"Right back atcha," she said into mine.
I departed for home.
CHAPTER 17
A couple days after their first truck-jacking, Urland and Brenda had better luck. They delivered a truck filled with potash to the farm. (Under John’s instructions, they had parked the first truck, the yellow one, out of sight, up a winding field road, between the trees. It was well hidden, even from the air.) Urland pulled the new truck forward until the potash hopper doors were alongside the large, empty lean-to.
The three co-conspirators, Urland, Brenda and Farris, stumbled over each other trying to construct a potash feeding system to transfer the load from the truck-trailer into three sections of the concrete-floored structure — the three sections farthest from the lab.
The result was utter failure.
Fortunately, when John arrived on the scene, he made short work of the project, designing and installing a more efficient feeding system than any of the other three had thought possible.
After solving the potash unloading dilemma, the splinter cell had no further need for John at the farm, so he left to attend to errands elsewhere.
With John’s potash feeder in place, Farris and the Umbers made fast work of transferring the pink sand from truck to lean-to. The potash now lay in three separate piles inside three of the lean-to’s four bays.
Farris instructed Urland to hide this truck next to the yellow one. Urland complied.
Now, Farris needed to get Urland and Brenda out of his hair. He informed the infidels that, from here on, the advanced chemistry he would be undertaking was very delicate. He could not use their help in or about the lab. Furthermore, their mere presence inside the lab risked contamination of both the chemical processes and themselves.
Urland and Brenda seemed convinced of Farris’s sincere concern. As for Farris, separation from the Umbers would make his work, and his life, immeasurably easier.
When the Umbers departed for the house, Farris knew his first order of business was to test the potash to see exactly what he had. Not all potash is the same.
Based on his test results, Farris knew that the predominant ingredient in this potash was potassium chloride. Other compounds he needed to eliminate before processing the potassium were: an iron compound, a fair amount of sodium nitrate, and some lime. He knew how to remove all of these impurities.
Employing the four burner grill in the smaller lean-to as his mass production facility, he set about doing so on a wholesale basis. Using shovels and pots instead of lab spoons and flasks, he attacked the huge mounds of pink sand. He intended to purify as much of the truckload of potash as possible.
This would take a while. But he had learned patience long ago, at the Madrassa. Hadn’t he already lived among his enemies for more than three years without being allowed to fight?
With resolve and determination born of religious zeal, he set about this first major task.
CHAPTER 18
Ever since hearing of the murderer’s Arab connection and the international call, I hadn’t been able to get terrorism off my mind. I’d spent most of my life thwarting terrorists. I anticipated a terrorist around every corner and in every situation. Maybe I had developed terrorist paranoia. Then again, sometimes a little paranoia can be a good thing.
I needed to gain some perspective. Sitting outside the office in the Pilot, I pushed a button on my cell. I was calling my friend, Terry Red Feather, aka ‘Bull.’
The phone rang twice. Then Bull’s voice came out of my earpiece.
"Yeah?"
"You have won a free lunch for one at Fiesta Mexicana — casual dining in an authentic Mexican atmosphere. This offer is good for the next half hour. You may redeem by meeting me there within that time."
"Important?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"Okay," Bull said.
Click. No need for niceties.
I don’t remember when I first heard Terry called Bull. But the name fit his six-foot-four, 235 pound muscular frame, and his tendency toward stubbornness as well. So I adopted the nickname and had called him by it ever since — probably more than four years now. He didn’t seem to mind.
Bull is a full-blooded Mdewakanton Dakota American Indian. Born on the local Prairie River Reservation, he left his home and family at the age of sixteen to join the army.
At the time, he was required to be at least eighteen to enlist, but documentation of his birth on the reservation was nonexistent. And he was big enough and strong enough, so the army was pleased to have his assistance.
After he left the Rez to ‘be all that he could be,’ Bull’s family and friends heard nothing from him for more than twenty years. Based on Terry’s behavior as a teen, they assumed he had been killed in a knife fight at some bar.
Then one day about eight years ago, he had shown up on the doorstep of his parents’ home on the Rez. By the time of his return, he had become the imposing figure I had come to know.
Bull never told anyone where he had been for twenty years. After a few altercations, folks quit asking. Based on his military knowledge and the way he carried himself, I’d formed my own conclusions. I might ask him for details some day — probably not soon.
Bull didn’t live on the reservation. He owned a recently built, log-style house on a Wisconsin bluff overlooking the Mississippi river valley, together with forty acres of wooded land to spare. A modern day Native.
I drove to the restaurant. It took two minutes — traffic was horrific.
I got us a booth near the back and ordered two Coronas, con limón.
As luck would have it, Bull was in downtown Red Wing when he got my call. I had barely settled into the booth when he appeared around the corner of the restaurant entryway. His massive frame hiked down the aisle between tables toward where I sat — his long black hair somehow blowing in the breeze. I pulled the table closer to my side of the booth to make room. Bull sat down across from me just as the beers arrived.
Speaking in Spanish, I told the waitress that we would need a few minutes before ordering. She nodded and left.
Neither of us said anything at first. I squeezed the lime wedge into my Corona and took a pull, taking care to let the lime float out of the way so the clear yellow beer could flow freely. Silence was comfortable with Bull. There was never a need to speak unless you had something to say.
"Well. Other than tacos, why am I here?" Bull asked presently, following the question with a swallow of Corona.
I leaned over the table and spoke quietly. "I think I’m seeing terrorist ghosts."
"Huh?"
"Here’s the deal. I’ve spent so much of my life chasing terrorists, I think I’m seeing terrorists behind every mystery, even when they may not be there. Does that ever happen to you? Even after all these years?"
" ‘Course. Terrorists ‘til proven otherwise."
He took another pull on his Corona, then rotated the bottle on the table a few revolutions.
"You didn’t drag me down here to shoot the crap about the old days. And you sure as hell aren’t looking for any bullshit psychology from me. What’s buggin’ you?"
I thought for a moment.
"Do you remember the floater they found on the river a few days ago?"
"Dumb question."
"Yeah. Well, it turns out the killer is from Saudi Arabia. He was a graduate assistant agronomist at the U of M Ag Lab where the guy was killed. And the cops have looked, but they can’t locate him."
"Nothing new there." Bull finished his Corona and waved two fingers at the waitress. Dos mas.