Thin Gray Lines

by Mark Hazard

  He thought about Jameson and his Zippo lighter, and about all the other men and women from the trauma support group, each one with their own talisman. Whether he had PTSD or not, he began to suspect that Jameson was right — he needed grounding, too.

  He’d known he was different long before combat. Going to war had merely amplified the difference and widened the gulf. It wasn’t all in his head. People pointed it out all the time, both in compliments and criticism, praise and denigration, pointed speech and off-hand comments. He didn’t live in the same world as everyone else, at least so it often seemed. And that was all right, so long as he felt grounded, if not in his identity, in his rational mind and in his mission.

  “Don’t rock the boat,” Jim had said, but the boat had been hit by a Pineda-shaped torpedo in a cheap suit and sunk. Again, he found himself at sea with nothing to cling to and no clear direction in which to swim. He needed a talisman that would center him and remind him what was real and what was not.

  Corus rocked and swayed in the dark, eyeing the back of Arlo’s head and the set of Randall’s jaw in profile. They didn’t speak or plot or chit chat. They were rigid in body, neither one giving the other the satisfaction of receiving a glance.

  Gauging their mutual disdain from the evidence he observed eased Corus’s pain by a degree. He looked closer and picked out items that surrounded them in detail: The frayed seam of Randall’s jeans. The liquid sloshing in the fountain drink in the cupholder, ice long melted. The tin of breath mints on the floor between the seats.

  In the expanding sense of peace, he experienced a moment of deja vu, as if he’d experienced this very same moment before. Other memories filtered in, this time related to combat, not the battles themselves, but the moments after. He would’ve expected small details of his surroundings to escape his attention after scrapes with death. And yet, Corus could see with perfect clarity each of the scenes where he’d recovered from the adrenaline and visceral fear of a fight. The path a spider took across barren rocks. The way a spent casing tumbled out of a Blackhawk and rolled on the tarmac. The crowing of a rooster at daybreak, perched on the ruins of a bombed-out farmhouse.

  This collecting of little details was what he’d always done to reestablish peace in his mind. It grounded him and forced him to be present. He realized that for as long as he retained his memory, the images inside Arlo’s work van would be with him, same as all the others.

  When they got back to the farm, Arlo marched into the big house, then, moments later, appeared on the wide verandah and waved them in.

  “Let’s go,” Randall said.

  He walked Corus up the steps and through the grand entryway which stretched before them. Down the middle ran a luxurious carpet with a long oval table on it, too narrow to be a dining table, but very beautiful and expensive-looking. Randall led him along the table into a room on the right-hand side where the hall ended. It had an ornate serving buffet on one wall, a carved table, and a chandelier hanging above it that probably cost more than Corus’ SUV. It was a formal dining room with an old-world feel. The big screen TV was out of place, but so were the stacks of papers and file boxes and plastic storage containers. However the architect had envisioned its use, this room was a nerve center. Tanner Farms in a microcosm.

  Iris looked up, nose scrunched like she’d smelled something foul. “Well?”

  “Checks out,” Arlo said. “But there’s a big wrinkle. The handler was a cop.”

  “A cop?” Rodger turned from where he was standing at the buffet, using it to hold up his laptop. “You didn’t say anything about cops.”

  “It was a surprise to all of us.” Arlo jerked a thumb at Corus. “You should’ve seen the kicking this guy dished out. The cop isn’t gonna be a problem.”

  “How do you know?” Rodger stepped up beside his wife, thighs pressing into the table edge.

  “He’s from King County,” Arlo said. “He’s learned a stiff lesson about stepping out of his territory.”

  “So? He could call something in here.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Arlo is right,” Iris said.

  “But he passed it up the chain.” Arlo leaned with his hands on the back of a dining chair. “Someone else is coming, now. Someone higher up.”

  “He sounded like he’ll mean business,” Randall said.

