Latitude 38

by Ron Hutchison

  The officer dropped his pistol and began tearing at the front of his assault vest, nauseous gagging noises climbing out of his throat. He fell heavily against the open car door and then slumped onto the dusty road, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. On his back now, the officer uttered a deep-rooted moan, twitched slightly, and then lay motionless beside his patrol car, his blood pooling in the dirt.

  Diego thought Cutbirth would turn and run back inside the Winnebago, but he didn’t. He hurried over to where the officer had fallen, knelling and feeling for a pulse in his neck. The officer’s vest ran red with blood.

  Her face painted by the spinning lights, Sissy was standing at Diego’s elbow. She whispered, “Is he dead?”

  “Probably.” Diego looked beyond the fallen trooper and back down the dark, desolate road. At the edge of the country lane, 200 yards away and partially obscured by the shadows, was the distinctive silhouette of the pickup truck that had followed them for more than 1,800 miles. Diego fit the pieces together immediately. The National Police officer had suddenly become a fly in the ointment—he was about to end the bounty hunters’ dreams of a fat payday—and they had eliminated him. Diego wondered if it had been the woman called Uno or Mr. Mustache who had fired the fatal shot.

  The Winnebago suddenly lurched forward, advanced ten yards or so down the dirt road, and then came to an abrupt stop. Diego wheeled around and looked down the hallway to the front of the motor home. Henry was behind the wheel. Yong had him in a headlock and was hoisting him out of the cab seat. Yong shouted something—Diego couldn’t make it out—then dragged Henry into the living room and forced him onto the floor. Yong held him facedown on the floor with his knee pressed to Henry’s back. Henry was moaning like a sow in heat.

  “He was trying to drive away!” Yong shouted. “The little bastard was trying to drive away!”

  Diego turned back to the window. Cutbirth had been kneeling, but now he stood upright and glimpsed the country road—to his right and to his left. Except for the smudgy shape of the Toyota, County Road HH was deserted, and Cutbirth reached inside the patrol car, removed the keys from the ignition, and threw them into the adjoining cornfield. He turned quickly and ran back toward the motor home.

  Moments later Cutbirth vaulted up the steps and jumped into his cab seat. He dropped the Winnebago into gear and sped away, the big wheels spinning dirt, a black cloud of synthetic diesel fumes pouring from the exhaust pipe amid a rooster’s tail of dust. The Cummins engine rattled noisily, laboring to gain momentum. The speedometer’s needle passed 60, then 70. Trees and fence posts blurred past. The Winnebago bounced around like a carnival ride.

  Diego continued to peer out the rear window. Several hundred yards back down the dirt road, the Toyota pickup raced toward the patrol car. When the pickup reached the police vehicle it slowed, then tried to squeeze past on the right. There wasn’t enough room—the ditches on either side of the dirt road prevented the truck from bushwhacking across the adjacent fields—and the electric-powered monster pickup backed up and tried to pass on the left. No luck. Uno and Mr. Mustache (and their Toyota Himalayan) were stymied.

  Diego gave a silent hallelujah, then made his way to the front and anchored himself on the back of Cutbirth’s cab seat. Shaken by the cold-blooded nature of the cop’s death, Adriana was queasy and had returned to their bedroom.

  Cutbirth found Henry in his dashboard mirror. Henry was now seated on the living room floor with his back against his sofa bed. “I’ll take care of you later, Henry,” Cutbirth said in such a calm voice that it gave Diego chills.

  “I had the group’s welfare at heart!” Henry claimed. “I thought you’d been shot! I was trying to save everyone!”

  “Not another word,” Cutbirth said.

  “Why’d you throw the keys, Cutbirth?” Diego asked.

  “The patrol car is blocking the road. That may give us the edge we need to get the bounty hunters off our back. We’re less than two hours from our destination, and Uno and Mr. Mustache have no idea where we’re headed.”

  Yong said, “When that dead policeman doesn’t call in, other officers will be out looking for him.”

  “We have no control over that,” Cutbirth said.

  Diego knew their plans to cross the border had suddenly gotten much more complicated—the killing of a País Nuevo police officer was the worst possible crime and Diego was certain they would be charged in his death—and what had started out as a painless tightness in his chest was now hurting like hell. He still couldn’t take a full breath, and the image of the overweight woman named Judith Meyer dropping through the trap door entered his mind.

  “So what’s the plan, Cutbirth?” Diego asked, his heart fluttering inside his chest.

  “We drive,” Cutbirth said, his eyes forward, the accelerator pushed to the floorboard. “As fast as this antique will take us.”

  The plan seemed simpleminded, and Diego said, “Driving fast. Is that the best you can do?”

  “The floor is open,” Cutbirth said in a bleak voice.

  Diego ran a half-dozen scenarios through his worried mind. Most involved hiding—but where do you hide a 38-foot motor home?—and driving fast had a sudden appeal. The faster the better.

