Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [137]
The judge issued an order, saying that he had scheduled the habeas corpus hearing for Nola Stritch at 11:30 A.M. on Friday, August 2nd. Because of that, and because her attorney would ‘‘require time to discuss the subject of the hearing with his client prior to the hearing being held,’’ Nola was to be at the Nation County jail by 0800 on Friday. That meant that she would have to leave Cedar Rapids at about 0630. That also meant that the security people would have to be transporting her part of the way in the dark. The judge had also directed the Nation County Sheriff’s Department to do the transporting. We had to call his chambers and remind him that she was a federal prisoner and the U.S. Marshal’s office would be handling that part of it. He agreed, of course, but sounded a little put off. We weren’t supposed to know he ever made a mistake, I guess. Well, he was one of the older judges . . . I get the same way myself.
All in all, I was feeling pretty good about things. Not so good as to let Sue come home, though. Not until this was done. Just to be sure. She wasn’t too happy about it, but was convinced it had to be done. Staying with her mother meant that she’d likely be playing bridge with the ladies. Sue hates bridge.
‘‘You be careful,’’ she said. ‘‘Very, very careful.’’
She had no idea what was happening, none at all. But if you’re married to a Norwegian like me, you just tell him that every once in a while, to make sure he remembers. Can’t hurt.
I went home about 1930, just in time to have missed the first thirty minutes of a good movie on HBO. TV dinner. Pills. To bed at 2300. Dull, dull, dull. I couldn’t even go up to my mother-in-law’s for supper, because if I was being watched, I didn’t want to lead anybody there.
You have to do it that way.
For Wednesday and Thursday, I really didn’t have much to do. So I took Wednesday off, and spent most of it in the basement, working on my model of HMS Victory. Put horses and vangs on the driver boom and gaff. ‘‘Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum.’’ It rained most of the day, hard enough to make me wonder if I should be building a slightly larger boat. Ship.
As I sat there, threading lines through little pulleys, I wondered about the nature of the mission rehearsal that had set this all in motion. We knew that there had been a team in the woods and that they were training for a mission. But, as far as I knew, nobody had ever determined what that mission was. Or why they’d be training for it here, of all places.
Another thing was bothering me. What Volont had said about Gabriel being a soldier and not a criminal. I believed that. Being neither a soldier nor a criminal, I couldn’t speak from either position. But I had talked to a whole hell of a lot more criminals than I had professional soldiers. I did know that there were differences in approach there. I’d read some military history. But how these differences would be applied had me stumped. I was uncomfortable on unfamiliar territory, and that was exactly where I was headed.
Thursday was August 1st. Hotter than hell, and humid again, because of the rain. I spent most of the day in the office, working on our case files. And in air-conditioned comfort. Neither George, Hester, nor Volont were anywhere around, being at their respective offices making arrangements for the next few days. It was nice to have time to gather my thoughts. I did put in a call to Volont, wanting to bring up the question of mission.
About noon, Nichols showed up. He had his people placed where he wanted them, and didn’t think too many locals were the wiser. Two agents in a room at both the motels. Two camping in the park. One had just got a job at Will’s restaurant. One had been placed in the busiest gas station, on the edge of town, as a ‘‘favor.’’ I didn’t ask. One guy on the city street crew, just driving around and looking kind of busy. He