  “Do you know this man?” Iris asked Corus.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Corus said. “He’s former US Army. A total psycho.” That was only a mild embellishment. “His name is Joller.”

  “Then you need to leave,” Iris said. “I don’t want this Joller coming here.”

  “This was never about me, ma’am. He’s coming for you.”

  “This Joller is some kind of assassin?” Rodger asked.

  Corus picked his moment to embellish the danger. “I think he’s more of a sadistic torturer type. He’ll make you give him all your secrets. But if he killed you all afterward, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “He work alone?” Arlo squared up to Corus and crossed his arms.

  “Usually.”

  Everyone looked around, as if sizing up their total strength.

  “Do you have any muscle you can call in?” Corus asked. “Your supplier?”

  “We don’t have that sort of relationship,” Iris said. “If we ask for help, it’s tantamount to saying we can’t handle our business.”

  “We have to strike first,” Rodger said. “Where’s he coming from? Seattle?”

  “I doubt it.” Corus said. “It was probably a burner, but he was calling Carlos from a 619 number.”

  Rodger turned back to his laptop and searched it. “That’s San Diego.” He rounded the end of the table, clutching his square chin. “He’ll be coming by plane, then. Probably into Spokane.”

  “I bet we can figure out which flight, too,” Arlo said. “Ain’t no airline flying red eyes to Spokane. He won’t be able to get in until late morning tomorrow. Maybe noon.”

  “That means we’ll be ready.” Rodger gritted his teeth. “Military psycho, huh? I’ll show him military psycho. I was in the shit.”

  He tore off his jacket and pulled up his short sleeve. Below his bulging deltoid, a skull clenched an M-16 in its teeth.

  Corus had gauged Rodger as a powerful man, but the size and definition of his arm was surprising, especially for a man his age.

  “Let’s go up and punk this fool,” Arlo said. “Luis should be back from deliveries tonight. With Moses, that’s plenty.”

  “We just talked about the danger of leaving territory,” Iris said, deflating the bellicose mood. “The last time we left our home base, we lost Baynes and almost lost you.” She pointed at Arlo.

  Corus felt his skin crawl at the mention of the very event where Corus had first run into Arlo, where he’d knocked him silly from behind, then shackled him to a kid’s bike before taking the aforementioned Baynes down.

  “I hear you,” Arlo said, “but I don’t think you just sit around waiting for a cartel assassin to knock on your door.”

  Iris bit down on her thumb and ripped off her glasses. “Where’s Olive? Rodger, you said you’d check in on her.”

  “She wasn’t home.”

  “Olive’s here,” Arlo said. “Randall’s keeping her in one of those old barns.”

  Randall’s eyes widened, and his hands moved slowly into defensive posture. “I’m not keeping her anywhere.”

  “Randall,” Iris growled. “Not this again.”

  “It’s not like that, boss. I swear it to the Almighty.”

  Iris and Rodger talked over one another, demanding an explanation.

  “It seemed wise for her to stay on the farm close by,” Randall said. “But unwise to bring her into the big house. You didn’t need the distraction.”

  “That’s of no concern to you.” Iris’ words dripped with disdain. “She should be in here. It’s safer.”

  “I think Randall did right!” Rodger said. “She should be far, far away. She
doesn’t need to see any of this.”

  “There’s no point hiding anything from her,” Arlo said. “She knows.”

  The statement sucked the air out of the room

  Randall stared at him, mouth agape. Rodger and Iris froze still.

  “What do you mean, she knows?” Iris asked.

  “She’s been sneaking around.” Arlo waved an arm. “She already knew, or soon she would. Now she knows she has responsibilities with that knowledge.”

  “You had no right,” Iris snarled.

  “Clipping liabilities in the bud is my right. It’s my job.”

  “I’ll be responsible for my daughter,” Rodger said. “That’s why I was keeping her away from this place.”

  “Arlo is right.” In a sudden reversal, Iris nodded and shook her head at the same time. “When unforeseen events occur, we need to be able to rally around family. Olive is old enough to grow up.” She flicked her hand. “Randall, go get my daughter out of your sex barn and bring her to the house.”

