Chapter 19
There were two choices of things to do on Friday night. Andy could either sit in his house anticipating every word in the conversation he would have with Debbie Williams the following morning, visualize every moment he would be with her and play through the experience a thousand different ways. An exercise that, while entertaining to an introverted loner, was really pointless as the real thing always turned out completely different than he envisioned. Or, he could work. Since the deadline was looming and he would be happily missing an entire morning, he thought it best to get some more writing done tonight, adding to a very productive day. He launched the Broadback story and trolled around, fishing for the next scene.
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Appalachian Malady - 8
“Intermodal, huh?” Buddy McCoy said with a big puff of thick white smoke that floated toward the plate glass window overlooking the track where it’s progress was halted and flattened by the invisible barrier.
“Mmhm,” Pena/Broadback replied.
“We run a few trucks,” Buddy said, still not making eye contact.
“Is that right,” Pena/Broadback said politely but without interest.
“I’ve got a little fleet of Freightliner day cabs we use for distribution,” Buddy said.
“Small world,” Pena said. The nonchalant response finally pulled McCoy’s beady eyes away from the track. He stared at Pena straight-faced for a moment before his face broke in to a slight grin.
“Small world. I get it,” he said. “Funny... You know anything about this region? The Appalachians?”
“Not really, no.”
“We’re poor country. Coalmines have played out or been shut down by Uncle Sam and there’s no work. It’s bad. It’s all about creating jobs down there. Jobs.”
“I understand that, believe me.”
Buddy turned again and looked at Pena. The grizzled face of the Sheriff reminded Rance of a pissed-off Tommy Lee Jones, a man with only one expression. Rance got a mental image of a McCoy For Sheriff poster. Matching this face with just about any slogan other than “What are you lookin’ at?” just didn’t quite work. Rance hoped his own face didn’t betray the fun he was having at the expense of the Sheriff’s homely mug.
Rafferty through his hands up and cursed at the end of the race. His horse came in third and while he still won more than he bet, he was never satisfied. He turned to his guests and promptly started his meeting. “Now then, Michael, Buddy runs a few trucks himself,” he began.
Michael/Rance nodded, “The Sheriff was just mentioning that.”
“I was thinking that with your expertise you might be able to help us out. We’d like to expand.”
“I’m not sure about my timing for entering the market, but I would certainly consider any ideas,” Michael/Rance said.
“My problem,” McCoy injected, “is the state lines. I’m fine going in to Indiana; we’ve got a relationship up there. But limited routes really hinder distribution. And now we’ve got this beautiful highway being cut through our damn back yard.”
“And then there’s the whole export market,” Rafferty added.
“Oh yeah,” McCoy said, “We get our containers in to the Great Lakes and up to Canada, or over to Europe, and we’re golden. It’s the future,” he said, rolling the cigar around emotionless lips.
“Well, that’s what we do, as you know... But, if you don’t have permits, I don’t know... Why don’t you just get your own permits?”
“That doesn’t really work for us,” Rafferty said.
“Being a small, rural outfit, like we are, we just sort of fly under the radar. It works fine for the local stuff,” McCoy added.
“Well, I can get the permits, but I’d have to run my own containers. I don’t do that without certain safeguards. That is my name painted on the side, after all.” Pena/Broadback said.
“What are we talking about?”
“Well, I’ve got to know what you’re shipping. I’ve got to see it, touch it. I’ve got to know that what I am transporting is in no way illegal or in violation of any federal transportation statutes. We play by the rules.”
“Well of course,” Rafferty smiled, “that goes without saying.” Rafferty stood and walked over to the dining area where he pulled a box off a shelf and returned to his seat. “Here, have a cracker,” he said, and handed the sealed box to Michael/Rance.
“Oh, no thanks.”
“No, try one, really,” he shook the box.
Michael took the box and opened the lid. He reached in and grabbed a few crackers and pulled them out. He ate two and took a drink of the water that had been served. “Okay, what’s your point,” he said.
“The crackers. That’s our product,” he smiled. “We make six or seven kinds. Pretty good, huh?”
“Crackers?”
Rafferty continued, “Problem is, volume is the name of the game in this business and we can’t compete with the big guys due to distribution. It’s all totally legit, just a small town operation providing jobs by making crackers. It’s a way of giving back, and we could do so much more - with your help.”
The philanthropy angle wasn’t something Rance expected, but he was growing to appreciate his adversary’s intelligence. He inspected another cracker closely before eating several, feigning interest.
