The Mission Becomes Clear – Episode #7

December 19, 2009 on 11:17 pm | In Mountain Biking | 5 Comments

I dug through Lipton’s fridge, found two 22-ounce Hop Stoopids from Lagunitas. Decided this was an appropriate beer for the occasion.

I made Lipton give me his keys, led him out to the garage and shoved him into the passenger seat. I got behind the wheel, popped one of the Hop Stoopids for him and headed for Growlers. I was tired of being led around by the nose. It was time for action.

My phone rang.

“I have news,” my web guy said. “Disturbing news.”

“Let me guess. Your mom said you can’t continue to live in her basement.”

“Mom would never do that, not with the holidays coming.”

“Spill it.”

“I was bored, so I decided to take a closer look at Nancy Lou Cozysweet. She’s originally from Mississippi and then Indiana and Texas and Iowa.”

“Okay, so she’s restless. What’s your point?”

“She has a record – and it’s not for unpaid parking tickets. One husband, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a nosy neighbor – all murdered. And guess who was a suspect in each case?”

“Why isn’t she in jail?”

“Two reasons. One, she’s very careful. Two, potential witnesses suddenly decided that they didn’t want to testify. This woman is a psychopath.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Probably figured she could go unnoticed in the mountain biking community when she moved to the Northwest.”

“Consider yourself warned.”

By the time we reached I-5, ice pellets were pecking at the windshield and accumulating on the highway. The weather dorks hadn’t predicted anything other than the usual – cold and rainy. I flipped on Lipton’s radio, heard Glenn Beck’s voice, and spun the dial. Finally found a news report out of Portland. The weather-guesser was saying that “the models had broken down” and – probably as a result of looking out his window - he was now predicting sleet and ice into the evening.

I set up a conference call with Dave and Muldoon. Said Patterson was innocent and that the case had taken a turn. Told them about the the chick in the white shirt and her violent history. Waited while Dave babbled through a long list of obscenities. Let them know they needed to be armed and ready for pick-up.

Dealing with a dolt like Patterson was one thing. Going up against Lizzy Borden was another.

When we got to Growlers, I packed a baseball bat, a .32 caliber handgun, my 30.06 hunting rifle, ammo, a fileting knife, wipes, and a handful of black garbage bags. I filled the tank on the chainsaw and tossed that in the trunk as well. 

When we stopped by the hospital to pick up Dave, there was a stream of traffic going in and out of his office. Nurses, lab techs, office personnel, security guards, and even a couple of patients were carrying water bottles, cups, and flasks. 

We opened the door. More than a dozen people were crowded around a keg in the corner. Lipton found a coffee cup and shoved his way to the front of the line.

Dave was at his computer, checking topo maps and plotting new trail lines.

“Is it any wonder my health care dollars don’t stretch as far as they once did?” I said. “What’s on tap?”

“Homo Erectus from Walking Man,” he said. “Just because the bitch in the white shirt played with my head doesn’t mean we have to let it go to waste.”

“Speaking of the bitch in the white shirt, we are about to pay her a visit.”

Dave reached into the third drawer of his desk and pulled out a Sig 226 semi-auto and an extra clip.

“You’re a hospital executive,” I said. ”You deal with nuns and physicians. Do you really need that?”

“Some of them can be unreasonable,” he said. “This levels the playing field.”

He shooed the crowd out of his office, and we took the elevator down to the parking lot. Lipton was weaving when we got to the car.

“Have you talked to Patterson since the news came out that he was innocent?” Dave said.

“Patterson had an accident,” Lipton blurted.

I reached across the seat and whapped Lipton on the side of the head. “What he means,” I said, ”is that Patterson decided to drive down to the coast and we hope this icy weather doesn’t cause him to have an accident.”

Lipton began rubbing his hands together. ”Out, damn’d spot! Out, I say! Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”

I whacked him on the side of the head again and he stopped.

“What’s with Lipton?” Dave said.

“He watched Macbeth on OPB last night.”

The sleet was getting worse. Cars littered the ditch and the median. I stuck to the slow lane, and we finally made it to Woodland.

Muldoon was standing under the awning of the main office at Peri-Works. He was working his way through a half-rack of PBR, a duffel slung over his shoulder.

He shoved the PBR and the duffel in ahead of him and climbed into the back seat with Dave.

“Is there a body in that bag?” I asked.

“There will be by the time this day is over,” Muldoon said.

He started going through the contents. Pulled out plastic gloves, lead sap, night-vision goggles, a Recon Tanto knife, a Glock auto pistol, and a Browning BAR.

“Anybody need a weapon?”

“I’m good,” I said.

Dave held up the Sig.

“What about you, Lipton?” Muldoon said. “You can’t go in there unarmed.”

“You haven’t seen him operate a chain saw,” I said. “He’ll be fine.”

My cell buzzed.

New message – “There’s bad news and good news,” it read. “The bad news is that I think I have an intestinal infection. My physician has asked me to bring in urine and fecal samples, but I don’t have any specimen bottles. The good news is that I think I just solved that problem.”

A photo was attached.