Chapter 20
I obeyed. There was nothing else for me to do but obey.
How did someone sneak up behind me so quietly? My climb up had been noisy enough to wake the dead. I must have been so involved in my digging that I simply did not hear this man approach.
Then I heard voices up on top of the ridge. I couldn’t see them yet. I considered calling to them for help. The man behind me must have sensed my thoughts since the circular cold object pressed deeper into my neck. “Shhhh,” he commanded. Several seconds ticked by, and gradually the voices faded as they passed by. The pressure on my neck subsided.
The metal object left my neck, and the voice behind me said, almost chuckling, “You’re a lucky son of a bitch. Just saved your hide.”
I turned around to look at the man, but all I saw was his back as he retreated diagonally, almost silently, down the slope, taking long balanced strides. He was tall and lean. His coat and pants looked grimy, and long gray disheveled hair ran in tangled mats from under his hat and over his collar. He wore gloves and held a rifle in one hand down by his side. In the other, he clasped a dead bird by the legs. I didn’t know if hunting was permitted in the National Forest and what game would be in season. I wasn’t about to challenge him on those points.
He didn’t seem dangerous. He had the drop on me, but didn’t press his advantage. I quickly kicked rocks and loose dirt back into the hole I’d started, stomped it smooth with my boots, and covered it with pine needles and small branches. Then I noisily followed him down the hill. He probably had more information about what was inside the fence than I would get from my futile attempt to tunnel in. Yesterday, I had yearned for more resources to help with my investigation. Perhaps he was it, coming by a most unexpected turn of events.
He showed no sign of slowing down and strode right over the barbed wire fence as I hustled to catch up to him.
“Wait up,” I called.
He stopped and turned to face me. The long tangled hair hung down all around so that only the middle of his face was exposed. His face had a long graying beard and mustache to match. He looked like an old mountain man who had not seen civilization in years. He was dressed in baggy coveralls, an unbuttoned camouflage jacket, and a hat on which were printed the three letters NRA, the acronym for National Rifleman’s Association. His crinkled face and graying hair suggested he must be at least 60.
He grinned, and I expected to see gaps in his teeth, considering his lack of external hygiene. But his teeth were all present and accounted for. They were somewhat stained with age, but otherwise straight and apparently well cared for. What struck me the most, though, were his eyes. They were too wide open, like they were bulging from their sockets. It gave him the appearance of permanent surprise or wonder. He looked at me, but seemed to be focusing somewhere else.
While it was unnerving to gaze at this guy, I didn’t feel threatened. He stared in my direction with those bulging unblinking eyes. There were clearly some loose connections here, but there seemed to be nothing to fear.
“You said you saved my hide. What did you mean by that?”
He had a look of disbelief on his face, and his rising tone carried a note of surprise. “You’re out here and you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“You don’t know what going on?” His voice grew louder, and those bulging eyes incredibly popped out from their sockets even further.
“No, I don’t,” I said. Calmly I urged him, “Please tell me.”
He looked all around as if to ensure we were not being watched and then leaned in close, speaking so softly it came out almost as a whisper. “The conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy?”
“Conspiracy,” he said with finality, nodding his head once to confirm it.
This guy was clearly a bit loony. Though, how could I accuse him of that when I myself had also pondered conspiracy as a way to explain what had happened to me on Monarch Trail on Sunday? But this guy had completely bought into the conspiracy concept, though I had no idea what conspiracy he was referring to. I could have disengaged from him right there and walked away. But in spite of his confused state of mind, he probably had knowledge, or at least suspicions, about the valley that I wanted to hear.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Oh, yes, I can. I can tell you about it.”
He stopped there, his eager stare still fixed in my direction. Then he looked all around again as if to ensure we were alone, and continued.
“They sent us home from Nam. But they made a mistake. They still needed us back there to keep fighting the Communists, and they came looking for me. So I’ve been hiding. It must be driving them nuts. They’ve been looking for years and still can’t find me,” he said gleefully.
I didn’t know where this conversation was heading, but it seemed I should let him take it wherever he wanted to. Maybe later I could steer it where I wanted it to go. But there was one thing he needed to hear.
“You don’t have to hide. The Vietnam War is over.”
“That’s what they want me and everyone else to think, so that we’ll come out of hiding. Then they can send us back over there.” After a beat, he warned, “They’ll send you, too.” Then with pride he added, “But they’ll never find me.” He beamed a wide grin.
Here was a Vietnam vet who should have been put under psychiatric care when he returned home from the jungles. But back then, care for mental and post-traumatic stress disorders was sporadic, at best, for returning soldiers. The focus was on the physical wounds that could be easily seen and dealt with by physicians, using bandages, antibiotic, sutures, and splints. The invisible wounds often went undiagnosed.
