Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [121]
‘‘We’re on him,’’ said Sky One. ‘‘He’s headed west, into the trees . . . and he’s headed right to two heat packs . . . and it looks like they’ve got him . . .’’
‘‘TAC One has one in custody,’’ came another breathless voice.
Clean sweep. We followed Volont into the house.
It was just about a minute and a half since the TAC team had entered the house through just about every ground-floor opening. In that time, ten people were handcuffed, on the floor in the living room, and guarded by three men with H&K MP-5 submachine guns. There were officers in the attic and in the basement. It was very quiet.
The TAC team leader came up, his eyes extraordinarily white as they peered from his black ski mask.
‘‘Sorry about the one from the basement,’’ he said. ‘‘Apparently was just going down there for something when we came in.’’ His wide grin was very apparent in the mouth opening. ‘‘One of our guys thinks he hit him in the back with the kitchen door as he came through, and probably knocked him down the basement steps.’’
Volont turned to Deputy Roberts. ‘‘Which one’s Wittman?’’
Roberts pointed to a rather soft-looking individual in a gold-and-brown-plaid short-sleeved shirt, green wash pants, and crepe-soled shoes. ‘‘Right there.’’
‘‘You want to do the honors?’’ asked Volont.
‘‘I do,’’ I said.
I walked over and squatted down by Wittman. ‘‘Hi,’’ I said. ‘‘How the hell are ya?’’
‘‘Fuck you, kike,’’ he said.
I smiled. ‘‘Not if you were the last Aryan stud on earth, chubby,’’ I whispered. ‘‘My name is Houseman,’’ I said in a normal tone, ‘‘and I’m a deputy sheriff in Nation County. I’m here to charge you with a murder.’’
No response.
‘‘You have the right to remain silent,’’ I said. Not necessary unless we were interrogating him, but always good for the soul. ‘‘Anything you say . . .’’
As soon as I was done, Volont sat down on the couch near Wittman’s head. ‘‘My name’s Volont,’’ he said. ‘‘FBI.’’
‘‘ZOG fuck,’’ said Wittman.
I laughed. ‘‘You’re gonna have to stop readin’ bumper stickers pretty soon,’’ I said.
‘‘I’m arresting you for conspiracy under the federal RICO statute,’’ said Volont.
‘‘YOU ZOG BASTARDS CAN’T DO THAT!’’ roared a voice behind me. I turned and saw a large handcuffed fifty-year-old woman. The only person behind me that I could see.
‘‘Pardon me?’’ I said politely.
‘‘I SAID YOU CAN’T DO THAT!’’
‘‘Boy,’’ I said, ‘‘I wish you’d call me for supper sometime.’’ I grinned at her.
‘‘YOU THINK YOU’RE SO CUTE!’’
‘‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, but we certainly can do this, ma’am. We are doing this, if you’d look around you. You, however, have merely been secured until such time as . . .’’ I noticed the ten or so rifles behind her. ‘‘Until such time as you can be released without endangering anyone.’’ ‘‘Or anyone’s hearing,’’ I said to myself.
‘‘WE’RE GONNA SUE YOU TO DEATH!’’
‘‘Well, I’m sure you’ll try.’’ I smiled at her again. She struck me as being the sort who would fall and claim she had been pushed.
I thought I’d seen rifles as we came in, but on the other side of the room. I looked, and, yes, there were a half dozen there too. All military rifles. All of post-World War II manufacture. No antiques there.
The TAC team leader followed my gaze. ‘‘You ought to see the basement,’’ he said.
Any weapons discovered during the securing of the scene, of course, we were able to seize. Anything else we wanted to look for would have to be found subsequent to obtaining a search warrant. So I said, ‘‘I’d like to see them.’’
The basement was well stocked. I counted sixteen Colt AR-15s, some old, some newer, judging by the forearm stocks and the two styles of flash suppressor at the muzzles. Four M-14s. Two Colt Commandos, which the TAC team leader informed me weren’t ‘‘really worth a shit.’’
Then we spied two I hadn’t seen before.
‘‘What in God’s name are those?’’ I asked.
‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ he said. ‘‘French FA MAS . . . full auto . . . never seen them in this country before.’’
There was a rifle standing isolated from the others in a long rack. ‘‘What’s this, a sniper rifle?