The End of the Dream by Ann Rule Page A

Scott turned his 1972 red-and-white Ford pickup a truck indistinguishable from any logger’s again and again until they were speeding along some logging road so far off the beaten path that Kevin would never be able to find it again. Scott slowed and pointed to a beat-up sixties’ model Ford van.   A man got out and walked toward them. He was a good twenty-five years older than they were, bald-headed, wiry, almost emaciated, with sweat beaded on his flushed face. He didn’t look particularly menacing, though. He was grinning. “This is Captain Pat, “ Scott introduced the stranger. “He works with me.” Kevin nodded.
    The guy had the twitchy look of a longtime drug addict. Captain Pat gave Scott a package wrapped in a garbage bag and sealed with duct tape.   Scott took it and tucked it down between the truck’s seats as he drove off. When they were some miles away, Scott pulled over and peeled off part of the wrappings. “It was $250,000! “ Kevin recalled. “That man gave Scott a quarter of a million dollars. Scott told me he had a whole network of people working for him. He gave them the crystal meth, and they went out and sold it. Out of Olympia. Up to Seattle. Over to the coast. Even Virginia.” Kevin was amazed.
    Why wouldn’t a druggie with $250,000 in his hands simply have taken off for parts unknown? But this guy had been so proud to give it to Scott.   He sighed, wasn’t that the way everybody felt about Scott wanting to please him and to be part of his inner circle? Kevin had always wondered if Scott was bragging when he had hinted about the scope of his drug business.
    Now, seeing the money, he saw with sickening clarity that Scott had not exaggerated. He was making a fortune. And Kevin knew “Hawk’scott’s contact back in Reston, Virginia, too, he had always figured the guy was a legitimate businessman who was making such a good salary that he could pay for the new house he had custom-built. Now he realized that Hawk had to be part of what was going on in Washington State. Who else might be involved? Scott could be so seductive. Kevin knew that Scott would die for him, they had come close many times before. He also knew that somehow Scott had the ability to corrupt, to ferret out other men’s weaknesses and entice them with money. Something in Scott needed to make others beholden to him. Kevin winced. Now he was beholden. He’d accepted Scott’s offer to pay his mortgage that summer.
    He had accepted Scott’s generosity for their trips to Nicaragua and Xalapa. He wondered what he would owe Scott. They stopped near a beach on the Pacific Ocean and skipped rocks and ate lunch. Kevin could hardly digest his food knowing that Scott had a quarter of a million dollars hidden in the ratty upholstery of the truck. While Kevin had begun tentatively to move toward a more spiritual life, Scott’s journey was just the opposite. It was a reality that ate at Kevin when he allowed himself to think about it, he longed for a return to the world they had once known.
    But once Scott told him about his crystal meth operations, he seemed obsessed with telling his old friend everything about it.
    It was soon apparent that most of Scott’s close coterie of friends knew about his crystal meth business. He was proud of the money that was rolling in. Another friend recalled that one day, Scott climbed the stairs to the treehouse and plunked down a shoebox that had been decorated with buttons, glitter, sequins, and bows.
    “Scott set it down on the table, “ the man recalled. “He lifted the lid and there was more money in there than I’d ever seen in my life.” Scott had another “partner” in the business, apparently a man a half dozen years older than he. Where Captain Pat looked the part of delivery man, the “partner” dressed in three-piece suits with expensive ties. He was a silent contributor, matching Scott dollar for dollar when they purchased the raw materials.
    Apparently this man had ways of