input from the platform, from instruments and singers. The biggest challenge was anticipating who was going to speak, sing, or play next and get their microphone on in time – or off in time as it may be. He could use some more training on the equalizers, though, to get the best sound and to solve sound problems. He reminded himself to ask Brian for more training there.

“Good morning, Gus”, Brian said as he greeted him. “I've got good news for you this morning. I meant to call you about this. I've made a schedule to rotate everyone so that you don't have to work every Sunday all year. We have some new volunteers, and I'll be training them this month on the board. You have this month off. Go sit in the service with your family and get ministered to. We've got it. I appreciate what you do on the team. Take this month off and get recharged, okay? I'll need you back at it next month.”

That was a surprise, and it left Gus unsure of what to do next. He could have skipped church after all, he realized, and the temptation to do so came on him again. I could walk out the door and head over to the house and no one would miss me, he thought. He stopped where he was, mulling over the thought of leaving. But, he was here and it would be good for his tired soul to participate. He knew that. He was getting to a decision to stay for the service when he looked up toward the platform and saw the praise band walking in and taking their positions. Carlo was at his position plugging in his base guitar and waved at Gus in the back of the room. Gus waved back and cinched his decision to stay. Now he had a connection to the service. Carlo knew he was there, and cared that he was there. Gus took a seat on the outside aisle of the back row and settled in to look at the program for the service as people filled in the pews around him.

The orchestra sounded terrific from this part of the room. Gus closed his eyes and just listened to the song as a song, which was different that listening to it as a sound board tech for volume and quality and feedback. Different, and better. He realized that he recognized the melody line of a familiar old hymn in an orchestral version, and he settled in to his seat. He could, with his eyes still closed, hear chatter in the pews around him and the rustling of the pages of the church bulletin. But he tuned it out. He basked in the deep rich sound of the orchestra. How Great Thou Art. Recognizable. Hummable. He could even pick out Carlo's bass line setting time for the others. Nice.

Pastor Samuels made the announcements and invited everyone to read the bulletin, though many were well into it. Gus left his on the pew unopened and scanned around the sanctuary. There were many old friends in the service, and he sought them out when the pastor invited everyone to take a minute to greet each other. More than one person said “Glad to see you” followed by a “where have you been?”. The first two times he tried to explain that he had been here working in the sound booth all along, but he shortened that to “I've been around”. Then why hadn't he said hello to these fine folks in quite a while, he wondered. He had been around, but hiding out in plain sight was the truth. Gus found his place again on the back pew as the song leader invited everyone to remain standing and sing with the praise band.

Gus loved singing, whether he was good at it or not. That was a problem for the people around him, not for him. And he really loved singing the praise choruses. He didn't sing when he was on the soundboard because he couldn't sing and listen at the same time, and his job required listening with apt attention for well over an hour in a typical service. Singing was a different experience than listening, and he slipped easily back into the habit. The song leader was skilled at leading worship, and at building a moment in the presence of God through song. Without thinking about it consciously, Gus slipped into an attitude of worship. Not to “be fed”, as the faithful sometimes said. He was too empty to relate to being fed. But, he remembered how to offer worship to the Lord.

Hymns merged with praise choruses. Yes, Gus thought, as one of his favorites to sing came up: Matt Redman's “Blessed Be Your Name”. It had been a while since he had sung that song, and Gus had to watch the overhead projector screen to remember the lyrics:

“Blessed be your name

In the land of the plentiful, Where your streams of abundance flow

Blessed be your name”

It crossed Gus's mind that it was easy to bless God's name in good times.

“Blessed be your name, When I'm found in the desert place

Though I walk through the wilderness, Blessed be your name”

Did he know that verse? Had he paid attention to that verse before? That was a paradox. Bless God's name in the wilderness? Really?

“Every blessing you pour out, I'll turn back to praise

When the darkness closes in, Still I will say

Blessed be the name of the Lord”

Stop! Gus wanted to stop. He looked around at his fellow congregants who were singing on auto-pilot a song they had sung many times before. Are you listening to the lyrics, he wondered? Do you hear them? When the darkensess closes in? Blessed be the name of the Lord? Do you know how profound that is? His mind was racing as the paradox was repeated in the second verse.

Blessed be your name, when the sun's shining down on me

When the world's all as it should be, Blessed be your name.

Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering

When there's pain in the offering, Blessed be your name.”

