“That should be the South Fork of the Potomac. Our cutoff is a mile and a half due west of the bridge.”
The Huey dropped another 500 feet, and it was Thomas who first spotted the narrow, dirt road they were looking for. With a slight adjustment to the cyclic, the pilot turned the helicopter in a southerly direction, expertly keeping the tree-lined road in sight.
Thomas reached into his zippered pocket and removed the directions he had scrawled back in Winchester. “Our next landmark is an abandoned logging camp that’s approximately three miles south of the highway cutoff.”
Thick stands of pine forced them to descend even more. They were practically skimming the tops of the trees, and even then the dirt road was proving difficult to follow.
Thomas found it hard to believe that only a few hours ago he was back in the familiar confines of BATF headquarters. The utter importance of their case was emphasized when McShane ordered Thomas to personally conduct the interview at the Winchester Post Office. In no way did he want to risk a leak by bringing in any more people than was necessary.
Unfortunately the investigation took a frustrating turn when he learned that the clerk they were seeking was off duty for the rest of the week, thus necessitating this flight into the Alleghenys.
“I believe we just passed over a structure of some sort,” observed the copilot.
Thomas reached out to steady himself as the Huey initiated a tight, banked turn. It took a low-level hover to spot the collection of ramshackle buildings that had caught the copilot’s attention.
At the western edge of the compound, barely visible through the swaying treetops, another dirt road was spotted. This one extended straight up into the foothills. Because of a recent logging operation, it proved a bit easier to follow. They roared over a sharp ridge, and it was on the slopes of the next valley that a rising column of smoke was sighted.
“That should be the place!” exclaimed the pilot.
The log cabin from whose stone chimney the smoke poured, turned out to be a solid, well-built structure, constructed primarily of native timber. A nearby clearing provided just enough space for the Huey to land. As the helicopter’s rotors ground to a halt, the sounds of the surrounding forest gradually replaced its racket.
Thomas and Galloway hurried over to the cabin, but their knocks went unanswered, and as they swung open the unlocked door, it was obvious the resident was not there. The furnishings were spartan and for the most part hand-carved out of pine. What few personal belongings that were present were neatly displayed with exact precision.
A clean setting of aluminum flatware was arranged on the kitchen table.
The remnants of a charred log smoldered in the fireplace. On the flagstone hearth sat a chipped, enameled coffee pot.
A workbench held a steel vise. Mounted in its grasp was a partially crafted dry fly. Yet more fishing gear was stored on an adjoining shelf, where Galloway discovered a worn, brown leather U. S. Postal Service pouch.
“This is the place all right,” he commented while holding up the pouch for Thomas to see. “Now the million dollar question is, where the hell is he?”
“My money says that he’s out catching dinner,” offered Thomas.
“As we were touching down, I noticed a stream to the north of us. If it’s big enough to hold fish, that’s where we’ll find him.”
A ten-minute hike through the woods took them to the banks of the stream. The distinctive bubbling surge of white water rose to an almost deafening intensity, all but swallowing the other sounds of the forest.
Thomas had to practically shout to direct the flight crew downstream by radio, while Mike and he began their search in the opposite direction.
It was rough going at first, though Thomas took heart when he glimpsed a dragon fly disappear into the mouth of a fish occupying the depths of a pool they were passing.
A terraced set of rapids led them to a wide, slower moving portion of the stream. It was here they spotted a single fisherman in waders, standing in the midst of the channel. His back was turned to them, his attention locked on one particular pool that he was working with his fly rod.
Thomas watched as he swung his long, flexible rod overhead, then snapped it forward with a smooth sweep of his arm. A snaking coil of light green, floating line shot through the air, with his dry fly landing in the center of the pool a good twenty yards distant.
“Hello!” cried Thomas as the fisherman prepared for another cast.
He had to repeat this greeting three more times with ever increasing volume, before finally getting the fisherman’s attention. Needless to say, the poor fellow looked startled as he turned around and saw the two coverall clad strangers.
“Mr. Lion?” questioned Galloway while groping in his pocket for his identification card.
“That’s me,” answered the fisherman. “Now who the hell wants to know?”
“We’re federal agents, sir,” Thomas replied.
“Postmaster Leachman told us where to find you,” added Galloway.
This revelation helped ease the fisherman’s apprehensions. Any further doubts were dashed the moment he stepped out of the water and examined their laminated credentials.
“Sorry to bother you like this,” said Thomas.
“Don’t worry about it, Special Agent,” returned the postal clerk. “You guys just gave me a start. I don’t get many visitors up here.”
Thomas smiled. “I can imagine. It sure is beautiful in these hills.”
The clerk all but ignored this remark, his expression tightening with concern. “For you to come all this way, it really must be serious. Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“It’s nothing like that,” returned Galloway. “We need your help with an investigation that we’re conducting. It has nothing to do with any wrongdoing on your part.”
The clerk exhaled a relieved sigh, and reached into the stream to pull out a creel holding three fat brook trout. “I’ve just about got my limit. If you don’t mind, how about discussing this matter of yours over some hot joe back at the cabin?”
Thomas waited until they were settled in front of the blazing fireplace with mugs of coffee in hand, before pulling out the Express Mail address label. The clerk examined it, then spoke confidently.
“Not only are those my initials, but I remember clear as day processing that particular parcel. It was right at closing, and I was already totaling up my cash drawer, when in walked that inevitable last-minute customer. I intended to get rid of whoever it was with all due haste.
But two things about this piece of mail gave me reason to pause.
“First off, intrastate Express Mail packages are rare, especially in places like Winchester. I mean, why spend the big bucks, when a couple of First Class stamps will get your envelope to D. C. in about the same time?
“Then there was the address. We had just been briefed to be on the lookout for any suspicious mail being directed to the White House. Then again, the director of the atf. isn’t quite the President, and my initial impression was that she was an atf. agent herself.”
“She?” repeated Thomas, who had mentally pictured their suspect to be a male.
“You bet,” said the clerk with a nod. “She gave me a twenty, and while I counted back the change, I made it a point to check her out. She was about five-feet, six-inches tall, one hundred and twenty pounds, and looked to be in her mid-thirties. It was hard to tell because of the wire rim sunglasses that covered a good part of her face. Her hair was the color of sun-bleached straw, and she wore it in a long braid that extended to the waist of her camouflage BDU jacket.
“It was as she was leaving that I saw she was wearing matching pants, with the cuffs tucked into shiny black paratrooper boots. That’s when I figured that she was retired military. If you don’t mind me asking, what did she do?”