by W. J. Lundy
The people had no idea that the house visits were all his idea. The manager wanted nothing more than a confrontation to put this small town under the radar of Homeland. Unlike years past, when police departments hoped for peace and prosperity, under the new leadership, it was crime and outrage that earned city funding and attention to their leadership. City mangers wanted to see chaos in the districts so they could swoop in and get things under control. Manager Nohrs was famous for chaos. He’d slowly worked his way through the ranks by inciting then managing conflict. Sherman was his first Homeland posting as a city manager, and he’d made it clear to Bill that his intention was to be promoted to the county level as soon as possible.
The manager walked away from the crowd and eyed Bill. He raised a finger like he’d just noticed him and walked toward him. “Ahh, Sheriff.” He shook his head, looking down. “I’m sorry to hear about Tony. He was a good man.”
“I’m sure you’re really sorry,” Bill scoffed. “I told you it was a bad idea to move up the collections. The notices were sent out with advance warning for a reason. It not only gives folks warning that we will be coming so they can gather paperwork, but it also gives them an opportunity for second thoughts at forgiveness.”
Nohrs looked at Bill with shock. “Sheriff, we’ve gone over this. Moving up the schedule was out of necessity, nothing else.”
“You knew this would happen,” Bill said. “You wanted this to happen.”
Dawson stepped closer and said, “Do you two need some privacy?”
“Oh no, don’t mind our small-town politics,” Nohrs said in a condescending voice that made Bill want to punch him. “We’re all on edge right now. It’s been a very stressful day for everyone.” He looked at Dawson and extended his hand. “You must be Agent Dawson. Manager Nohrs. Homeland told me you would be coming. Thank you for getting here so quickly.” He turned and looked at the Sheriff. “Lord knows we could use the help.”
Bill pumped his fist and took a step back, grinding his teeth. He turned to focus on the search of John Warren’s home, not wanting to say anything that could get himself arrested.
Nohrs grinned, knowing he was getting under the sheriff’s skin. “So, tell me agent, is there anything we can do to aid you with your investigation?”
Dawson nodded. “The sheriff was telling me about this second home the Newsome family kept. It would be great if we could get an escort from one of the deputies.”
Nodding and looking at Bill, who stood silently, Nohrs said, “That would be no problem at all. The sheriff would make an excellent guide and could take you there himself.”
“I would like that; I’ll call for a car,” she said.
“No need,” Nohrs said quickly. “Take the sheriff’s car. It belongs to the city; I’m sure he would be more than happy to loan it to you while you’re doing his work for him.”
She looked at the manager, her head tilted, then she nodded. “Okay, then Manager Nohrs, I’ll tell the rest of the team we’ll be visiting the Newsome cabin.” She looked at Bill. “I’ll find you when we are ready to leave.”
Chapter Four
The terrain quickly became steep and rocky. Anyplace not covered with stone was blanketed in sand and dried pine needles. Bobby was still pressing ahead, but John had noticed the big man slowing down, and his gait had changed to favor his wounded hip. He glanced at his watch; they’d been on the trail for over three hours. Looking behind him, he could see treetops, gray skies, and no sight of Sherman in the distance.
“How much further?” he asked.
Bobby took another step then turned to lean against a narrow birch tree. “Just over this peak.”
“How’s the leg?” John asked.
“It hurts, how do you think it is?” Bobby said before pointing up the hill. “We need to keep moving. All this resting will just make us cramp up.”
The big man turned and stepped off, bounding from tree to tree, his arms grabbing and pushing off trunks like a swimmer moving through the water. John followed him, turning back every few feet to check their back trail. He felt his brain going back to a place he didn’t want it to. The rough terrain, even though lush and green, reminded his feet and knees of the steep valleys in Iran. He dropped his gaze at the earth and watched a kicked boulder roll past him. John had done three tours in the Proliferation Wars, and all for nothing. After four failed nuke deals and an attempted disarmament by the United Nations, the Iranians still got their nuclear weapon.
