The Delta Factor

by Thomas Locke

  “He didn’t give you an idea how long he would be, did he?”

  “He just said directly. That’s all. He’d be over directly.”

  Deborah turned back to the door. “If he ever shows up, tell him he’ll find me home in bed.”

  Cliff dug in his heels. “Are you sure that’s safe, going back to your place?”

  “Safe as anywhere else around here, and I’m too beat to look any farther.” She tugged him forward. “I’ll stop by Reuben’s and ask him to have a look around. Come on, Junior. You look as tired as I feel.”

  * * *

  Ralph Summers sat staring at the phone. In his entire career, he had never been forced to do anything that felt as wrong as firing Devon.

  Try as he might, he could find no other alternative. Still, in this case, political expediency was not going to help him feel any better. No matter how necessary the move might have been, in his heart Summers knew the FDA had just lost a very good man.

  And no matter how crazy it sounded, Summers was positive that Devon’s concerns were not completely unfounded. Misguided perhaps, but nonetheless real.

  Trying to hold his shaky alliance of congressional support was going to occupy him completely over the coming few days. He would have to give this to someone else.

  Summers mulled it over, then grinned without humor and reached for the phone. He searched his directory and found Sandra Walters’ home number. Yes, it would serve her right. Let her lose a weekend over this. He did not know exactly how, but he was positive her hand had been in this somewhere. Good. She could reap a little of the benefits now.

  Summers sat and listened to the phone ring and thought again about Devon. He sighed. It did not look like he was going to get much sleep tonight.

  * * *

  As soon as they pulled away, the guard checked his clipboard and placed the call. When it was answered, he said, “Mr. Whitehurst? It’s Jack, sir. You said to call if either one of them showed up. Yessir. Both of them together. Nossir, of course not, I didn’t let him in. No, she just checked her messages and went home. Yessir, that’s what she said, home to bed. But maybe you ought to know, sir, there was a problem . . . hello? Mr. Whitehurst?”

  The guard stood there a moment, phone in hand, wondering. Then he shook his head and put the phone back down. Best not to get involved. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

  * * *

  Cliff was awakened by the sounds of gunfire and baying hounds.

  He leapt out of what was the customary side of his bed at home, or at least tried to, and slammed square into a wall.

  He rocked back prone, holding his forehead and moaning. Deborah came rushing in. “What was that? Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he groaned, and struggled to his feet.

  A voice called from the darkness outside, “Miss Debs?”

  “Reuben? Is that you?”

  “Yes ma’am. It’s safe for y’all to come on out now. They’s gone.”

  Deborah turned on the outside lights, wrapped her robe around her, unlocked her screen door, and walked down the porch steps. “Who is?”

  “Whoever it was sneakin’ up on you.” Reuben hefted the shotgun in his hand. “Sicked ol’ Wilbur on ’em and fired a coupla bursts in the sky, them two was off like turpentined cats.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “No ma’am, not me.” He motioned to the grinning girl and boy half-hidden by night shadows. “You remember my two biggest gran’kids.”

  “Of course I do. Good evening, Amy, Stanley. What on earth are you two doing up so late?”

  “Guardin’ your house,” Amy replied proudly. “I saw ’em good. Both of ’em.”

  “Couldn’t keep her in bed with a rope,” Reuben grumbled. “Ever since you helped with her mama’s illness, that little gal won’t stop goin’ on about you.”

  “They was white,” the girl offered. “Weren’t no foreigner like Granddaddy saw.”

  Deborah shot a baffled look toward Cliff. “You’re sure?”

  “Sure as sure can be,” Amy replied.

  “I was there too,” the boy added. “She right. One of ’em, he had gray hair, the other was real blond.”

  “You were that close?”

  “Close enough to hear what they was saying,” Amy replied.

  “That little gal is gonna be the death of me,” Reuben moaned. “I thought I could last the night, but danged if my eyes didn’t start dropping like they was tied to weights. I go back for my son-in-law, but he’s working nights this week, and by the time I get my daughter up, them gran’kids is just rarin’ to go. Had their clothes on and was out the door faster’n greased lightning.”

  “I stayed down low and watched ’em,” Amy took up the tale. “Stan went back for Granddaddy.”

  “Bringing Wilbur was my idea,” the boy announced. “That ol’ hound was harder to wake up than Granddaddy.”

  “Did you really hear what they said?” Deborah demanded.

  “Yes ma’am, surely did. They was whispering, but I could still hear ’em clear as day. One of ’em say, Be sure and get ’em both. The other say, What if he ain’t here? The first one say, He’s here. I know that for a fact. Your job is to find him. The woman too. Get ’em both.”

  Deborah looked at a wide-eyed Cliff. “They’re after you too? What for?”

  “Miss Debs, we do surely love havin’ you for a neighbor,” Reuben said. “But with all them comin’s and goin’s, I do believe you’d be better off sleeping somewheres else for a spell.”

  “Thank you all very much for your help,” Deborah said solemnly. “Reuben, I’m sure it will be safe for you all to go home now. We’ll be moving in the morning. I’ll stop by on my way out and thank you again.” She turned and started up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing as she climbed.

