"What the hell you think you're gonna do with that 12-gauge, Willie? You ain't gonna get close enough to that son-a-bitch to hit 'im!"
"You wouldn't, Mason. You couldn't. But I'm gonna get so close I'll be able to give him a rifle butt in the face. You see, asshole, that's what I intend to do with it. And you thought I intended to shoot this fool thing."
The two middle-aged men sat side-by-side on a swamp buggy, a huge 4-wheel drive vehicle with mammoth earthmover type tires. The vehicle left gaping, water-filled tracks through the mushy landscape.
"Hit him in the face with it, huh? Hit 'em in the knees is more like it. You heard that detective what's-his-name. This guy is supposed to be big,” then he spelled out the word, “b-i-g, and you is s-m-a-l-l!"
"Well, you got a b-i-g mouth, Mason. And a s-m-a-l-l brain. ‘Cause this here shot gun makes me as b-i-g as any man, don't it? And what are you plannin' to protect yourself with from this bigfoot guy, huh? You gonna sweet talk 'im outa breakin' your neck if he gets you before you get him? Huh?"
"I got me this here." Mason pulled an army issue .45 caliber pistol from a field bag by his feet. "This'll blow one of his legs right off. Won't run nowhere. N-O-W-A-R-E!" He gave a toothy grin but was missing a front tooth.
• • •
"Hey, Carl, let me have four boxes of copper jacket thirty-aught-six, huh?" The young man in the baseball cap and short-sleeved shirt slid a fifty-dollar bill across the counter of the guns and ammo store.
"Fixin' to do yourself some serious huntin', Brad?" The shop owner kept his hands spread on the counter.
"Fixin' to do some serious trackin' and snipe-in' if I can pick up on this fugitive out there. I figure I got as much a chance as anybody."
"If you want as much a chance as anybody else, Brad, you better get what everybody else has been armin' themselves with." The shopkeeper grabbed an open box of shells from the shelf behind him and pulled a gleaming brass cartridge from the box.
"Everybody's buying these, Brad. Special load, 157 grain. It'll go farther than anything you can buy standard. Make 'em myself. Been packin’ 'em with extra grain ever since this madman's been on the loose. See here? Hollow point. Opens up on impact like a mushroom. You just aim where you want and it'll do what you want done. They're just five bucks more a box than the regulars."
The man with the fifty took out another twenty.
• • •
"OK, honey. Just hold on for a minute." The man was painting something on the side of an old gray out-building standing next to two old rusted-out car hulks. "I want this to look really good." The man with the dark beard and balding head wore dirty, baggy jeans, pointy-toed black cowboy boots and a motorcycle emblem T-shirt with a hole under the armpit.
"You just relax now. I'll be finished here in just a minute."
With a few dabs of his brush the man finished the black silhouette of what appeared to be a seven-foot tall man.
"OK, honey..." he walked quickly away from his masterpiece, "...now you can blast away."
A small nine-year-old girl raised her long rifle. A slow-motion boom came from the gun that seemed to sustain itself, like an undying echo that spread over the entire, vast Everglades. It was as if that sound had come from all the guns that were being practice-fired throughout the Everglades that day. Similar sounds came from the rifles of men in airboats, on swamp buggies, on back porches and on foot. Great booms rang from high-powered rifles with high-powered scopes, from shotguns and from handguns. Explosions came from the weapons of old hunters, young men, even children. It was a sound that rang over the tops of the trees, and into the night all over the Glades.
Twenty-Eight
The headlights of the vehicle came out of the blackness and streaked past. As soon as they did, Malcolm stepped out of the bushes, backpack on his shoulder, and continued his western march on the side of the Tamiami Trail. The only light came from the stars and an occasional vehicle. Whenever Malcolm saw headlights far in the distance, he simply waited, hidden from view. It was certainly much easier traveling this way, on the side of the road. He could cover so much more ground. The only thoughts he had now were of his dying mother. Hopefully, she was better now, at home waiting for Malcolm, knowing he'd be there no matter what.
