“We’ll have to keep that in mind.”
Having said that, Begley requested some “quiet time.” As Hoot was pulling the door closed, he saw the SAC reaching for his Bible.
In the anteroom, Hoot ignored Burton’s jaundiced glance and asked the dispatcher for a working telephone line. He placed a call to Perkins in Charlotte but got his voice mail. In a succinct message, he told his associate about the power outage and the unreliable cellular service.
“If you can’t reach me by phone here at the police station, call my pager and punch in three, three, three. That’ll signal me to check my laptop for an e-mail.”
As he was hanging up, Wes Hamer came in carrying a box full of wrapped sandwiches. But lunch was superseded by his news of what was being broadcast over local
radio. Hoot said, “You can’t be serious.”
“As death and taxes,” Wes said somberly. “Want me to drive over and tell them to cool it?”
“The horse is out of the barn,” Dutch said, answering for Hoot. “Won’t do any good to close the door now.”
To Hoot’s mind, Burton didn’t appear to be too upset over the untimely broadcast of Tierney’s name. In fact, he seemed secretly pleased. SAC Begley, by contrast, was going to go ballistic, and it was Hoot’s misfortune to be the one who had to inform him of the fiasco.
He got as many details as he felt were necessary, then left the others with the sandwiches and went down the hall to the private office. He knocked lightly on the closed door. “Sir?”
“Come in, Hoot.” Begley finished reading a passage of scripture, then closed his large Bible and waved Hoot inside. “Is lunch here? I’m starving.”
Hoot closed the door. Wasting no words on a preamble, he gave Begley the news straight out.
The SAC banged his fist on the desk and surged to his feet. He spattered the walls with shouted obscenities. Hoot remained judiciously silent until the eruption had subsided to a slow boil. “Sir, the only good thing is that the station’s listening audience is small, and only those who have battery-operated radios are tuned in today.”
Hoot recounted the information he’d gotten from Dutch and Wes. “The two deejays—for lack of a better word—are local men. They retired from the forestry service a few years ago and, for something to do, began broadcasting a local news program, like a community bulletin board, each Saturday morning. It went over well and was expanded to seven days a week. They’re on the air from six A.M. till six P.M., and most of their programming is chatter.”
“They enjoy the sound of their own voices.”
“Evidently. They play music, mostly country, and give weather reports and news, but basically they’re glorified gossips. It’s a very unsophisticated operation. They broadcast from a room in the Elks’ lodge, but they have an emergency generator, so they’ve been able to stay on the air in spite of the power outage.”
Begley rounded Dutch’s desk, grinding his fist into his other palm. “If I ever find out who leaked the story to these loudmouths, I’m going to kick his ass so high, he’ll be farting out his ears.”
Hoot could think of no appropriate response to that, so he waited several seconds before speaking. “I don’t believe we’ll ever know who the culprit was, sir. It could have been any number of people.”
“Well, whoever it was, he shot our discretion all to hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
Begley’s frown deepened. “Hoot, we’ve got to make damn certain we get to Tierney before anybody else does.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Grab a sandwich, then call the Charlotte office and order a chopper.” Jabbing the space between them with his index finger, he said, “I want a helicopter and rescue team up here, and I mean A-fucking-Sap.”
Hoot glanced out the window.
“I know, I know,” Begley muttered irritably. “But I want a chopper here as soon as one can fly through this shit. Got it?”
“Got it, sir.”
Begley headed for the door, then paused. “And, Hoot, keep all your communiqués with the Charlotte office private. The less the folks around here know about our plans, the better.”
“Even the police?”
Begley opened the door and said out the side of his mouth, “Especially the police.”
• • •