“I’m just spitballing here,” Rafferty continued, knowing exactly that this is where he’d been headed the whole time, “But, Michael, what if we brought you in as an investor, showed you the operation, and started small, you know, just regional, maybe a dozen containers. Then, when I-66 is operational, bam, we’re running loads like a commercial laundry. That way you have some time to get up to speed and we can all warm up to the relationship. Down the road we all get a big pay day.”
“Right now we cover seven markets in Kentucky and Indiana; Louisville, Lexington, Bowling Green, Paducah, Indianapolis, Fort Wayne and Bloomington.” McCoy said. “From there jobbers distribute the product. We add a dozen interstate licensed trailers and now we’re looking at whole containers in Chicago, Detroit, Minneapolis, Cincinnati, Nashville...” The edges of McCoy’s mouth curled upward in a sneaky grin turning his eyes into black slits above weathered cheeks.
“Now, if we’re talking about an exclusive national logistics agreement, I’m real interested, ” Michael/Rance said.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Rafferty confirmed. “Buddy, you want to show Mr. Pena the operation, introduce him to some of the wonderful people of Rose Park, Kentucky?”
McCoy nodded and blew three smoke rings to entertain himself.
Rafferty sat back in his chair and studied the light blue Kentucky sky; he had a satisfied smirk that Rance couldn’t wait to wipe off. Michael/Rance and Buddy arranged to meet the following day in Rose Park.
“Harvey’s on 289, can’t miss it,” McCoy said.
Michael/Rance shook hands with the men and left the suite.
“You sure he’ll play ball?” McCoy said after Pena had gone.
“He’s just like us, Buddy. Only younger. He’s hungry. He’ll absolutely play ball. Now,” Rafferty leaned in, changing the subject, “tell me about the other night.”
“I’ve got a bunch of half-dead guards, that’s what happened. And a few others that are busted up bad enough to be off the clock for a long time. Their stories don’t quite jibe, but the gist of it is they followed a car full of guys around town for a while, then, when they stopped them, up past the mine, another car load showed up and knocked the shit out of my men.
“How many?”
“Five, eight, ten. I have no idea. And Wade is in the hospital breathing through a tube, he’s no help.”
“We’re they looking for the garden? They didn’t find anything, did they?”
“Boy’s said they never stopped, so no, I don’t think so… I added some perimeter guards, though, and people are parking up by the shop, so the place looks deserted. I think we’re all right.”
“And you ha
ve no idea who was snooping around?”
“I think it was just locals from up the road wanting to score some pot. They were more prepared for the scuffle than my guys, unfortunately. But it won’t happen that way again, I’ll guaran-damn-ty it.” McCoy said.
Phyllis Lecter’s personal assistant was a young man by the name of Steven Tan. He’d been carrying her bags the whole time she’d been in Washington. A Georgetown pre-law graduate, Tan was known as a sweet, single guy who guarded Lecter’s time like a bulldog. Tami Beatty had an ex-roommate who clerked in the same building as Lecter’s office and knew Tan as an acquaintance on the elevator and at the Starbucks two doors down. Tami reached out to her old roomy to see if she could catch his routine. She did and reported back to Tami. The next morning, Tami Beatty stepped in to the line at Starbucks right behind Steven Tan. He ordered a blended coffee and she ordered a regular drip so she could get it fast. She stood at the door and waited as he picked up his drink and walked passed her out on to the sidewalk. She stepped out behind him, took a few quick steps and jammed a heel in to the sidewalk, breaking her shoe and sending her sprawling to the ground, spilling her coffee, purse and pride. Steven turned as he heard her and saw her fall, coffee splashing at his feet.
“My God, are you alright?” he quickly sat his coffee and briefcase on the ground and came to her aid. “Did you trip?”
Tears welled in Tami’s eyes, she fell on purpose, but it still hurt. Her right knee was scratched and throbbing, skin was peeled from the palm of her hand. “My shoe broke,” she whimpered. Tan helped her to her feet, she was wearing one pump and holding the other, the heel of which had dislodged from the sole.
“Are you alright?” he said again.
“I guess, thanks. I’m just a mess, now,” she tried to gather herself, straightening her dress and blouse.
“Can I get you another coffee?” he offered.
“No, I…” She held the broken pump and looked around at the buildings through watery eyes, “I’ve got to fix this, I don’t have time to go back home.”
“Uh,” he considered what he had in his desk at the office. He thought there might be a small hammer and some picture hanging nails, and probably some tape. “I might have something, yeah... Can you walk okay? I, uh, I work right over there,” he pointed to the State Building.
“I think so,” she said, taking off her other shoe, she limped barefoot at his side.