Many of the vets slipped through the cracks as they tried to re-enter civilian life. Normal social structure had become foreign to many of them after months or years of savage fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia. This guy must have fallen through a very large crack and landed on his head. I wasn’t versed in matters of mental illness, but he clearly needed help adjusting to peacetime, help that was probably decades overdue.
I was almost certain of the answer to my next question, but was hoping that by keeping him talking calmly, I could derive some useful information about the valley from him. “Who are they?”
He looked around again. Satisfied no one else was around, he leaned in to whisper again. “The military establishment.”
“Are they the ones inside the fence, inside the valley?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s them. They’ve gotten close, but they still haven’t found me.” He beamed with pride again.
“How do you know it’s them?”
He giggled. “They think they’re so clever, sneaking around in there. But I see them every day patrolling. They can’t hide what they are. They still act like military, still look like military. I know,” he said, winking one eye and tapping his temple in a show of wisdom, using his left index finger. The dead bird was still in that hand, and it thumped softly against his hair and beard with the movement of that hand. He didn’t seem to notice. I found it comical, yet managed to suppress the urge to laugh at the scene.
Could I really believe anything this guy was saying? I doubted it. He was loony and perhaps unstable. But I decided to press on.
“Besides looking for you and all your comrades from Vietnam, what else are they doing in there?”
He stared at me quizzically as if to say there was nothing more important for them to be doing than trying to find him. So why would there be anything else? When he continued to stare at me blankly, I took a different direction.
“Well, I’m glad you were here to save my hide from them.” I grinned and added, “My name is Nathan Parker. What’s yours?”
He hesitated a long time, considering the possible consequences before finally answering. “If you’re willing to reveal your identity, you’re a brave man. Now they will be looking for you for sure. They alr
eady know who I am.” After a beat, he said, “Jake, Jake Monroe.”
He still had on the gloves and still held the rifle and the dead bird. He made no motion to set any of them aside to extend a hand in greeting. So I just nodded in acknowledgement. “Nice to know you, Jake.”
“They patrol the fence line every thirty minutes. Military precision,” he said with authority.
I didn’t notice a watch on his wrist, so wondered how he kept time to determine the thirty-minute number. But some people seem to have the knack of keeping time in their heads without the need for electronic gadgets.
Jake nodded, turned, and walked away. I didn’t know if his departure was a signal that I had been dismissed. Our conversation was probably more talking than he had done in a long time. Or perhaps he had lots of practice talking to a different audience: himself. He mumbled something as he strode away. No need to be silent now, I supposed. He had already caught his dinner.
I decided to follow him. I wanted to continue the conversation, if he was willing, before he returned to his self-imposed life style.
“Wait up,” I said to him. He didn’t turn to acknowledge me, but did slow down so I could catch up.
“Jake, do the patrols come outside the fence?”
“Oh, yeah.” he said with a maniacal glint in his eyes. “That’s why I had to leave. It’s time for them to come outside the fence looking for me.”
Thanks for telling me, I thought with a scowl. That patrol might have walked right into me.
His pace was picking up again, those long strides forcing me to walk faster than normal to stay close.
“Do these patrols happen every thirty minutes all day long?”
“Oh, yeah. Whenever the sun is up. I watch them every day so I know where they are. Don’t want them to sneak up on me.” He paused, then continued. “Don’t know about night. I don’t like the night. Can’t see. I’m afraid they might have those new goggles.”
I assumed he referred to night vision goggles that allow the wearer to detect infrared radiation, body heat. I didn’t know if those were available during the Vietnam War era, but they certainly were afterwards. He might have heard about them before hiding this far from civilization.
“How long have you been out here?” I asked.
He turned his face toward me and considered an answer. “What year is it?”
“It’s 2009, Jake.”
He abruptly stopped walking and seemed to be calculating the time span, pondering how much of his life had slipped past. “A long time,” was his response, stated with wonder. “I’ve been hiding here a long time.”
He couldn’t recall the year, and I worried each morning about remembering what day of the week it was?
After a few moments, his rapid pace resumed, and I continued to follow. Then he stopped abruptly and turned to face me accusingly. “Are you one of them, out here trying to fool me?” Even with his accusatory language, I didn’t feel threatened. But I also knew that if he was in any way unstable, our interaction might become volatile. So I spoke calmly to defuse the situation.
“No, I’m just out hiking and found the fence. Just curious what’s inside there.”
“Didn’t I already tell you what’s inside?”
“Of course you did. I meant I was curious until you told me.”