There it was again. That paradox. When the world is as it should be. And when there is pain and suffering. Blessed be your name. Both. Gus suddenly understood that paradox on a deep level. He had been walking down the road marked with suffering since the accident that claimed Kurt's young life. Could he bless the Lord's name on that road? He was still reeling from this thought when the song leader segued into the old hymn “It is Well With My Soul”.

“When peace like a river attendeth my soul

When sorrows like sea billows roll

Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say

it is well, it is well, with my soul”

There it is again! The same paradox. Had he missed it all these years? When sorrows like sea billows roll...Maybe he hadn't been able to relate to that emotion all of the previous times he had sung this song, and he had sung it many times. Is it well with my soul? Can it be well with my soul, ever again? That thought was roiling his mind, alone in the pew, when the song leader began the last song before the sermon.

“Lord prepare me, to be a sanctuary

pure and holy, tried and true

and with thanksgiving, I'll be a living, Sanctuary, for you.”

Tried. That's all he heard out of that song. Pure and holy, no. True? No. With thanksgiving? No. Tried. Yes.

Pastor Samuels took the podium and began his sermon. Gus knew from experience that it would be a half hour long or so, and that the pastor would pace the platform with the freedom of the mobile wireless microphone. He had a bit of standup comedian in him, and could often sprinkle jokes into his message as most good pastors could. But not on this Sunday morning. It took Gus a few minutes to finish processing the worship songs that they had just sung, and how they had spoken to him, and to tune into the pastor's message. He realized that Rev. Samuels was preaching a heartfelt message on the pain in the congregation. He had conducted a funeral yesterday for a long time member of the congregation, and he offered comfort to a bereaved family. Another member had lost his father as well. Others were in the midst of job loss or family members in the hospital. The pastor was speaking personally to many of the two hundred silent people in the sanctuary. Recognizing their loss. Walking from family to family as he addressed their need. He passed by Gus and squeezed his shoulder on the way back to the platform, and Gus was touched by the gesture.

Verse after verse on the overhead projector illustrated the message. And before he knew it, Psalm 34:18 was up on the screen.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Gus reflexively reached up and touched where his tattoo was now, as he scrutinized the pastor. Did he know? Was he directing this message at me, he wondered? It seemed tailored. Pointed. A direct hit.

“Many of you will read that verse and capitalize parts of it in your mind. It goes like this. The Lord is close to the BROKENHEARTED, and saves those who are CRUSHED IN SPIRIT. Let me just say that I empathize with that reading of this verse. I do. But, my friends, let me suggest an alternate reading of that verse.” As the slide changed, pastor said “Read it with me like this instead: The Lord is CLOSE to the brokenhearted, and SAVES those who are crushed in spirit. Again, and with the reference: Psalm 34:18 The Lord is CLOSE to the brokenhearted, and SAVES those who are crushed in spirit. Now doesn't that make a difference in your understanding?”

Gus stared at the screen, and the verse that he felt was meant for him. Was that possible? The Lord CLOSE? He didn't feel close.

“That is not an empty promise, I assure you, loved ones. The Lord our God has not left you alone in your suffering. For those of you – as we sang – walking in the desert place, for those of you for whom sea billows roll, the Lord has sent you a comforter. I'm talking about the third person of the Trinity. The Holy Spirit. Jesus, in his last days, prayed for this for you, saying”
 

I will ask the Father, and he will give you another helper that he may be with you forever; that is the Spirit of Truth whom the world cannot receive because it does not see him or know him, but you know him because he abides with you and will be in you.

Pastor Samuels motioned for his song leader to rejoin him on the platform. “Let's sing that chorus again. Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary. And as you are signing it, know that the altar is open for prayer. Come and pray, now as we sing, and leave that suffering here at the altar. Talk to the Lord, and ask that the comforter come and comfort you. You know who you are. The Lord is speaking to you now. Come and pray. Let's sing...”

Gus stood without thinking, feeling the calling on his heart, and walked down front to kneel at the altar. Kneeling, alone, he prayed. “Lord, thank you for your tender mercy in my life. Thank you for caring for my wife, when I was not able – in my own selfish grief – to care for her. Thank you for Mark, and bless them both where they are together. Thank you for the time that we had with Kurt. I'm in the desert place, Lord, but I leave him here on the altar with you and thank you for the gift of his life. Be close to me in my brokenhearted spirit. Send the comforter in my need, I pray.”
 

Gus felt emptied, and uplifted both. He paused to listen to the pastor and the congregation sing “Lord prepare me, to be a Sanctuary....” and wiped his eyes with tissues from the box under the altar rail. He realized that he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned back to find Carlo, who had left the platform and was kneeling in prayer behind him. “Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”