They took the elevator to the seventh floor where Tan unlocked the door to the outer office of Senator Phyllis Lecter. He held it open for Tami Beatty who stepped inside.
“You work for Senator Lecter?”
“I’m her personal assistant,” he said with pride.
“Awesome,” she replied, limping toward his desk.
“There’s a restroom right over there if you, uh, want to wash up. You should wash that knee,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling. When Tami returned Steven was sitting behind his desk working on the heel of her shoe.
“I don’t know if this is going to work,” he said. He had straightened the small nails that originally held the heel in place and squeezed some glue in the gap before hammering the heel back flush with the sole. He took a hair dryer from a lower desk drawer and plugged it in, blowing hot air on the shoe to dry the glue. “It’s not mine,” he smiled. “Senator keeps it in my desk for emergencies.”
His desk was simply clad with a pen set, and flat screen computer monitor. The credenza behind the desk was clean and neatly organized. Steven sat the shoe on the desk so the glue would continue to set and invited Tami to sit down for a few minutes till it was nice and dry.
“That was a nasty fall,” he said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse.”
“I’m kind of a klutz anyway, but a broken shoe just isn’t fair,” she smiled.
He opened his soft-sided bag and extracted a hand full of file folders and a desktop Daytimer.
“That’s old school,” Tami smiled, looking at the Daytimer.
“I know,” it’s the way she likes it. “I guess she had an early Palm and the battery died or something and she lost a bunch of information. Now she insists that everything is written down,” he mused. “She’ll call me at all hours asking about this or that. I have to keep it with me at all times.” He liked sharing a little inside scoop.
“If you’re on a date or out with friends?”
“At all times,” he laughed at the picture. “It can be a little awkward.” They both chuckled at the image. “I think it’s ready, such as it is,” he said, picking up the shoe.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Tami said. “I don’t know what I would have done, really.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“Listen, I’m usually not this forward, but... Can I buy you a coffee or something, to say thanks?” she said.
“Well, uh, that’s not necessary, really.”
“I want to—please?”
“I guess, sure.” Steven Tan wasn’t used to being asked out. He didn’t really even know any single girls; his last date was the week after the last election, almost two years ago.
“I’m off on Saturday,” she offered.
“Do you know Curious Georgetown?”
“Love it.”
“How about 8:00 am?”
“It’s a date,” she said, taking her shoe and slipping it back on. “Ahh, much better.”
“Be careful with that, it could break again. Probably will.”
“I’ll retire these after work today.” She shook his hand, “You’re a life saver Steven Tan.”
He smiled as she left the office, walking gingerly on her newly refurbished heel and sore knee. He thought about her long after the door had closed. The reporter would have to wait a while to get a look at the date book, but there were plenty of other things to do in the meantime.
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Andy glanced at the clock; it was 11:30 pm. He smiled, realizing that his own coffee date had influenced the story. “An innocent manifestation of the subconscious,” he allowed. He saved his work and ran cold water over his face for a long time. It felt good to be back in his world again after spending most of the day in another. As anxious as he was about meeting Debbie Williams again, the story had drained his brain and he passed into a dreamless sleep seconds after hitting the pillow.
His 70’s rock station blasted from the bedside Wave radio at 8:00 am, waking Andy from a coma with Freddie Mercury shouting, “We will rock you,” at around 100 decibels. Andy levitated momentarily, gasping for air as his eyelids snapped open as if spring-loaded. He turned down the volume as soon as he could focus on what had just happened and discern the source of the rampage. He sat on the side of the bed after he caught his breath as his head spun. The room was silent save Freddie, still screaming, but turned down to a whisper on the volume dial.
‘You got mud on yo’ face - You big disgrace - Kickin’ your can all over the place - Singin’ We will we will rock you - We will we will rock you’
“Great. Of all the songs you could have played this morning...” Andy said to the ceiling; as if God had chosen the song. He stood and scratched his head on the way to the shower while the stomps and claps of the anthem pounded against his scull.
The Daily Grind was pure San Francisco. There was incense and beads and rock-art posters advertising unsigned bands and hole-in-the-wall clubs. None of the furniture matched and most of it had been hand painted with colors that would be at home on a Velvet Elvis. There was a mirror ball, lava lamps and assorted candles burning all hours of the day. Andy sat in a purple velvet Queen Anne chair and draped his coat over a leopard print chair of similar vintage. Debbie arrived a few minutes before 8:00 am, her eyes lit up after they adjusted and gave her a sense of the bohemian spirit of the place.