Then, in the black ahead, Malcolm saw light spilling over the ground at the side of the road. He approached cautiously, hiding in the bushes as he got closer. He saw what looked like an outhouse about eight feet by eight feet and about ten feet tall. A very well constructed outhouse with a gabled roof. There was a flood light on the ground illuminating the little clapboard building and there was a sign over the single wooden door that read OCHOPEE – THE NATION'S SMALLEST POST OFFICE. The nation's smallest post office stood in the middle of a dirt parking area. And off to the edge of the parking area stood a lonely phone booth, obviously stationed there to make some analogous statement. It was a remnant from the past, one of the few public phones still operating, to be sure. A companion piece to the Nation’s Smallest Post Office, an unusual tourist attraction since 1933. It confirmed that things don’t change much out here in the Glades. As soon as Malcolm overcame his mild astonishment he hurried for the phone.
"Doctor Brad...Brady...what was his name? When I spoke to the nurse she said she was calling from Doctor Brady's office? Doctor Ben? Benson. Doctor Benson, that's it!"
Malcolm took the coins from the side pouch of the backpack and dropped the pack to the ground. He dialed.
"Yes, a Naples number, please. Benson. Doctor Benson."
The voice in the phone said, "Office or residence?"
"Residence, please."
“I’ll connect you.”
Malcolm dropped more coins into the phone and he could hear the Doctor's home phone ringing. "The chances of getting a doctor at home are..." Malcolm was saying aloud to himself.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Benson?"
"Yes."
"Is this, is this Doctor Benson?"
"Yes, this is Doctor Benson. How can I help you?"
"Doctor Benson, this is Malcolm Farmer. Ah, you don't know me, but..."
"Your mother spoke of you many times."
"What's that? What did you say, doctor?"
"I said, your mother spoke of you many times. My nurse is the one who contacted you at college."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
"When you didn't show up at the hospital, we called the college again. They said you got the message and left. We were all wondering what….”
"Doctor, my mother, how is she?"
"Malcolm, where are you? Are you back at school? In town? Where?"
"Doctor, is my mother OK?"
"No, Malcolm, she's not OK. She passed away three weeks after we called you. The cancer was just too far gone. We did all we could. As much as anyone could. I thought you would have heard by now."
Malcolm just stood there. Silent and unmoving, except for his deep breathing. His eyes were closed but tears ran down his face. His nose had already started to run, and he sniffed a little into the phone.
Behind him, on the trail, an old pickup truck drove by. Inside, the green lights of the instruments glowed on the faces of the two disheveled men drinking from cans of beer.
"Hey, you see that?"
"Huh?” the driver said.
"You see that guy in the phone booth back there? Back at the post office?"
"I didn't see nobody in no phone booth."
"Oh yeah, well I saw a big guy, but I didn't see no car, get it?"
"No, I don't get it!"
"Then you won't get no five-thousand-dollar reward, either!" he said as he yanked a rifle off the rack in the rear window of the pickup. “Turn around! Turn around, quick!"
"Your mother asked for you right up to the end. She knew you would have been there if it were at all possible." Dr. Benson sounded fatherly.
The pickup truck pulled into the dirt parking lot churning up gravel and dust behind it. One of the men was leaning out the wind
ow pointing the rifle like a big game hunter in Africa.
The headlights of the truck pulled right up to the phone booth bathing it in bright, high beam light. The two men leaned out of the open doors of the pickup.
The phone booth was empty. The handset dangled from the silver-colored cable. And a voice came from the receiver. "Malcolm? Malcolm! Are you OK? Malcolm? Are you there? Malcolm..." Click.
Malcolm hid behind thick bushes not far from the edge of the parking lot of the Nation’s Smallest Post Office. It was a dark, overcast night, so he was confident he wouldn’t be seen by the two rednecks in the pickup truck. Before they left the scene, the driver drove the truck in a slow 360, using his high-beams as searchlights. Malcolm cocked his head toward the ground so his eyes would not reflect the light and give him away. He was motionless. The lights swept by and the truck drove away slowly. Malcolm took off running down the dark highway in the opposite direction. About three hundred feet away he found a path alongside a drainage ditch angled away from the road. He ran down the path as fast as he could, and when the path petered out, so did he. He walked now, picking his way carefully through trees, bushes and thickets in the dark, not knowing what might be lurking near his feet.