That seemed to satisfy him. “You know, that boy and girl who were hiking out here got captured by one of their patrols,” he said.
Boy and girl? Then I remembered. Could it be? Benjamin Moore and Rachael Sterling, the couple who wandered into the woods to couple, got lost, and were rescued by shy good Samaritans. “You mean earlier this summer?”
“Oh, yeah!” he blurted. “I didn’t get here in time to save them. They were probably sent to Vietnam to fight in the jungles. Poor bastards,” he said sadly. “They won’t last long over there.”
So if I could believe what Jake was saying, the shy good Samaritans were these soldiers inside the valley, and they steered the lost Benjamin and Rachael away from their fence line. That would avoid having a search party stumble onto it. They delivered the lost kids back to their car. Then to avoid having to explain themselves, they just melted back into the forest.
“Anybody else captured by them?” I asked.
“Some came close, but I scared them away before the soldiers could capture them.”
“Scared them?”
“They don’t see me. I hide real good. People are scared of animal noises and rustling of the trees. Even grown men go running when I’m through with them,” he said with a large measure of pride. “But it’s for their own good. They don’t know how bad it is in the jungle.”
So again, if I could believe what he said, here might be a reason no one had discovered the fence in the time since it was erected. A confused Vietnam vet was spooking those who came too close. And no one who is spooked in the woods is going to admit that to someone else. That would seem like weakness and wouldn’t be admitted to another soul. Just leave and never return to this area. And for Benjamin and Rachael, who eluded the surveillance shield that Jake secretly manned, they were escorted out anonymously by the guards, who were then cast as Good Samaritans. As for me, I somehow stumbled through his screen and made it all the way to the chain-link fence and was saved from a still unknown fate by Jake.
“Jake, has anyone else seen the fence where you found me?”
“How did you know?” He stared at me with those wide bulging eyes, a look of pleading emanating from them. “Did he get away from them?”
“Who, Jake?”
“The running man,” he stated with admiration. “He escaped before they could send him back to the jungle.”
“Was that just a few days ago?”
“Oh, yeah,” he stated wildly, as if he was rooting for his favorite hero.
“Did he climb over the fence to run away?”
“Oh, yes, he did. Over the fence. Over the river and through the woods.” He was then looking east, as if staring in that direction brought back the image to him more clearly. He asked with deep interest, “Did he get away?”
He had to be referring to the dead man I found on Monarch Trail. It all fit too neatly to be otherwise. Escaping, his clothing slit by the climb over the fence, running, pursued by armed men. But I could not bring myself to tell him how badly it had ended. “Yes, Jake, he got away from them. They can’t send him back to the jungles.”
He seemed pleased with that bit of information, and I detected tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Good,” was all he managed to croak out before clamping his lips shut firmly to suppress any further show of emotion.
“Jake, when did they put up the fence?” I was pretty certain it had been last fall, after the fire, but his confirmation would be helpful to close the loop.
“There was a big battle. It lit up the sky. I thought I was back in the jungle. They couldn’t find me, so they brought the war over here.” He peered in the direction of the fence line. “I hid for three days, and then it was over. It was horrible. They destroyed that valley. Everything was blown up and burned and dead. I can never look at it again.”
The forest fire in the valley was his big battle. I suppose someone who was traumatized by the blast of bombs in the jungle would interpret the orange and yellow glow in the night sky as a return of those bad memories.
“Was that last year?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jake said sadly.
“Is that when they put up the fence?”
He thought about that for a while, and then answered.
“Oh, yeah. They built it so no one would know the truth, you know, about what happened there. They had to hide it.”
That was his interpretation. No one builds a fence like that to hide a forest fire or even a battlefield.
“Who built the fence?”
“They made their prisoners build the fence, all the way around the valley. They worked
them hard and every day and all day.” He paused, then continued sadly. “I couldn’t help them. There were too many soldiers with guns. So I hid and watched.”
“Did the prisoners look like the running man?”
“Oh, yeah.”
So there was a crew of Hispanics all right, but it was not for planting trees. The only reason to have armed guards to build a fence is that the workers were not there voluntarily. They were constructing something secretly, and it had to be kept under complete control.
“How many prisoners were there?”
“Many.”
“Was it ten or twenty?”
“Many. But one of them was a running man, too.”
“You mean one of them escaped when they were building the fence?”
“Oh, yeah. Did he get away?”
“I don’t know, Jake. I hope so. I’ll find out.”
He nodded as if hoping the answer would be yes.
“Jake, I don’t think I’ve yet said thanks for saving my hide. Thanks.”
“Oh, yeah,” was his gleeful response.