  “It wasn’t a se—” Randall pleaded.

  “Go, damn it!” Iris slammed a hand on the table.

  Randall clenched his fists and shot them down at his sides in frustration but bit his tongue as he stormed out.

  “Get Moses,” Rodger said to Arlo. “He’s handy with a pistol. We load up and ride in an hour. Luis can meet us in Spokane. No one gets through that airport without our eyes on them.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Corus said.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Iris said. “Arlo. See to our friend’s comfort.” She squinted with one eye at Corus as Arlo took him by the arm.

  In the hallway, Corus said, “I don’t get it. I’m helping. You told them I was good to go.”

  “She doesn’t trust easy. This is just for her peace of mind. Too many moving pieces. You get it.”

  “You gonna hurt me?”

  “Not if I don’t have to. I really respected the way you dealt with that cop. Fine piece of work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When things calm down, I may have work for you. So don’t take this personal.” Arlo led Corus down a set of stairs into a semi-finished basement. An unmarked metal door sat ajar in the wall to the left. Arlo opened it wide and gestured inside at the sparse furnishings, a cot and a bucket.

  “Do all onion farms have solitary confinement?”

  “I bet you’ve slept rougher than this,” Arlo said. “I’ll bring you a magazine if you don’t cause a problem.”

  Arlo had subtly removed a pistol from its hidden holster and held hit down by his leg, which for someone like him amounted to hospitality.

  Corus expected an overwhelming urge to disarm and incapacitate Arlo, but his instincts were quiet, a sign that this room was not his end. It might even be for the best.

  “You should let me help with Joller.” Corus backed through the doorway. “I think going without me is a big mistake.”

  “Maybe,” Arlo said. “But cleaning up Tanner mistakes is my job. I’m real good at my job.”

  Arlo closed the door and locked it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Chito eased the farm truck up to the bunkhouse, turned the engine off and ran around to help Jorge out. He slipped down out of the cab onto his good leg.

  “Take the beer. I’m fine.” Jorge took the final swig from an open can and crumpled it in his hand.

  Chito hugged the heavy case of beer. “Moses will get you in trouble if he sees beer in the bunkhouse.”

  “Moses can take his goat face and screw off,” Jorge said. “Goat face.”

  “We can’t lose this job.”

  “I can’t work like this, Chito, not twelve-hour days.” Jorge limped into the bunkhouse with a hand on Chito’s shoulder for support. He rolled onto his back in his bunk. “By the time I’m healed, they will have someone else doing my job. I’ll be on the hind tit.”

  “That’s not so bad.” Chito shoved the case of beer under Jorge’s bunk out of sight. “You’ll still get paid. Maybe Randall will finally let you drive the seed tractor.”

  “No, Chito, I’ve got my eyes on bigger things. Tonight, we make our big score.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jorge made Chito reach under and grab him a beer before he explained. “The airplane comes tonight, yes?” The beer opened with a crack.

  “I think so. It goes every two days, then three days, then two again. Then it repeats.”

  “We take the cargo.”

  “How?”

  “We find out where Randall puts the beacon, then we wait close by. We put the payload in the truck and disappear.”

  “What if it’s drugs?”

  “Of course it’s drugs. We sell them.”

  “Won’t the drug owners come for us? Not the bosses here. Their bosses.”

  “Hmm. They will come. But we will outsmart them. We can be back in Mexico in a day. Maybe two.”

  Chito reached for Jorge’s beer. “If we’re gonna do this, you can’t be loaded.”

  “Drink with me so I won’t seem drunk to you.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’ll drink just enough to dull the pain and let me walk.”

  “How much do you think?”

  “Two or three more.”

  “No, the money, you asshole.”

  “Oh. Hundreds of thousands worth.”

  “Shit.” Chito pulled a beer out and cracked it open, staring at nothing as he drank.