Malcolm made it to a clearing littered with fallen bare trees, probably victims of a long-past storm. Drained from his near-miss with the men in the truck, muscles aching from running to safety, and totally dejected by the news of his mother’s death, Malcolm crashed his rear-end on the first sturdy fallen tree he came to.
Now, with time to think, to absorb what Dr. Benson had told him, Malcolm began to cry like a child. His eyes squinted with the pain that was taking over his mind and spirit. His face was contorted, lips stretched in a thin, tight line across his face. His eyes became wellheads of tears flowing down his cheeks in torrents. He pictured his mother in the hospital bed, small, frail, ashen. He saw her eyes close slowly and her head tilt to the side. He wanted to be there, but this vision was as close as he could get. He tried to suppress the moans of deep sadness, but they came out in uncontrollable coughs, the sounds of grief that make anyone who hears them cry, too. His body was shaking as he held his hands to his face.
Malcolm sat there for a while sniffling, wiping his nose with his bare forearm. The sobbing finally subsided, and Malcolm took some long, deep breaths.
“I tried, Mom. I tried so hard. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Malcolm sniffled and wiped the tears and his nose again. The vision of his mother in the hospital bed repeated.
“God, couldn’t you let her live a little longer? I mean, just long enough for me to get there?” Malcolm asked the dark sky.
“I tried so hard. I could have made it.”
Malcolm got control of his body, but he couldn’t control his racing mind. He saw the little sandy-haired seven-year-old boy again, himself, as his father waved goodbye at the waiting taxi. He sobbed then, too. Even though he had no idea his father would never return. He saw himself and his mother sitting on the sofa in their living room, his mother searching for the words to tell him the bad news. She was holding his hands. The framed picture of the three of them was on the side table.
“Malcolm, my dear, sweet Malcolm,” his mother was saying, “your daddy loves you very much.”
“Mom, why are you crying, I know daddy loves me. So why are you crying. He loves you too, doesn’t he?”
Malcolm’s mother burst into tears and held Malcolm tightly.
“Yes, yes, he does.” She wiped her tears with a white handkerchief. Malcolm was puzzled. His face was yearning to know what was wrong. Sometimes people cry when they’re happy, he thought.
“Daddy is . . . daddy won’t . . . be . . . daddy got hurt and . . . honey, and he . . . he . . .”
Malcolm’s eyes searched his mother’s face frantically, looking for the answer. Waiting.
“Well, is he OK?”
“No honey, he’s not OK,” she sniffled.
“Well, is he gonna be OK? Did they call the doctor? When is he coming home, Mom?”
“He…” (sobbing) “…he’s . . . not coming home, honey. He’s . . .”
Little Malcolm’s face collapsed in horror. Tears filled his eyes. He could barely speak.
“But he has to come home. He has to come home,” he pleaded.
Maurice Farmer was buried alive by seven tons of dirt, rubble and sand at a dig site in Kuwait. He was a Geological Engineer working on an oil project for one of the oil giants connected to OPEC. They would probably never find his body. If they did, it would probably be mummified by the silica and the dessert sand and arid climate. It was an accident that happened quickly, too quickly for the dozen or so men on the site to do much except to start digging frantically with large machines. To no avail. Similar to an avalanche search and rescue operation that turns into a recovery mission.
All Malcolm was left with was a collection of family pictures on his computer and Christmas and birthday gifts that he now treasured beyond anything else.
All that Malcolm’s mother was left with was cherished wedding and honeymoon pictures, gifts from Maurice and cards and letters from when they were apart.
Malcolm’s mother decided to stay in the brownstone apartment on the Upper East Side that they rented ever since she and Maurice had married. Malcolm was doing exemplary work in private schools and she didn’t want to upset that with a move, even if she had to spend every penny of the life insurance money and settlement and bereavement money from the oil company that Maurice worked for. Even though he was an independent contractor, the company treated Maurice as family, as if he were a valued employee, perhaps to avoid an uncomfortable lawsuit against their corporate partner and the country of Kuwait. Everything went smoothly, amicably, as the company wanted.