John watched the younger man ahead of him and wondered if his thoughts were back in the same place, someplace on a walk in the Alborz Mountain Range. He could see that Bobby was a well-trained woodsman. He’d hardly left a trail, and now that the bleeding stopped, there wouldn’t be much a man could follow. John looked up at the clouds and held up his open palm, feeling the tiny raindrops. The rain would help stop the dogs. Once the agents found the cabin empty, they would move back to ground zero and branch out in a search pattern.
He frowned and moved ahead, up and over the ridge, following Bobby. The man had changed direction and was now moving south and noticeably downhill. John’s mind continued to wander. What the hell am I doing out here? Maybe he should have taken a knee and gambled with the Homeland agents. There had to have been at least one witness who could vouch for him. And if push came to shove, he was sure the sheriff would take his side.
John stopped and put a hand on the trunk of a tree, catching his breath, watching the younger man walk away. He shook his head and clenched his jaw. No, Bill was right. Bobby had killed two agents, and they wouldn’t let them walk away from it. There was no going back now. He was a fugitive.
He pushed ahead to catch up and could see they were far off the trail, moving through thick and heavy woods again. In many places, the sky was blocked out from the thick overhead cover. John wondered how Bobby was staying on course without the aid of a compass, in woods so thick he couldn’t see the sun. Before he could ask, the man slowed his pace and fell in beside him.
“If we ever get separated, the route is easy. From Sherman, walk to the high point on the mountain. Cross over the first ridge then follow the saddle down to the lumber camp.”
“And where is the lumber camp?” John asked.
Bobby stopped and pointed to a thick mass of small trees. “We’re here.”
Near the center of the brush-covered clearing was a massive brown rock and a large clump of overgrown brush and saplings. Standing still and studying the terrain, John could see down the slope. They’d entered a sort of clearing where the old growth had all been cut. Along the ground were hundreds of rotted tree stumps as far as he could see. To the left and right, he could see they were in a narrow valley that had been completely logged and now reclaimed with young trees and vegetation. “Okay, I see a logged-out landscape, but where is the camp?”
Bobby grinned and kept moving toward the thick copse of trees and the large brown rock. As they moved closer, John could see that the massive brown rock was really the outline of a rusted iron box with one side open. John moved nearer and investigated the earth- and weed-filled box. “What is it?”
“Grandad found it deer hunting a couple decades ago.” Bobby moved to one side and pulled branches away, revealing a stone hearth at the base of the cast iron box. “This is a cook stove, sort of like an antique oven in a large mess hall. We think this wood stove used to be in the center of a large dining hall for the lumber jacks. Grandad walked the perimeter at one time, mapped most of it with a metal detector and found the foundation to many of the buildings and even some old axe heads and other tools.”
John put his hands on his hips and turned in a circle. Focusing, he could just make out the outlines of squares and shaped timbers where buildings had once been. “Damn, I never knew this was up here.”
“Grandad thought there was probably six cabins in the camp at one time. Probably all burned to the ground or taken apart, log by log, when they finished cutting the valley.” He turned and looked at the stove
again. “This was probably too heavy, or they just didn’t care about it anymore,” he said. “Dad found a maker’s stamp on the base of it, and he tracked it to an operation out of Chicago.”
John did another take of the land and bit his lip. “We’ve got to be almost ten miles from Sherman, even more by way of roads.” He looked down the wide logged-out valley going to the south. “And where does this go?”
“Almost twenty miles like that. There are a couple old logging roads and a few streams wide enough to float a tree. From the air, this just looks like any other scar on the mountain. A long narrow scar in unforgiving terrain, they won’t be eager to come up here. And they’ll figure any man that does has his days numbered.” The man unslung the rifle and leaned it against a tree. “If they do come, though, it will be from the west. That’s the only drivable road in or out. The way we just came is the only way up without serious climbing equipment.”