Andy extended his hand to welcome her and she stepped through it, “I’m really more of a hugger,” she said, catching him totally off guard. She reached around him and leaned against hi
s chest, her hair tickling the underside of his chin. The embrace was brief but the smell of her freshly washed hair and light perfume sent a chill up his spine and made him forget where he was. It was disarming.
“Good morning!” she said, stepping away and shedding her jacket. “I’m so glad this worked out for you, I know you’re busy.”
Andy was still reeling from the hug, but gathered his thoughts as best he could to say something. “No, uh, I… I’m really glad you called. I, uh, I love having a reason to come here.”
“It is unique,” she acknowledged, looking around again. Just over Andy’s head was a bright acrylic painting of the nativity, only with wild animals surrounding Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. She pointed to the orange wall behind him and he turned to look.
“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my,” he said.
“I love it. So…” she turned her attention to the menu whiteboard across the room, “what’s good?”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she studied the menu, biting her bottom lip gently and squinting just enough to make her nose krinkle, drawing her lips into a subconscious smile and exposing a single dimple. He was smitten.
“Cappuccino,” she finally announced. “A big one.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be right back.” Andy left her at the seats to retrieve the drinks. He could feel the hair on his forearms standing nervously underneath his shirt and his he could hear his pulse. He would have a decaf.
Debbie watched him from her seat. He was a gentle giant. She liked him immediately. He was intelligent, witty, honest and pure hearted. She could tell that Andy Boyd was one of those rare finds in a human being. He was kind of guy that you can talk to, one that would be there for you. Andy was the type of person that will stay awake with you when you are scared or hold you when you are tired. She also knew that, if left up to him, they would have never spoken again after dinner at his mother’s house. Chivalry might not be dead, but in the twenty first century, a girl had to know when to speak up. The thought caused her to shrug and quietly forgive herself for being a little forward.
He brought back the coffee and sat her mug down on a three-legged mahogany table that sat between the wild chairs. The mismatched cup and saucer chattered as his nerves threatened again to explode. He managed to keep from spilling any and took his own seat carefully. Andy just smiled, certain that words would fail him if he tried to speak. She noticed and picked up her cup. She brought it to her chin and drank in the aroma, “Mmm, this is wonderful. This is a great place. I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”
“There’s no place quite like it. Well, maybe there is, but some of the real bohemian dives over closer to Haight are a little scary,” he smiled.
“I believe that,” she said. Her eyes were like light blue saucers, taking everything in, both amazed and interested, her brown ‘teachers cut’ hair laid softly against her head with a few dozen strands sticking out like rebels that refused to go quietly. He couldn’t remember anyone so beautiful or so charming. His heart slowed down enough that he was fairly certain he could compose a sentence.
“So why teaching?”
“Mmm, why teaching?” she smiled, sipping against the top of the mug. “Well, I always wanted to write. I keep a journal and wrote some poetry in high school and, I’ve always enjoyed the language—the words and textures and voice. I just love it... Anyway, bottom line, as someone once said—‘those who can, do. While those who can’t, teach.’” She smiled and raised her eyebrows and coffee cup with a shrug.
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” he said.
“You don’t believe the time-tested adage?” she grinned.
“Hm-mm,” he shook his head. “Teaching the language is the hard part. Everyone has a story. Writing it down in a compelling, well-spoken way is where the magic is. You’ve got to learn that, it requires a teacher.”
“And for you?” she said.
“Me? I’m the poster-boy. I had a teacher in high school that believed in me. She pushed me to unlock that little room in my mind where the stories are and then she helped mold them in to something legible after they were out of my head and onto a piece of paper. A good teacher helps make the connection between the writers voice and the readers ear.”
“That’s good,” she said.
“I just made that up,” he smiled. “You’re easy to talk to.”
“I’m glad we met,” she said, leaning forward on to the arm of her chair making Andy feel like the most important person in the world. They talked for an hour about school and her classes and about her life in the Midwest and growing up on a farm. They talked about Andy’s mother and her sense of humor and her strength, about how she raised him in the unforgiving environment of the City and always fought for him. They talked about his mother’s new faith and Debbie tried to explain the dynamic of what happened in her own heart when she had the same experience.
“I was a junior in college, just twenty years old, and I knew everything, right?”
Andy nodded, remembering the days.
“I was a long way from home and way over my head with credit hours in a huge school. I was depressed and home sick and I wanted to quit and go home and just wait tables or something. I was starting my in-school internship, going out to a local middle school three afternoons a week and I realized that I didn’t even like kids that age, and I’m like, ‘What in the world am I doing,’ you know?” she paused for a sip and to shake the memories out of her head.