Kathryn Farmer, small town girl from Wisconsin, did a good job keeping Maurice’s memory alive for both she and Malcolm. Except for Maurice’s physical absence, things changed little in the Farmer household. But they changed quite a bit in Malcolm’s mind and spirit. He withdrew into his own shell. He didn’t have many friends in the neighborhood or at school. His spirit was dimmed. His primary focus was how he could honor his father, make his mother proud of him, and assume the mantle of the ‘man of the house’. Not an easy task or one that is easily understood by a seven-year-old.
Malcolm inherited some noticeable characteristics from his father. One was the curse of being constantly overweight. Not just a little, but a lot. Obese in clinical terms. He also inherited his father’s height. Malcolm was quite tall for his age. And he inherited his father’s intelligence. Maurice was sought-after for his experience and his specialty in evaluating oil field potential and productivity. Maurice and Kathryn had high hopes for their only child. And they invested in the best schools and tutors to give Malcolm a good start in life.
As Malcolm grew, he did have some well-known friends. He would see them at the Metropolitan Museum of art every few weeks. They were Rembrandt, Picasso, Monet and others.
He had other friends that he played with. They were Beethoven and Mozart and Chopin. He would play along with recordings of their music on the violin his father gave him on his birthday. And he had friends named Issac Newton and Archimedes and Alan Turing, some of the greatest mathematicians of all time. You might say he became a math genius by the time he entered NYU on a full scholarship. By that time, most of the money from Maurice’s death was gone, so the scholarship was a blessing. With Malcolm in college, Kathryn retired to Naples, Florida.
At NYU, Malcolm was still pretty much of a loner, with no girlfriend or any real friends to speak of. He had grown to six-five, three hundred and sixty-five pounds and wore thick-lensed, black-framed glasses. By the time he was twenty, he had pretty much decided that this was his lot in life, and it wasn’t going to change. He couldn’t for the life of him see how it could.
As Malcolm sat there on the fallen tree, in the dark, in the middle of the Everglades, a million miles from his home, for the first time in his life he was tru
ly alone. With his father dead for more than a decade and a half, his mother dead for two months, and his spirit to go on dead inside him, Malcolm considered the easy way out. Why continue? Why run? Why struggle? Why exhaust himself any longer? Why risk being eaten alive or dying a slow death from some parasitic disease? Worse would be to be captured and sent to prison for something he didn’t do. The thought of someone like himself in prison would be much worse than the peacefulness, the final rest of death. The question now was, how to do it.
The more Malcolm sat there contemplating giving up, the more he fell into despair. Deeper and deeper. Why go on? For what? For what purpose? No family. No relatives that he knew of. No friends, except Kyle his roommate. No future that he could see except more running, more hiding, more blazing sun, more humidity, more rain, more mosquitoes. . . more depression and despair.
He had failed. He failed at the one thing that meant more to him than anything he had ever done. Be there for his mother. He wasn’t for his father, either. He would have been for his mother, for sure. But the fact is he wasn’t. As hard as he tried, it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. But now he would succeed. Now he would do what needed to be done.
It was very dark in the clearing where Malcolm sat on the fallen tree. In the night, clouds were passing overhead and every now and then the moon would appear in a space between them, illuminating the Glades in an ethereal glow.
Malcolm hadn’t moved from this spot since he ran to it after the call to Dr. Benson. It was as if a wounded animal had gone into hiding, secreting itself away until death took away the pain or some miraculous healing could take place.
Malcolm sat there for hours, floating in the darkness, a lone survivor adrift in an endless sea of despair. When everything has been taken away from you, when the last glimmer of hope is extinguished, the light inside us goes out, replaced with the cold blackness of nothingness.
Malcolm sat there, spirit gone. He nodded off into a trance-like half-sleep. With his eyes closed, he could somehow see the clearing where he sat. The clouds parted and the moon shone down on a figure standing in the light. It was himself at ten-years old, violin under his chin, bow in hand. Off-key sour notes came from the instrument as he stroked the strings. He stopped.
Saving an Innocent Man Page 20