Blood Trail - C. J. Box [64]
“Honest enough?” she said with some heat.
“Struck a nerve, eh?” Joe said, and smiled. “Hey, the light’s green.”
“SO ARE you surprised I’m here?” Stella asked as she swung into the parking garage of the Federal Building.
“Very,” he said.
“Have you ever told anyone about what happened in Jackson?”
“I told Marybeth there was an attraction but nothing happened,” Joe said. “She doesn’t like you very much.”
“Not that,” she said, whacking him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I mean about my relationship with Will Jensen. Does anyone know but you?”
“No,” he said.
“I helped him do what he was incapable of doing at the time.”
“So you say,” Joe said.
She pulled the big SUV into a dark parking space and turned off the motor and handed him the keys. “The governor is assigning this to you until you get your truck back,” she said. “Despite your reputation for destroying government property.”
“What about the state plane?” Joe asked. “I thought it was flying me back.”
“He said he wouldn’t send his worst enemy on that death trap.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t even ask, Joe. That’s what I’ve learned.”
He took the keys from her.
“I really like my new life here,” she said. “I like working for the governor. I’m damned good at my job. This is my second chance in life, and I’d like to leave my past behind me. You’re one of the few who know anything about it.”
“Okay.”
“What I’m asking you is if you’ll let it all go, what happened.”
“I already have,” Joe said.
She let a beat go by. “Do you ever think of me?”
“Only in the past tense,” Joe said.
Her eyes misted, and she wiped at them angrily. “I hate it when I do that. I don’t even mean to,” she said. “There is nothing about you to make me react this way. You are no Will Jensen, that’s for sure.”
Joe nodded. “Agreed. And you’re no Marybeth. Now let’s go see Portenson and get Nate before they close the building on us.”
As they walked to the elevator, she briefly locked his arm in hers, said, “I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, you know.”
As the elevator doors opened, Joe turned to her. “Likewise.”
THE FBI’S MAN on the inside of Klamath Moore’s movement was named Bill Gordon, according to the file handed over to Joe by a reluctant special agent. Gordon was from Lexington, Kentucky. There were three photos of him in the file. The informant was tall and lean with a ponytail, a long nose, and soulful eyes. Joe thought he recognized him from the gathering in front of the county building that morning.
Joe skimmed the documents behind the photo, learning that Gordon had encountered Klamath Moore and a few of his followers on a tract of heavily wooded and undeveloped land outside Lexington two years before when Moore was searching for a good place to set up a camp and hold a rally. Gordon was a solitary, bookish outdoorsman who knew of Moore and his beliefs but didn’t tell Klamath he vehemently disagreed with him. Instead, he shared tales of the Kentucky woods and helped Moore set up a campsite on the shore of a lake. Keeping his inclinations to himself, he stayed around for a small firelight rally where Moore spoke. Once Gordon felt he’d gained Moore’s trust, he visited the FBI office in Lexington and offered to become their informant in exchange for travel expenses and enough compensation to buy a small cabin he had his eye on next to a fine trout stream. The FBI, flush with Homeland Security cash and a new emphasis on domestic counterterrorism, thought it was a good deal all around.
The file contained Gordon’s reports from rallies across the United States and trips to Bath, England, and Tours, France. Joe closed the file, planning on reading later.
“Can you please let Bill Gordon know I’ll be contacting him?” Joe asked the agent, who answered by looking over his shoulder toward the corner office where Portenson sat with his door closed and the blinds half-drawn, trying unsuccessfully to ignore Joe and Stella.
“I’ll have to get permission to do that,” the agent said.
“I’ll need it before I can leave,” Joe said.
The agent got up and approached