“So, long story short, I got up one Sunday morning and went to church. I figured I needed answers, direction. What better place to go.”
Andy shrugged and she said, “I know, kind of silly, when I think back. But we had gone to church back home when I was younger, a big imposing Lutheran church built out of stone in the 1800’s. All the Dutch farmers went, kind of part of the lifestyle. Anyway, I hadn’t been for years, so I thought, why not, at least it would be something familiar. Anyway, the first time was okay. But I tell you, after a few weeks I began to feel such a peace in my heart. I actually felt like God was hugging me, I know that sounds crazy... But, in a sense, I felt like He was just loving me and validating the path I’d chosen.”
“Anyway, I made it through school and moved out here and, pretty much from that season of discovery, if you will, back in my junior year, I have felt called to teach high schoolers. I believe God gave me a mission, so to speak. Yeah, teaching high school is my mission,” she said, raising her cup in a kind of toast, and smiling again, this time a large one that pushed her cheeks up, forcing her eyes into little dark lines with a twinkle beneath the surface. The light hitting her rosey cheeks shined like the morning sun.
“That’s amazing, really,” Andy said. He couldn’t resist her passion. She was so honest and confident in her faith, so sure of God’s voice, not questioning His existence or His nature, just believing. He never met anyone like this. “And, you think that is what my mom found?”
“I just know what I experienced, and, she sounds a lot like I did.” Debbie smiled, recounting the days. “I just felt free, like I could fly. Everything seemed to make sense. Even the hard times, as weird as that is... My mother died during my senior year of college...”
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“But, it was strange, like I was equipped, somehow. I got to be with her for a few weeks and I talked to her about God’s love. She had gone to church her whole life but never knew the peace of Christ. When she opened up her life to God’s love and forgiveness it was like she began to glow. Not literally, but, she just had peace. I don’t know how else to explain it. And when she passed it was, I don’t know, it was difficult for all of us, don’t get me wrong, but it was okay at the same time, because she seemed ready to go. If that makes any sense.”
He smiled, “I don’t know if it makes sense or not, to tell you the truth. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my mother. I really can’t. I think it would be the end of the world.”
?
??I know. It felt exactly like that. I guess, for me, Christ brought balance to the experience. Weird, huh?”
“You are pretty amazing,” he said without holding back.
“And getting kind of hungry,” she said with another award winning grin. She hoped she hadn’t gotten over-spiritual with her new friend. She didn’t want to scare him.
“Got time for lunch,” he said, hoping against hope.
“I do if you do.”
They walked out on to the sidewalk, it was a brisk fall day and the streets were quiet. Leaves from neighborhood trees scratched across the sidewalk flittering about in gold and red and brown. Andy knew of a little Italian mom & pop restaurant around the corner from the Daily Grind and they walked there, talking as they went like two old friends. When they finally parted company at 2:45 pm, Andy watched her drive away then sat quietly in the privacy of his own car for several minutes trying to get his head around what had transpired between them. “It was only coffee,” he assured himself. “Just coffee and lunch… With the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” he said to the dashboard with a tired sigh and drove back to his house.
He decided to make the call as soon as he caught his breath at the top of the stairs. He tried to talk himself out of it but he knew the rest of the evening would be spent wishing he would have if he didn’t. So he did.
“Hello,” Janice Boyd said in her official Human Resources voice. He caught her at work.
“Hi mom.”
“Andy, to what do I owe the courtesy?”
“Just taking a break, wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m good. You?”
“Fine. Hey mom, can I ask you a question without you reading a bunch of stuff into it?”
“Probably not,” she said.
“Well, at least you’re honest, right?”
“I’ll try, what is it?”
“Are you going to the same church as Marg’s niece? Uh, Debbie.”
“I am, why?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wondered... We met for coffee this morning.”
“Really?”
“You know, she wants me to speak to her class and all,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Anyway, I, uh, what time does church start over there?” he asked.
“10:00 am,” she said, biting the side of her lip gently to contain her excitement.
“Hmm, okay. Uh, hey, do you think it would be all right if I came, you know, to church with you?”
“Oh Andy, that would be fine. I would love that.”
“I don’t know where it is, but...”
“Why don’t you pick me up at 9:30 am, we’ll ride together.”
“Okay, Mom. Uh, thanks.” He hung up knowing his mother would be making a mountain out of this molehill. But he couldn’t worry about that. He was glad he asked, although he kind of surprised himself. He was one of those guys who couldn’t articulate his personal belief system, but he was pretty certain it didn’t line up with Christianity or any other organized religion. He didn’t want to be hypocritical, but he sure wanted an excuse to see Debbie again.