“Okay, so we got here, now what?” John asked.
Bobby grinned and knelt, scraping away the rough sides of a cut square rock near the base of the hearth. “This is the best part.” Finding a handhold he grunted, pulling at the rock, then looked at John. “Mind giving me some help?”
John moved closer to the stove, shrugged off the pack, and dropped it. He knelt next to the bigger man, digging his fingers under the edge. Together they pulled and the rock slid away from the rest of the hearth, revealing a dark open chasm. John leaned forward and investigated the dark void. “What is it?”
“The pack,” Bobby said as he leaned back on his heels.
John pulled the bag closer and handed it off to Bobbly. After unsnapping a side pocket, the younger man reached in and removed a trio of chemical lights. He snapped each one and dropped them into the hole.
“Grandad thought it was probably a root cellar for the lumber camp, a place to store provisions. They built the entrance here close to the stove. Probably so the cooks could use it for the entire camp. They would have done all of their business right here.”
Bobby took the pack and dropped down into the hole. John looked in after him. With the glow of the chemical lights, he could see that it wasn’t the bottomless pit it first appeared to be. Bobby was now scooting down a dirt ramp that dropped down to the floor of the space. John came in behind him and slid a few feet in before stopping. The ramp’s edges still held the outlines of timber steps. The walls were made of hand-laid flagstone with solid beams intermixed.
“Grab the hatch,” Bobby said.
John looked up and found it had a leather handle stuck to the bottom side. He grabbed it and tugged. The stone slid and locked into place with a clunk. His eyes drifted along the ceiling’s structure and beams, oil-soaked wood and stone with rope lashings, the spaces in between tightly sealed with mortar.
Bobby followed his gaze up and nodded. “The roof is strong. Really strong. The men that built this place knew what they were doing. If it rains out there, we won’t get wet in here.”
“We won’t?” John asked.
“Nope,” Bobby grinned. “Sure, there are spots where it leaks. But the ground is sloped to that wall with a trench at the base to help the water run off. If the need comes along, you can piss in that trench. It’ll get carried down into the mountain. In a month or so, I guess they’ll be drinking it in Sherman.” The big man laughed and reached into the top of the pack and removed a flashlight.
He flicked it on and shined it down to the end of the space, which was at least thirty feet long and about half as wide. At the very back, dark-green fabric reflected back at them.
“Dad thought it was easier to just put tents inside than trying to frame up living spaces,” Bobby said, walking toward the back of the cavern. “We’re safe down here, protected from the elements and all of that, but it’s really not any more comfortable than sleeping up there on the surface.”
John tried to look but couldn’t see much out of the beam of the flashlight. “Hey, Bobby, I notice you seem to know a lot about what’s in that pack.”
“Yeah, it’s my pack,” Bobby said, still walking. “Well, sort of. It’s Legion’s, but we all have one packed the same way. When we get to the tents, you’ll find four more exactly like it.”
John followed the man to the back. There were three tents there, two small olive-green and a large A-frame canvas tent between them. The canvas tent had the sides pulled back, and Bobby moved into it and lit a gas lantern hanging from a center beam.
“We call this the mess and meeting tent. There is food in boxes all over the place, but we try to eat our meals here.” He then moved and fell heavily into a foldable camp chair. He let out a long sigh then pointed to a black footlocker in the far corner of the tent. “Get in there, well ya? There are meds inside. I think I’m going to need some more mending on this hip.”
John moved in and took a knee next to the footlocker. He flipped the lid and saw it was divided into several sections. On the top drawer were bottles of the usual over-the-counter stuff. In the next rack were hard painkillers and several bottles of fish antibiotics. He took a bottle of amoxicillin and a bottle of tramadol. He turned and tossed the bottles to Bobby. “Two pills each. Take them now,” he said before lifting the top drawer out and finding more packages of battle dressing and field bandages. Surprised to find a suture kit and local anesthetic, he grabbed several items and a roll of medical tape before walking back to Bobby. “You are set up pretty well here. Who packed this for you?” John asked.