  Cliff asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “Try and find Cochise,” she replied, walking slowly down the porch. “Then get some sleep. I’m too tired to think much beyond that.”

  18

  Cochise waited in the loaded truck while Cliff gave Deborah a goodbye hug. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Listen to the man. He’s been set up, fired, sideswiped, shot at, and now he’s going to go off to goodness knows where, and he’s telling me to take care.” She forced up a weak smile. “Did you get through to Blair?”

  Cliff nodded. “She said you were right. No reason for us both to be walking around making targets of ourselves.”

  “Blair is a good woman with a level head. You should keep hold of that one.”

  “I’m trying.” The protest slipped through once more. “Debs, don’t you think—”

  “No I don’t, and we’ve been through this a dozen times. There’s nothing you can do for me in the lab. If you go stay at Blair’s it would only endanger her and Miss Sadie. So you go lay low for a couple of days and let me see if I can come up with something strong enough for us to take public.”

  “It makes sense,” he admitted, wishing it were otherwise.

  “When I went over to thank Reuben and his family this morning, I told them about our troubles. I decided it was the least I could do after his family helped out. You know what he said?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “He told me that we’ll always be crossing swords with the unrighteous world. He called it a fact of life for anybody trying to live God’s law.”

  Cliff mulled that one over. “Sounds like a wise man.”

  “He said most Christians are like other folks, worried all the time about being comfortable. But Christ is worried about making us worthy. I don’t know why, but just hearing that made me feel better.” She patted his arm. “Go on, now. I’ll take care. And I’ll be working on this just as hard as I know how.”

  * * *

  “The lady’s right,” Cochise said over the noise of the truck’s heavy-duty muffler. “Easier to keep her mind on the problem knowing you’re somewhere safe.”

  “Th
en why doesn’t that make me feel any better?” Cliff replied.

  Cochise grinned. “Because you’re her friend.”

  Their way took them out of town and over the Highway 17 bridge leading east toward the Outer Banks. The road was spackled with signs for beachfront hotels, gas stations, and tourist shops.

  Cochise pointed at a fast-food joint they passed. “You know what they’re serving in there? A breakfast burrito. Can you imagine? I mean, a body gets up, shaves and showers and puts on deodorant, gets all dressed up, right? After all that, some fool’s gonna say, hey, what I need now is a mess of beans and onions and chili peppers for breakfast.”

  Cliff watched as they turned off onto a side road that appeared to run forever down an endless green tunnel. He asked, “Mind telling me where we are?”

  “Oh, this is a real interesting sorta region for nature buffs. For borders we got ahead of us the Albemarle Sound. On the other sides are the Little Alligator River, the Big Alligator River, and the Dismal Swamp.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  Cochise shook his head. He pulled his makings from his pocket and deftly began rolling a cigarette with his free hand. “Naw, this is what they mean when they say you’re going where you don’t want to go unless you know how to get out.”

  “So where are you taking me?”

  There was an enormous display of teeth. “You just settle back, hoss. What you don’t know won’t scare you.”

  They followed back roads farther and farther into marshy land, empty of all human life save the occasional logging truck. Eventually Cochise pulled into a lay-by bordered by three tumble-down wooden shacks. He extracted a key ring from the glove compartment, walked over, and opened the center shed. Inside were five neatly stacked canoes. He motioned for Cliff to come join him.

  The canoe they chose was of simple green fiberglass with aluminum railing. Two paddles rested on the gunnels, but strapped to the stern was a four-horsepower outboard. A pair of cushions rested on folding legless chairs.

  “What?” Cliff joked, carrying one end toward the landing. “No hollowed-out tree trunk?”

  “Sears offers a guarantee,” Cochise replied, lowering his end into the water. “Trees don’t.”

  They loaded the supplies, then Cochise steadied the canoe while Cliff settled in the front. The big man lightly stepped in, keeping his weight low and in the center. Then they pushed off. With two deft strokes Cochise had them out in deep water. The little motor fired at first pull.

  They continued on through dark green waters for a good half hour. The river broadened to where the far banks were lost behind morning mists. Cochise selected one broad channel, puttered up there a ways, then cut the motor.

  “Best if we go in quiet from here. Mind paddling a while?”

  “Not as long as you tell me what to do.”

  “The front paddler’s job in easy waters is to give power,” Cochise told him. “You leave the steering to me, and switch sides whenever your arm gets tired.”

  Cliff pulled out his paddle, fitted it to his hands, started what he hoped was a pace he could keep up for a while. “Is this something all you Indians do?”

  That earned him an appreciative snort. “I started coming out here to sober up. Had to do something to occupy my hands and keep me out of sniffing distance of bars.”

  “You used to drink?”

  “Yeah, drinking was a full-time job with me for a while. I liked to think there wasn’t anything a couple slugs of whiskey couldn’t put in better perspective.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Mornings,” Cochise replied. “Early light is a hard thing for an honest man to face with a hangover. I decided I either had to learn to lie to myself better or stop drinking.”

  Cliff paused to wipe at the sweat gathering on his face. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to drink all the time. One night is enough to bring me close to death’s door.”