He opened a weblog and decided to off-load some feelings.
Andy’s Weblog - November 10th
Things Change. Maybe.
I woke up this morning to Freddie Mercury singing the story of my life in the 7th and 8th grade: “You got mud on your face, you big disgrace, kicking your can all over the place...” And that’s how it was, every day. If it wasn’t one kid it was another. I was one of those kids that are, for some reason, a bully magnet.
Lately I’ve been having some issues that stem from those days, problems with self-image and the perception that I’m a loser, which I am. On the other hand, I’ve had a few positive things happen lately that suggest, maybe, things are changing, or, about to change for me. That feels really good. I’m rambling, I know. But I’ve been hiding behind the lockers for a long time; it would be nice to step out of the shadows for good.
Is that sunlight I see? - Andy
Saturday had slipped away. He still couldn’t concentrate so he sat on his couch and quietly nursed a can of soda while he watched the evening shadow grow up and overtake the building across the street. Freddie Mercury had gone. All that was here was Andy and the lovely image of Debbie Williams sitting in her turtleneck sweater sipping a cappuccino. He closed his eyes and savored the picture. He finally convinced himself that if he was going to take the morning off to visit the Holy Grail, or whatever, that he better get some work done tonight. The Monty Python image knocked him off track for a few minutes, but he eventually found his way back to the mess he was creating in Appalachia.
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Appalachian Malady -
John Sanchez was certain, based on the signal of his GPR unit, that he was walking on a limestone shelf under which was some kind of cavern, itself reinforced, probably with steel. He saw an old building below him just off the fire road. It was one of those backyard metal storage units that had been converted in to a little guard shack. The door was open and he could see a man inside with his feet on the desk, asleep. He quietly moved passed the shack and continued along the face of the hill. He could hear voices and music growing louder as he moved slowly in the direction of the sound. Sneaking around people with automatic weapons was probably not in his job description, and he considered turning around. “A couple rounds from those canons could ruin your whole day,” he whispered to the woods.
The road turned back to the right, curling behind the hill John was carefully walking across. He changed his route and climbed up the hill instead of walking on around. The grade was steep and he had to carefully plant each footfall to prevent slipping down in a landslide of wet leaves. As he slowly crested the hill he noticed a thin, metal wire stretched across his path about two feet off the ground. He approached it cautiously and looked from side to side to determine its purpose. It appeared to be a hot wire, the kind they use to keep horses or cows from rubbing against the wooden rails of a pasture fence. But this one was too low, and there were no flags to alert people to its presence. John wondered if it could be the framework for some kind of shield that, if it were breached, would activate an alarm. He walked slowly along the edge of the line for fifty feet north until he came to a power translator that was used to extend the range of farm fences. When he was comfortable that that was all it was, he gingerly stepped over the wire and proceeded to the top of the hill. As he reached the summit, he went to his knees and began crawling forward slowly as he could now hear the melody of the country music that was playing just ahead of him. He thought briefly that “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” was what he should be doing in the other direction, but he kept going anyway.
He crept to the edge of the hill, which turned out to be a sheer cliff fifty feet from the valley floor, where the fire road came to an end at a guarded entrance in to the mountain. There were three pick ups and an old Celica parked on the side of the fire road and six men, dressed in camo, carrying similar automatic weapons to those he’d seen earlier. He could barely see the door to the cave entry from where he was positioned and carefully shimmied back and over to the south for a better view. He noticed another guard standing by himself at the closed overhead door, smoking with one boot propped against the door. John thought that if the guards moved in pairs, then there was one guy missing, who was either out using the can, or patrolling the area. To the side of the overhead door was an entry door, a heavy metal one that was painted a rusty camo-green and had a small glass with wire mesh window in the middle about the size of a family picture. After his smoke, the guard who was on his own stepped over to the metal door and pushed a red button and pressed his face against the small window, looking inside. The button was connected to a buzzer that sputtered loud enough for John to hear it clearly, and in a few seconds there was a click and the guard pulled the door open and disappeared inside. After what must have been a shift change, the six guards lurking around the tailgate split up. Two left in the truck t
hey had been leaning against, backing out and driving out the way John had come in. He heard them lay on the horn when they reached the little shack, no doubt scaring the beans out of the sleeping guard. The four men left in the parking area shouldered their weapons and split into pairs, walking to separate edges of the gravel lot, and from there they disappeared into the forest on foot patrol.