  Diego wondered when—if—the nightmare would end.

  14

  The Winnebago entered the sprawling Mark Twain State Park a little after 4:00 Sunday morning. The picturesque recreational area was located on the Meramec River some ten miles south of the 38th latitude. The wooded campground was cluttered with pop-up tents, pole tents, and recreational vehicles of every size and shape. Dozens of wooden picnic tables and barbeque pits were positioned throughout the campground. Several signs warned: BEWARE OF BEARS. Others read: RIVER WATER UNSAFE TO DRINK.

  Cutbirth parked the motor home on a cement apron near the canoe-rental pavilion, and ten minutes later everyone crept out of the motor home and into the darkness, their backpacks in place. Cutbirth was convinced they had seen the last of the bounty hunters.

  Working in the light of a quarter moon, Cutbirth quietly climbed the metal ladder attached to the rear of the Winnebago. Crawling onto the motor home roof like some cunning ninja, he released the bungee cords holding the canoes in place, and silently slid each aluminum vessel down to Yong and Sam. Everyone carried their canoes noiselessly down to the river’s edge, slipped them into the water, and climbed aboard.

  The soft summer moonlight glimmered off the water like tiny fireflies as Cutbirth and his party of rabbits paddled quietly downstream toward the 38th latitude in three canoes, lifejackets strapped to their chests. Cutbirth, Sissy, and Emily rode in the lead boat. Diego, Adriana, and Rosie followed in the second. Henry, Yong, and Sam trailed in the third. Diego was surprised that Cutbirth had assigned Henry and Yong to the same canoe, given their dislike for one another.

  When Yong complained, Cutbirth said the easy part of their journey was behind them—that seemed ludicrous to Diego given what they had been through—and if they expected to make a successful border crossing they would have to work as a team. Cutbirth said assigning Henry, Yong, and Sam to the same canoe would force them to cooperate, which would build a stronger team.

  An hour after launching the canoes, a fog settled over the Meramec River like an old gray quilt, and the river came alive one small piece at a time. Somewhere in the murky, half-light of dawn a whippoorwill called for its mate. The air was hot and sticky—the temperature had not fallen below 90 degrees during the night.

  Cutbirth had outfitted each canoe with a large plastic equipment chest, which was strapped securely to the aluminum crossbar of each boat. Inside each chest were provisions for three people, including headlamps, canvas-covered canteens, first-aid kits, canisters of matches, waterproof flashlights, candles, high-energy candy bars, four small packages of dried fruit, coils of rope, whistles, a large all-purpose handkerchief, and something Cutbirth called a space blanket—the lightweight silver metallic cover would keep a person warm while sl
eeping on the cold, hard floor of a cave.

  “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen,” Cutbirth said as everyone filled their backpacks with the items from the equipment chests. “A long cave hike is in your future.”

  Cutbirth’s announcement filled Diego with sudden misgiving and Adriana tried to comfort him. “You can do this,” she asserted from her place in the front of the canoe. His wan smile held that Cutbirth’s declaration was a case of good news/bad news. The bad news was that Diego suffered from claustrophobia. The good news was that he hadn’t experienced an attack in more than eight years. But even after eight years he remembered the sensation: it felt like being trapped inside a coffin.

  ***

  The sun was peeking over the top of a distant ridge when the small tremor hit at a few minutes after six. The morning stillness was disturbed by a faint, distant grumbling; the surface of the water quivered. Oak and maple trees along the river’s edge shook, shedding their leaves almost as if fall had arrived two months early.

  “For those of you not familiar with the history of this area,” Cutbirth said, waving the trailing canoes closer so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice, “we’re in earthquake country. Everyone in this part of the world is bracing for the Big One.” He said the worst earthquakes to ever hit the North American continent had occurred just a few miles away in 1811 and 1812, and many geologists were predicting a repeat performance. There had been small tremors for the past two years.

  Diego didn’t give a damn about the possibility of an earthquake. Caves were the problem. Caves and their relentless, cramped dark. The persistent image would not allow him peace. Adriana is wrong! a voice inside his head shouted. You can’t do this!

  Cutbirth said if anyone wanted to call it quits he would not think the lesser of him. Caves, he explained, presented all types of hazards, not the least of which was being crushed to death when the ceiling collapsed during an earthquake. “But you won’t be getting your money back,” he concluded.

  Everyone, however, was committed to the undertaking—the thought of Adriana and him turning back came and went in Diego’s mind in the twinkle of an eye—and there were no takers.

  “But why do we need a whistle?” Adriana asked, carefully applying her daily Z patch.

  Diego watched his wife press the pain patch to her arm. Adriana has three patches left. Dear God, get us across the border before she runs out.

  “In case you get lost, Little Mother,” Cutbirth said bluntly. Although the sun had not yet presented itself fully, Cutbirth already had his side-shield sunglasses in place.