  “Full-time drinking takes skill and practice, just like any profession,” Cochise replied. “Means memorizing all the stages of being drunk. There’s nine of them, ten if you’re an Indian living in a trailer park, which I was at the time.” The paddle kept up its rhythmic strokes. “Yeah, I got all sorts of fuzzy memories from those times. Hour-long arguments over what makes a better rope, hemp or nylon. Watching my waitress turn from woman into angel. Trying to get my money back from a tattoo parlor ’cause I don’t know any woman named Sheila.” Another stroke. “Yeah, just look at all those good times I’ve left behind.”

  “You make it sound as inviting as a fifty-mile hike.”

  “We’ll take this next left turning,” Cochise directed. “Quiet now.”

  They paddled up a water-floored hall lined with cypress and flowering reeds. The creek was so narrow Cliff could touch either bank with his paddle, but so deep he could not probe the bottom. Ten soft, quiet strokes and his world became endless shades of green. The sky was gone, the air stifling.

  Fifteen minutes further on, Cochise banked the canoe at the base of a mammoth cypress. The dense brush had been cut back and the earth stamped down. A scooped-out depression was lined with ashes from earlier fires. From low branches hung four knotted mosquito nets and balled-up hammocks.

  “You’ll camp here,” Cochise said quietly, stepping into the knee-deep water and pulling the canoe up onto dry land.

  “All the comforts of home,” Cliff said.

  “If anybody shows up, show your hands. Speak respectfully. Mention my name as soon as you can.”

  “Who’s going to come?”

  “Probably nobody. Almost all the ones who used this place are still in jail.”

  Cliff stopped, one leg in and one out of the canoe. “For what?”

  “Just stay cool and talk respectfully. And mention my name. You should be okay.”

  The unloading went too swiftly. Cliff looked around at what was to be his home and asked, “What do I do if you don’t show up?”

  Cochise pointed at a leaf-strewn path and said, “Highway 17 is five miles down that way. Just stay on the path, and don’t try it at night. But don’t worry. You’ve got three days’ supplies here easy. I’ll be back before then.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll be back,” Cochise said, walking toward the canoe. “This isn’t the kind of place for spending time on the ifs and buts of life. Too many voices start coming at you out of the dark. Just hang in there and keep a cool head.”

  Cliff held the canoe as the big man climbed back in. When Cochise was balanced, Cliff maintained his grip. “Debs might have been right.”

  “She often is.”

  “I meant about us maybe being friends.”

  Cochise met his gaze. “I’d like to think so.” He lifted the paddle in salute. “Three days tops.”

  * * *

  “I wish I knew what you were up to,” Deborah said.

  “You’ve got enough to keep even your head busy,” Cochise replied.

  She nodded, still unhappy with the idea of his going off on his own. “Promise me you won’t do anything crazy.”

  “Stop worrying so,” the big man replied. “You’ll only make yourself sick.”

  “No time for that now,” she agreed.

  “This time it’s out of your hands,” he said. “So just let it go.”

  “I trust you,” she decided solemnly. “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it? So I can let go.”

  “Ain’t nobody can do the work waiting in there but you. So get in there and get busy.”

  She touched his arm and said, “Thank you, friend.”

  Cochise watched her climb the stairs and enter the Norfolk university lab, his face as impassive as a stone mask. When the steps were empty of everything but her absence, he went around to his truck, got in, and drove away.

  Cochise drove back into North Carolina, taking it slow. There was nothing for him to do until it grew closer to sunset but wait, and the road had always been a steady companion. It stretched out
in front of him, as clear and straight as he wished his thoughts could be. He stroked the place where Deborah had touched his hand. He could still feel her fingers, hear her words, see her face. Friend.

  Cochise had received his name during the lifetime spent in bars. He had kept it as a reminder of what he once had been and could easily be again. His name was a way of always hearing the threat of weakness, of backsliding, of defeat.

  He had come very close to the edge, filling his body and mind with enough poisons to destroy a smaller man. And it had almost wrecked him. But he had stopped. One booze-soaked dawn, Cochise had waked up cradling a bottle in another nameless alley. He had sat up, and just as he raised the amber fluid to his lips, he saw.

  He had heard about this from other alcoholics, people who had approached the abyss and found the sudden strength to turn away. Why it came to him as it did, when it did, he never questioned. It was enough that it came, and in its coming granted him a freedom he had never thought possible.

  In that rubble-strewn alley, there had come to him a moment of crystal clarity.

  Deborah was the first to put words to the experience. For that matter, she was the first he had trusted enough to tell of it at all. She had listened to him recount his tale with a focused intensity that was all her own. Her listening was an honor, a treasure, one that still baffled him. That she would care so much to have listened so well, and then to have answered from the heart, was a mystery that touched him deep. Very deep.

  Cochise was not a man of words. Deborah’s ability to describe his moment of vision as a gift from God left him valuing her ability to explain almost as much as he did the experience itself.

  She had warned him not to place her in the position reserved for the One who had granted him vision. And he tried. But it was hard. For that moment of clarity had been his only awareness of anything beyond the normal course of life. Though the moment’s power remained with him still, a living part every day he remained sober, the moment itself was long gone.