“Legion has a couple nurses and a doctor. They sent out lists, and we packed our own boxes the way they said to.”
The big man opened the bottles, took a couple of each pill, and swallowed them dry. He stood from the chair and opened a cabinet, removing a bottle of Wild Turkey. He took a double long pull, coughed, and set it on the table before moving to a cot. He exposed his hip and lay down on his stomach. John pulled on a pair of gloves then stood over him, pulling away the bandages. The wound had already begun to crust and ooze.
John loaded up a syringe. “This is gonna hurt a bit,” he said as he started shooting the area up with an L.E.T. cocktail of lidocaine, epinephrine, and tetracaine. He felt Bobby flinch on the first injection. He continued working around the wound site and then used an antiseptic swab to clean the area while he waited for the numbing to kick in.
“You were a medic. I read about you in the paper,” Bobby said.
The man’s voice had grown low and exhausted. He’d been through a lot and was crashing. John worked quietly, cleaning the wound and letting the man rest.
“Yeah, in the Army I was a medical sergeant, before I got my commission and joined the dark side,” John said.
Bobby laughed. “You were more than that. Daddy said you were a Special Forces medic. You saved all those people at the Azad Dam ambush. Those grunts were pinned down for hours, and when your team was extracted, you stayed behind to continue working on people. I read all about it in the local paper. You’re a genuine hero,” he said, over pronouncing genuine.
John hadn’t talked openly about the battle in years, and he didn’t really want to now. “I didn’t do anything special.”
“You could have left, but you stayed,” Bobby said. “That’s something special in my book.”
John sighed then reached in and pulled the combat QuikClot gauze from the wound and waited to see if it began bleeding. He probed the area to get a response from Bobby. When he was sure it was numb, he began cleaning the injury. “My team was sent in to recover scientists that were defecting to the UN. The infantry were there to provide ground security. It was supposed to be a quiet pickup. The scientists called in before the sun came up and gave the all-clear.”
“But it wasn’t clear, was it?” Bobby said.
Frowning, John said, “Something like that. The ground force came in and blocked the roads, set up basic security. We flew in by Black Hawk, the teams came in, and we took the engineering house and secured the scientists. Easy day. We went to board the birds for extraction
and started taking heavy fire from the high ground. There was a direct mortar strike on the North Gate. A lot of men hurt. Me and another team medic ran for the gates. It was hell; half the infantry platoon was down, including their own medics. We dug in and just did what we could to keep them alive until help could get there.”
Bobby pushed up and put his arms under his chest. “I didn’t know there was a second medic that stayed with you. All I ever read about was you refusing to leave with your team and earning that Silver Star. You were kind of a big deal in this town for a minute.”
John shook his head. “There was another, but he didn’t make it out. A lot of good people died on that raid.” He stopped and took a deep breath then slowly released it. “And for the record, I never refused to leave. The team left because I wasn’t the mission. Those scientists were, and they had them secured. They didn’t leave me behind, I ran out on them.”
“That’s a hell of a way to think about it.” Bobby shifted and laid his head down. John heard his breathing deepen, and he began working the sutures and closing the wound. “You still saved those boys, John, that’s what matters.”
“Nope, my best friend was killed because I ran for the fight at the gate instead of the birds. That’s the way I’ll always see it,” John said. “The only thing I’ll ever wonder is, why didn’t I take that bullet? It was my idea to stay, not his.”
The big man grunted, his head buried in his arms on the cot. “I’m sorry for bringing it up, John. I know better than to do that.” He sighed. “I never was good on painkillers.”
John closed the last of the wound and cleaned the area before slapping a bandage on it. “This should heal up nice if we can keep the infection out.” He stood and walked to a corner, where he removed the latex gloves and dropped them into a metal can. Then he found a chair of his own and fell into it. He put his head back and closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”