  “We can be great men, Chito.” Jorge laid his head back on an arm and sipped his beer. “We just have to actualize! We have to act!”

  “I’ve never stolen anything before. I don’t want to be a thief.”

  “Do you feel guilty for your mistakes?”

  “Yes. All the time. I stepped on a beetle this morning and felt sad.”

  “What you think is your weakness is really your strength. It takes great strength to carry guilt, but you do fine, because you believe you can carry on. It’s the same with stealing drugs.”

  “Did Tony Robbins tell you that?”

  “More or less.” Jorge turned on his side. “Think of all the people you will help back home.”

  “What about Oswaldo? We’re going to leave him?”

  Jorge smiled. “We will fly him home first class. He’ll arrive like a hero.”

  That put a sparkle in Chito’s eye. “Oswaldo deserves that.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Olive kept her chin high as she entered her parents’ work space in the house. Randall watched from the doorway, proud of her for holding a defiant posture despite the fear of facing her mother.

  Iris looked up from her seat at the table, pen in hand, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  “You ungrateful little bitch.”

  “Hello, mom.” Olive folded her hands before her waist.

  “I provide a home for you, feed you, take care of you all your life, just so what? So, you can leave and become some realtor?”

  “It’s honest work. And you kicked me out.”

  “You unlock doors for people. You’re a glorified butler.”

  “I show them around, and I search MLS listings and—” Olive threw her hands down at her sides. “I’m not doing this with you. You have no right to judge me.”

  Iris sat back, one hand still resting on the table. “I have every right to judge you.” She shot Randall a look without moving her head. “This is the last time you keep a secret from me, or you’ll be on the next boat to Africa.”

  “Ja, boss.”

  “Go set out the no-drop beacon, tonight. We can’t risk it.”

  “The no-drop? But we’ve never used it. I haven’t even made a camouflaged housing.”

  “Just get it done. I’ll communicate our rationale in the morning.”

  Randall looked to make sure Olive was okay. She gave him a slight glance over her shoulder, angry and resigned to her mother’s abuses. It didn’t matter that she was an adult. It boiled his insides to see
anyone engaged in a one-sided relationship based in control and humiliation, especially someone he loved.

  A wave of angst washed over him as he left the house, not knowing what Iris was saying to her daughter. Olive wasn’t hard like her mother, but she was strong in her own way, sweet and trusting too. She didn’t deserve to be raised by such a mean old crow, always belittling and nitpicking her. For a brief moment, he had an urge to give Olive everything she wanted, to take her away, to take himself away, no matter the cost.

  As he walked, he looked over the farm he’d grown to love, beautiful as it was in the twilight, thinking about the good life and income he’d built. So much to give up, and yet he’d do just that if not for the crushing uncertainty beyond such a move. The only certainty was that Iris would do everything she could to ruin his immigration status, making it even more difficult to support Olive.

  Randall found a bucket and filled it with hay and nestled the no-drop beacon inside, about the size of a pack of gum. He hit the on switch, and the little green light confirmed the device was pumping out an infrared strobe.

  He walked the beacon out a few hundred yards and set the bucket down. Hopefully he’d look out at first light and see nothing but tilled soil ready for planting. Farming was hard enough without trying to send cryptic messages to planes full of drugs. What would his grandparents think if they saw him now? His insides still burned from before, tightening his chest too. At that thought, the feeling grew.

  In need of a moment outside his thoughts, Randall crept into the main house again to check on Diego. He rapped a knuckle on the door of the cell.

  “Yes?” Diego said from inside.

  “How is it in there?”

  “Randall? It’s boring,” Diego said.

  “Ja. There anything I can get you?”

  “I could eat. I’d appreciate a good book.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. I’m sorry they put you in here.”

  “Randall, you ever work for a farm with its own prison cells before?”

  “No, Diego. Can’t say I have.”

  “Something to think on.”

  “I’m thinking.”