The Terrorist Plot at Gopherville

By Steve Bartholomew

They say Bradshaw's crazy just because he talks to his cat and eats roadkill. They say that's why he was kicked out of MIT. He knows better, but he's not saying. Now he's come across a Government secret, a super weapon. Who can he trust to share it with? There are all these agents running around looking for it. To make matters worse a beautiful woman turns up seeking revenge. Now even the Sheriff is worried and there are rumors the President himself might be coming to calm the hysteria. This whole thing could be embarrassing. Take a look inside these pages and see what a tangled web we weave!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Gopher Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215853580

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Chapter the First

the

Dead Body

Bradshaw was on his usual early morning search for road kill when he found the wreck. 

It was a lovely spring morning, with plants about to blossom and deer running in the woods.  Only two days before, Bradshaw had found a treasure, enough meat to keep him fed for weeks.  It was a young doe, not fully grown, small enough to carry home on his shoulders in one piece, but with plenty of fat.  The guts he had fed to Melchizidek the Cat.  The hide he had stretched out and scraped dry for tanning; the meat that he couldn’t consume in a day or two was slow-smoked over charcoal.  All in all, a profitable and honest day’s work.  Oh, of course Bradshaw knew that eating road kill was technically against the law.  But then, so were a lot of other things.  And there weren’t many cops in this part of the woods.  This road was remote enough so there wasn’t much traffic, but people drove fast on it, especially tourists headed for ski lifts.  Bradshaw patrolled the road for a mile or two every three or four days.  There was hardly a time he didn’t find something edible.  Certainly, he preferred to take stuff before the buzzards found it, which was why he got out before dawn.  In the winter he didn’t find as many animals, but what he did find lasted longer. 

And then, he often ran across stuff besides edibles.  Every now and then, something good would fall off a truck, or somebody would drop something out a car window.  Over time, he had constructed a whole other room on his cabin with lumber he’d found on the road, pieces of plywood, two-by-fours, even sheet-rock.  Early on a spring day, on a country road, you just never know what you’ll find. 

This was Tuesday, or at least he thought so, he didn’t really keep track.  When he came around the bend at the bottom of the hill, he saw the wrecked car.  This wasn’t the first time he had encountered wrecks.  Usually they were just fender-benders.  People drove fast on this road.  Two years before, he had saved the lives of a couple tourists by riding his bicycle into town to call an ambulance. 

This was the first time he had found someone dead. 

There was only one vehicle: a late model BMW, piled up against a tree.  The front end didn’t look too bad, in fact hardly dented.  But as Bradshaw came up around the driver’s side, he saw the dead driver.  He was sitting up straight, head back, hands in his lap, eyes wide open.  There was blood all over.  Bradshaw noticed the collapsed air bag in the man’s lap.  He wondered what had caused all the damage.  Then he noticed the bullet holes in the door. 

Bradshaw looked all around, taking his time.  There were bullet holes in the side, and several in the roof.  One of them had gone down through the roof of the car into the man’s head.  Strange.  He tried the car door:  It opened, unlocked.  The man was middle aged, wearing a sport coat, slacks, no tie.  Good quality clothes, expensive shoes.  Bradshaw went through the man’s pockets.  The only thing he found was a wallet.  It contained several credit cards, a driver’s license, some cash.  Bradshaw pocketed the cash without bothering to count it. 

Don’t guess you’ll be needing that, he remarked.  The license said the man’s name was Mark Tiller.  There was one other item – a blue card laminated in plastic with Tiller’s picture and fingerprint.  It identified him as an employee of some outfit called Faustus Laboratories, Inc.  The card had a magnetic strip down one edge.  Bradshaw put the wallet, minus cash, back in Tiller’s pocket.

That you, Oscar? he said, having just heard a familiar clearing of throat behind him.  He turned around.  Oscar was standing there watching him.  Oscar rarely spoke, unless he had something really important to say.

Oscar was a gnome.  He usually wore brown-colored bib overalls and work boots.  His black beard hung to his waist.  Sometimes he carried a hammer or a pick.  One day he had followed Bradshaw home from the old mine shaft up in the hills.  He had been hanging around ever since.  His head came up to about Bradshaw’s chest. 

Tell you what we’re going to do, Bradshaw said.  There’s no point in getting the Sheriff all upset about this.  But this fellow does deserve a decent burial.  So we’re gonna go on back to the cabin and fetch Bozo.  Bozo was the mule. 

"We’re gonna take this poor fella up on top of the hill and bury him right.  I’ll even make him a little head stone that will say, ‘Mark Tiller, RIP.’  How’s that sound? 