  “Tell me about the candles, Cutbirth,” Diego said, paddling closer.

  “If you believe in the Law of Inverse Perversity,” Cutbirth said with a simian-like scowl, “then you’d better bring a third light source.”

  “What’s the Law of what-you-said?” Emily asked. She was seated on the floor of Cutbirth’s canoe, one arm draped over the side, her hand carving a path through the cold water, her camera hanging from her neck.

  “It’s a law all spelunkers believe in, kid,” Cutbirth said. “Spelunkers. That’s another word for cavers.”

  “Oh sure,” Emily said.

  Cutbirth continued. “The law states that the second light source, your flashlight, will always fail when it is needed most. I’ve supplied enough long-burning emergency candles for everyone. And because cave water isn’t fit to drink, I have also supplied each of you with plenty of purification tablets. They’ll decontaminate our drinking water.”

  “How long will we be hiking?” Rosie asked.

  Cutbirth turned and faced her. “How long or how far?”

  “Either, I guess.”

  “About 25 miles. I can’t say how long that will take. Too many variables to consider.” Cutbirth continued to look at Rosie, his expression solemn. “You up to it, Mojado? Remember what I said? You slow us down and I will leave you. The National Police will arrest you, and every he-she sicko in McAlester, Oklahoma, will be on a first-name basis with every delicate orifice of your body.”

  Rosie gritted her teeth in a display of defiance. “I remember, and I’m up to it.”

  “What’s an orifice?” Emily asked, looking at her mother.

  “It’s, uh…” Sissy stammered.

  “It’s a place in your mind where all good thoughts are stored,” Adriana said, looking at Sissy with a whimsical shrug. Sissy smiled and gave a thankful nod.

  Minutes later, a full sun crept over the forest canopy, burning away the fog, and the heat and humidity of the day began in earnest. It soon covered them like a sticky web.

  They paddled on.

  ***

  Although Cutbirth said he was certain the National Police would swoop down on them at any moment—“If we’re spotted, I will not fall on my sword for anyone, and I am sorry to say it will be every man, woman and child for themselves,” he advised callously—the morning passed without incident. That made Diego tense. It was quiet. Too quiet.

  Their paddle strokes deep and steady, the three canoes traveled down the Meramec River, which flowed north through the picturesque Ozark woodlands, eventually emptying into the Mississippi River. Tall bluffs on either side of the clear ribbon of water served as conduits for underground springs. Ice-cold water gushed from the yawning mouths of these springs and into the river’s underbelly, gently churning up small rocks and gravel, and keeping the Meramec River at a chilly 60 degrees. Emily photographed the picturesque bluffs, members of her river party, and a small herd of deer that had come to the river to drink.

  At a little before 11:00 that morning Cutbirth motioned to a thin finger of water that angled away from the river and extended back into a dense stand of overhanging river birch. Diego and Adriana guided their canoe into the narrow lagoon—Rosie sat in the middle of the canoe reading her Bible—and paddled over to where the Cutbirth, Sissy, and Emily waited. Yong and Sam were a few paddle strokes behind. Like a king atop his throne, Henry sat on his orange backpack in the center of the canoe smoking a cigarette.

  The three canoes crowded together beneath the river birch.

  “I don’t believe we’re being followed,” Cutbirth said. “Indeed, I have every reason to think we lost the bounty hunters last night, but it would be wise to see if Uno and Mr. Mustache have picked up our scent.” Cutbirth gazed at the river through the web of branches.

  They paddled deeper into the river birch, and only a slender patch of river could be seen through the tangle of limbs and leaves. The knot of trees overhead cut the light to a murky gray.

  “You seem to know this river,” Diego noted.

  “I once worked here as a fishing and hunting guide,” Cutbirth said.

  “You lived around here?”

  “Sure did.”

  Despite Cutbirth’s optimistic prediction, in a few minutes the two bounty hunters came into view through the tangle of limbs. Uno sat in the rear of the canoe. Mr. Mustache in the front. They were paddling like hell.

  “Damn!” Cutbirth muttered, his eyes on the bounty hunters, a quiet sort of menace in his voice.

  “So much for losing them,” Diego said quietly.

  “I’d be very interested to know how in the bloody damnation they came to be here. How in the hell did they know our destination was the Mark Twain National Park?” Cutbirth looked at each of them.

  No one had an answer and they watched Uno and Mr. Mustache disappear around a bend in the river.

  Yong said, “There are two possible answers to your question, Cutbirth. One, blind luck. Or two, you have a mole.”

  “There’s a third choice,” Diego said. “Your Winnebago has been infected with a tracking device.”

  “You didn’t sweep the Winnebago before you left Frisco?” Yong asked.

  “Of course, I did,” Cutbirth said. “I sweep the Winnebago before each trip,”