John Sanchez was 110% certain that he should head back the way he came, but instead, he lay quietly on the top of the hill, surveying what appeared to be an entrance to a mine. He wished the door would open, giving him a view of the inside, or at least, that the smoking guard would come out with his partner, if that’s where the partner had gone. He wondered. The question was soon answered as John heard the air gasp from between a footfall of damp leaves and the sound of a round being chambered behind his head. He rolled over slowly to see the nervous face of a man in his early twenties, bearing down on him through the site of a deer rifle, “Well,” John thought, “at least it’s not an assault gun. This one will only leave one hole.”
“The hell’r you doing?” the kid said.
“Hunting,” John said, slowly raising his hands.
“The hell you are,” the young man glanced over the hill, looking, no doubt, for support from his partner.
John noted the lofty vocabulary. “Well, what are you doing out here?” John countered.
“Shut up. Git up,” the kid motioned with the gun barrel. He should have taken a break with his partner, but the guy stunk and he liked the time alone. Besides, reinforcements were just a whistle away. As John crouched to stand the young man let go of the trigger momentarily to bring his fingers to his mouth to whistle. It gave Sanchez just enough time to draw his Buck from his ankle holster and lunge upward, shoving the blade deeply in to the guards belly just as he sucked in a deep breath which was cut well short, sending him to the ground in a gasping heap. Sanchez carefully removed the rifle from his hands and sat it aside. He checked for a pulse and found one that was slowing down rapidly as blood ran from the guard’s belly and mouth.
“Sorry,” he whispered to the kid, and covered him with leaves. He moved back to the edge of the hill to see if they had drawn any attention. All was still quiet. He didn’t know how long he had till the other guards made their way up here, so he hurriedly pulled the satellite phone out of the backpack and called Rance. He got voice mail.
“Hey, Found a fire road and the south eastern edge of some kind of cavern, probably the back of the mine. Road leads to a guarded entrance, here are the coordinates. I’m headed back to camp. Hope to see you soon. Out.” The last part was the God’s honest truth; he hoped to see Rance soon. He’d quickly gotten over his head in this one. This was the first time he’d been forced to defend himself to this extent, and it was nauseating. John made his way back to the hot wire, stepped over it and picked his way over five kilometers back to his camp. He was exhausted. He pulled a bottle of Gatorade out of the trunk of the ATV and slumped down against a tree. He was shaking as he replayed the scene with the guard, trying to convince himself there was no alternative, hoping the kid made it. Somehow. Like they used to say in the Army, he was out of his pay-grade. But he had done his part. Time to get out of here and call in the Cavalry.
He closed his eyes for a moment and could feel the energy returning to his tired limbs from the distribution of electrolytes. Out of the silence his eyes were startled open by the sound of footsteps. He instinctively reached for the buck knife strapped to his ankle.
“We was wondering when you’d be comin’ back,” the voice said. John turned to see one of the guards from before. He stepped out from behind a tree where he had been hiding in plain sight. John hadn’t seen him and inhaled deeply before doing anything else, “There it was,” he scolded himself quietly, “the stink of cigarettes.”
The second guard stepped out from behind a tree behind John and lit up his smoke. “He hasn’t let me smoke for three hours, waiting fer you to come back, dammit.”
“What are you boys doing?” Sanchez stammered.
“We was going to ask you the same thing,” the taller one said. They were both carrying their weapons low and their fingers were on the trigger. One wrong move and Sanchez knew he was toast. They seemed nervous. John didn’t know about the mishap that had befallen six of their co-workers when they decided to pick on the guy in the SUV. As far as they knew, this could be the guy.
“Hunting. What else,” he chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be out here with all these ticks and chiggers for any other reason, I guarantee it.”
“U-huh,” the taller guard said and spit. “J’ou know this is private property back here?”
“It’s not posted,” Sanchez said.
“Yeah it is, right over there, b’hind that tree,” the guard said, jerking his head slightly to the side. Sanchez looked that way. No sign.
The second guard approached. “So, what’re ya hunt’n?” he squatted down by Sanchez and opened his backpack.
“Turkey,” he said.
“Yeah? Any luck?” the smoker asked.
“Not yet.”
“No? Let’s hear yer call,” the guard said. Sanchez thought fast, He was smarter than these guys, but not when it came to the woods. He gave his best turkey imitation and cooed it up on the end for effect.
“Now that’s yer problem, see... You can’t call turkey fer shit. Where you from?” The guard had beady little eyes and probably hadn’t shaved in a month. He had freckles and red hair that hung out of his green camo ball cap and over his ears.
“California,” Sanchez said.
The other guard had made his way over to the Quadrunner and the rest of Sanchez’ gear. “Pretty nice little gun,” he said to no one in particular. He checked the site and smelt the barrel. “Never been fired, though.”