"But before I do that, I’m gonna bring Bozo back here, hitch up the car, and tow it on up to the barn.  You know that Mr Samuel Goody, down in town?  No, I forgot, you hardly ever go in town.  Anyhow, Sam buys good used auto parts from me, stuff I find on the road.  I bet he gives me twenty bucks easy for the stereo.  I think I can get ten for just the ignition module.  I’m gonna take that vehicle apart and sell her one piece at a time.  No point in letting her go to waste, is there?  Why, I can winch out the engine block and have Bozo haul that into town on the donkey cart. 

Now, don’t go giving me that look.  It’s not like I’m greedy for money.  I don’t even need money.  Do I ever buy anything, except clothes at the thrift store now and then?  And maybe some books.  It’s not the money, it’s just I hate to see things go to waste, and you never know...  Oh, forget it.

Oscar was silently shaking his head.  Bradshaw noticed something else just then.  A small black object sticking out from under the driver’s seat.  He reached down and picked it up, just as he heard the sound. 

Uh-oh.  He knew that sound.  A distant clop-clop sound.  Helicopter. 

Better make ourselves scarce, he said to Oscar, but the gnome had already vanished.  Bradshaw tucked the black object under his arm and slipped into the woods.  He didn’t go far, merely climbing the hillside a ways, until he could conceal himself behind a bush and observe without being seen. 

The helicopter came down in the road, in a wide space not far from the wrecked car.  The chopper was black and unmarked.  Two men got out; they both wore black suits and mirror sunglasses.  One of them shouted to the other, across the road:

Are you sure they got this road shut down? 

Sheriff swears to it, the other answered.  There’s not much traffic this time of year anyway.  Nobody’s been here.

After that, the two men stood closer to each other.  If they said anything, Bradshaw couldn’t hear.  They messed around the wrecked car for awhile, apparently looking for something.  They even pulled out the back seat. 

After a few minutes, a tow truck pulled in.  It was the regular AAA truck that Bradshaw recognized as belonging to Sam Goody. 

Well, not much point in hanging around, Bradshaw said.  He said that to Oscar, but Oscar seemed to be gone.  Bradshaw wasn’t quite sure.  Sometimes he could see Oscar only out of the corner of his eyes.  He shrugged and started up the hill.

ONE OF THE MEN FROM the helicopter was named Carl.  He spoke in low tones so the tow truck driver wouldn't overhear. 

I still don't see why you couldn't land last night.  We woulda been home by now.

The other man was named Jim.  At least that was the name he used. 

I explained that, he said.  If I hit an overhead wire or a tree branch in the dark, that's all she wrote.

Carl glanced overhead.

I don't see no overhead wires.

'Yeah, well I didn't know that in the dark.  Wires don't always show up in landing lights.  Look, I'm the pilot, you're the shooter.  You stick to your job, let me do mine, okay?"

Carl got a body bag out of the chopper; Jim helped him zip up the victim. 

The item isn't here.  Somebody might have grabbed it before we got here.

No way, Jim snorted.  There's nobody out here.  Not another house in twenty miles, I checked the database.  We had this road closed five minutes after the hit.  Road blocks at each end, nobody came in or out.  He must have concealed the item somewhere in the car, maybe inside the gas tank or something.  We'll find it.

Wonder what's so important about it anyway?  They loaded the body into the cargo compartment of the helicopter. 

The item? Jim said.  Hey, if I told you that, I'd have to kill you.  I always wanted to say that.  Damn if I know, don't care, don't wanna know.  Faustus Labs and Homeland Security both want it back real bad, that's all I know.  They'll find it, they'll take the car apart one bolt at a time till they do.  Go, take off now.  I'm riding back with the tow truck so I can keep an eye on things.

BRADSHAW MADE HIS WAY up a concealed deer trail that crossed a path that led up to his barn.  He made sure Bozo was happy, then walked around a bit to make sure the critters were not getting into his vegetable garden.  Then he went inside his cabin.  The cabin had begun life long ago as an Airstream trailer.  Then Bradshaw had got hold of some lumber and built a room attached to the front door.  Then, later he had built a bigger room onto that one.  This room he called his study, or den.  With a wood-burning stove, it was the warmest room during the winter.  Bradshaw had figured out how to use old newspapers soaked in baking soda as insulation.  He was currently working on yet another room, unattached to the others.  He was beginning to think of the place as more of a rambling mansion than a cabin. 

Bradshaw went into the study, tossing the thing he'd found in the wreck onto his dining table/desk. 

