Binder - 02 by David Vinjamuri

thugs like the bunch I ran into tonight. They didn’t just follow me; they tried to run me off the road. From what I can tell, they were blind-hired to do the job. It could be someone was worried I was investigating the attack, but since the police and fifty journalists are doing the same thing I don’t know why they’d pick on me. On the other hand, nobody but me is looking for this girl, although it’s hard to imagine why anyone would care. The cheap muscle who attacked me tonight nearly made me miss the signs that someone had been in my room, which makes the whole job look more professional in my book.”
    “Do you have any insights you’d like to share on that?” Nichols asked carefully.
    “Off the record?” I hadn’t been able to call Alpha yet, and I was reluctant to tell an FBI agent something I hadn’t told him. On the other hand, they’d track the signature of the device sooner or later, and telling Nichols directly would establish trust that I might need down the line. I wondered whether Nichols’s job description really gave her the latitude to protect a source. I was counting more on the uniform she’d once worn than the suit she had on at the moment.
    She put down her pen. “Fine.”
    “The man who built that device was trained by the U.S. Army, probably at Fort Bragg.”
    Nichols nodded and I knew that she understood what I meant. “You’re certain?”
    “Pretty sure. The signature’s distinct.”
    “That puts things in a different light,” she said, drumming her fingers on the linoleum tabletop. Her nails were unpolished and cut nearly to the quick, but they still looked manicured.
    “Yes it does. I was lucky I didn’t open that door.”
    “Why didn’t you?”
    “I’m a careful guy.”
    “That’s good, because your actions are being watched. I’d ask that you keep me personally apprised of your progress.”
    “Happy to. I’d value your opinion,” I said and meant it. She moved on, asking me an increasingly specific set of questions about what I’d seen and heard since I’d started looking for Heather Hernandez.
     

12
    Deputy Collins approached me as I stepped out of my car, back in the motel parking lot. The state’s bomb squad had departed, but a few police cruisers and the Sheriff’s SUV lingered in the parking lot.
    “I forgot to tell you. We ran the name of the boyfriend—the one who took your girl away from that commune.” Collins fished a small notepad out of his uniform shirt pocket. “Harmon. Anton Harmon.”
    “You found him?” I asked, feeling a ray of sunshine break through the clouds hanging over my head.
    “There was nothing in our records or the state databases. But we put the query through CODIS and the National Sex Offender Registry and we got a hit. I should have told you earlier,” he admitted.
    “Bombs are distracting.”
    “Harmon served time for a sexual battery charge in Illinois. He’s been in this state for about three years,” Collins said, withdrawing a booking photo from a second envelope. Anton Harmon had straight brown hair and a piercing stare.
    “If he’s in the registry, you must have an address for him, right?”
    “Yes, and that’s where it gets tricky. His residence since 2009 has been in a compound outside of Fayetteville in Fayette County. That’s not too far from Beckley.” Beckley—where Heather had her mail forwarded after leaving CC Farm.
    “A compound? He’s from another commune?”
    Collins shook his head. “No, different story. This compound is the headquarters of the National Front. It’s a white supremacist group.”
    “What? Are you sure this is the same guy?”
    “No, I’m not. We only had the name to work with. But it’s not a common surname locally, so I wouldn’t bet that it’s wrong, either.” Collins scratched his chin. “It would explain why the Feds are involved. The National Front has been linked to hate crimes, illegal guns and drugs. They’re dangerous people and if this girl you’re