“What’s this?” the smoking guard said, removing the GPR unit from the backpack.
“Look, if I’m trespassing, you guys just say the word and I’m out of here, the last thing I need is trouble, you know?”
“Relax, we just want to know who’s out here on our land, that’s all,” the taller guard assured him and jerked his head toward his partner, “What’s that there?”
“It’s an ultrasonic caller. I’ve been trying it out which is why my turkey call is no good, I just use this thing. Here.” John took the GPR unit from the guard and stood to his feet. He flipped on the power switch and the red and green led’s sparked to life then settled down.
“I don’t hear nothing,” smoking guard said.
“Of course not, it’s ultrasonic. You and I can’t hear it, but the birds can. It’s supposed to draw them like flies.”
“Well, from the looks-a yer catch, it don’t seem like it works all that well, Bud,” boss guard said and chuckled revealing a mouthful of tobacco stained teeth. He stopped short and spit another stream of brown juice. “Listen, yer gonna have to come with us.”
“What, no way,” Sanchez protested. “You’re not police, you can’t arrest me.”
The taller guard nodded and the smoking guard stood up, “‘Fraid so, Bud. It’s our property and yer doing a whole bunch of stuff that ain’t right; hunting alone, new gun that’s never been fired. Your a little s’picious, to be honest.”
“Look, if there’s some fine, or something, why don’t we just handle it right here, with cash, you know. And I’ll be on my way.”
“This ain’t Tijuana, Ace, we don’t do it that-a way out here,” smoking guard said and cold-cocked Sanchez across the back of the head with the butt of his rifle knocking John into the tree he’d been leaning against. He struggled to keep his feet.
“Let’s go,” the taller guard said to Sanchez. “Get his stuff,” he motioned to the smoker. They zip-tied his hands behind his back and walked about a kilometer back to their truck where they had John sit on the tailgate while they bound his ankles the same way and found his knife sheath. “Hello,” the redheaded guard said to himself, unstrapping the knife after John?
??s legs were secure. He removed it from the sheath and looked at it. Unlike the gun, the knife had seen action. The guard looked at Sanchez without saying a word, and returned the knife to it’s sheath and put the works in his front jeans pocket. “You won’t be need’n this. Reckon?”
With a series of zip-ties they cuffed his arms and legs to the bed of the truck. There would be no escaping, or falling out of the bed for that matter. They’d secured him like a fresh kill. The ride across the fire roads took half an hour. The way it seemed to John, they had made a wide circle of about 8 or 9 miles before catching the highway south for another 1/8th of a mile or so.
When they finally came to a stop he saw the closed chain-link gates of the Cedar Ridge Coal Mine. It looked deserted. The truck eased up to the gate and one of the guards pulled a walkie-talkie out of the glove box and radioed ahead. In a few minutes a golf cart carrying two more guards crested the hill behind the gates and approached. The passenger got out and unlocked the old gates and let the truck enter before closing and locking them again. The golf cart pulled out ahead and led the truck back up the hill in front of the mine.
Had he been one of the redneck guards, Sanchez thought, he would have put a mask over the prisoners face so he couldn’t see where he was being taken. A stupid mistake, he thought at first, but then realized that it didn’t matter if you saw where you were going if they didn’t plan for you to leave. “Great,” he whispered to the air. Picturing the scene from an aerial view he realized the cave entrance he’d found would be the eastern edge of this mine entrance, approximately three miles south east of this point.
They pulled the truck into a cavernous building and pulled against an interior wall where they parked. The guards exited the truck and checked the security of the prisoner’s restraints. “Now you stay right here, huh?” smoking guard said and laughed at his joke.
“Funny man,” Sanchez said out-loud, which rubbed the nervous guard the wrong way. He pivoted and punched Sanchez in the mouth, loosening two teeth and cutting his lip. The guard thought that if this was one of the guys that caused all the problems the other night; he wanted to get a few licks in before Buddy showed up. After that it would be lights out. The guard checked his knuckles and shook his hand. He walked away while John gritted his teeth against the pain, “Note to self: keep your comments to yourself, wiseass,” Sanchez mumbled.
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Andy straightened up and read the last few paragraphs. He didn’t want to leave poor John Sanchez there, strapped to the bed of that old Chevy. “Hang in there Sanchez,” he said, “I’ve got to go to the can.” He saved his work and put the iBook to sleep. He lied to Sanchez; he wasn’t coming back, not tonight anyway. But he couldn’t bring himself to break the bad news to one of his heroes.