Melchizidek was curled atop a bookcase, his favorite perch.  He said, You went off and forgot my breakfast again, Brad.

Everyone who knew him never called him anything but Brad.  His real name was Dr Thomas Aloysius Bradshaw III.  Not many knew his first name, and hardly any the Doctor part. 

I know, I know, he said to the cat.  Give me a break, nobody's perfect.  Matter of fact, I'm hungry myself.  How about some of that good leftover squirrel stew?  Hey, don't complain, if you were living in town you'd be getting canned Kitty Feast every day.

Yum, Melchizidek said. 

The stew still smelled edible, so Bradshaw fired up some wood in the stove and put a kettle on to simmer.  While it was heating, he told Melchizidek all about what he had seen that morning. 

I don't hear any more helicopters, so that's good.  Maybe everything will get back to normal.  Tomorrow I'll go look for fresh road kill again.

As long as I don't have to start hunting and gathering for the both of us, the cat remarked.  You'd gobble up more mousies than I could catch in a week.

Well, I never had much taste for mousies or small birds, but I see your point.

They ate in relative silence.  Melchizidek never liked conversation during a meal, and Bradshaw preferred reading.  He was reading Plutarch again.  There were book shelves all along one wall of the den.  Most of the books were old, ones he liked to read over and over again.  There were also two or three library books, overdue as usual. 

Bradshaw gazed out the window and chuckled at something he'd just read in Plutarch.  He wondered where Oscar had gone.  Maybe back to the mine.  He didn't like it when other people were about.  At least not most people. 

Bradshaw pushed his plate away. 

I'll wash the dishes later, he told his cat.  After you lick them.  Then he noticed the item lying on the other side of the table.  He'd forgotten all about it.  Now he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. 

It was similar to a wallet, but made of black vinyl, with an airtight flap.  On the outside was a white logo with the word Faustus in a circle.  Bradshaw pulled open the flap and examined  the wallet's contents. 

There was only one thing inside, a shiny plastic disk which he recognized as a  DVD ROM.  Actually, it said that on the label.  Handwritten above that were the words, Project Emperor.  Bradshaw examined the disk carefully, admiring the way light reflected like a rainbow.  Then he replaced it in the envelope. 

We'll have to check this out tomorrow, he told the cat.  Today we got too many chores.

Now, anyone meeting Bradshaw for the first time might have leaped to a number of mistaken conclusions.  One of them might have been that he was anti-technology.  That wasn't it at all.  It was just that over time, he'd found he had less and less use for it.  Years ago, he'd discovered what a waste of time radio and television are.  He didn't have much use for electric lights, because he preferred to go to bed early and get up at dawn.  There were no power lines out here anyway.  Bradshaw just liked his peace and quiet. 

Another wrong impression might have been that Bradshaw was poor.  It was just that he didn't think much about money, didn't have much use for it.  He still chuckled to himself at remembering the time that social worker had come out to visit him.  Nice enough fella, he was.  Well dressed, too.  He explained to Bradshaw that he was involved in a County anti-poverty program that was getting a lot of money from the Government. 

Now, for example, he said, we have this free food program.  We could deliver groceries right to your doorstep every week.  You wouldn't have to rely on eating road...

What sort of groceries, exactly?  Bradshaw asked.

The young man smiled, prepared for the question.  He even had a printed list.

Why, you could get Cheerios or oat meal for breakfast, cholesterol-free egg substitute, pre-cooked bacon, frozen tv dinners, ice cream...

I don't have a freezer.

Hey, no problem.  I can get you a grant for a gas-powered frig.  We might even be able to get the power company to run a line out here...

The young man had mentioned that to qualify, Bradshaw only needed to have a low income and not more than five hundred dollars in the bank.

Don't have no bank accounts, to speak of Bradshaw said. 

Excellent.  The young man had begun enumerating additional benefits he might bring to Bradshaw's life. 

That's a nice suit you're wearing, Bradshaw interrupted.  The young man grinned, obviously pleased.

Why thanks.  I like to dress well, it shows respect for my clients, you see.  We could also give you a clothing grant...

How much did that suit set you back, if you don't mind my asking?

The young man brushed imaginary lint from a sleeve of his jacket. 

Well, as a matter of fact, I don't like to mention that sort of thing...

You're just about my size, Bradshaw said.  I'll give you one thousand dollars for it.

"Excuse me?"

One grand, a thousand bucks.  I'll lend you a pair of overalls you can wear back to town.  Deal?

Bradshaw