Thin Gray Lines

by Mark Hazard

“Any word from Rodger and Arlo? Who did they go with?”

  “I’m not sure I should be talking to you.” Randall was silent a while and almost walked away, then said, “They took my hand, Moses. He’s been here longer than me. Meeting up with their deliveryman, Luis.”

  “They armed?”

  “Ja, I think so.”

  “So, you and the bosses’ daughter…”

  Randall’s breath caught in his throat, and guilt welled up, twisting is already upset stomach. “It’s complicated. I’m not proud…”

  “True love is hard to find.”

  “Ja. I’ll be back just now with some food.”

  Randall brought Diego a sandwich and slipped it through the slot, followed by a Tom Clancy paperback he took from Rodger’s collection. He was about to leave when Diego spoke through the slot.

  “Randall, do you have the key to this door?”

  “No.”

  “If things get bad, if anything goes sideways, you need to get a key and get me out of here. I’m the only one who can stop Joller.”

  “But Rodger and Arlo and—”

  “Joller’s going to chew them up. I’ll be surprised if they’re all alive this time tomorrow. You need a plan B.”

  Diego stared at him through the slot, but Randall didn’t know how to respond.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He went to the bunkhouse and his private room on the back side. It only had a twin bed and a writing desk and a small armoire for his clothes, but he’d always been thankful for it. He lay back on the bed, breathing hard, guts churning at a distress he couldn’t name.

  Something about the room felt stifling when it never had before. Apart from one window that pushed out at an angle to let in a little air, it was closed off, not much larger than Diego’s cell.

  An onion farm with its own prison cell. What a thing.

  He burst out his door, panting and sweating in the chill air.

  Of course, he knew it was no ordinary onion farm. He’d known for most of his tenure, but the length of knowing did not bridle his offense. He’d merely buried it under his obligations.

  Anger rose in him for once instead of shame. Anger at the Tanners for luring him along such a path. Anger that he had to stay on, because he had to send the money home to support people who constantly made him feel awful for everything about himself.

  “I hate them!” he screamed at the soil. “I hate them all!”

  He spat on the ground and kicked the dirt, beat his fists into his face and belly and legs.

  Randall fell to his knees and tore his shirt from his chest. He sobbed through clenched teeth, searching for one point of egress, one point of light to give him hope. But there was no true hope. There was no sure path to righteousness. No way to keep everyone happy without sacrificing his conscience.

  If there was no freedom for himself, there was only Olive.

  Unlike him, she could be free.

  If it was his last act, if it consigned him to hell, Randall would help her fly away.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Randall dozed fitfully until his internal alarm woke him around three. He put his boots back on and trudged out into the cold morning with no jacket on, hoping the frigid air would keep him awake. He got about half the distance to the no-drop beacon and stared up at the stars, waiting for the little red blinking light of the airplane.

  All the constellations were different than home, but he’d gotten to know them eagerly, as all his life he’d heard about the Big and Little Dipper, Orion, Cassiopeia. He found the dippers and part of Leo, head craned back, holding very still to see if he could catch the heavens turning.

  A soft whump sounded off to his left. He peered toward the east, but the night was moonless and too dark to pick out the outlines of the poplars by the road. He told himself it wasn’t the earth-trembling sound of a package drop, but something smaller, maybe a bird taking flight.

  His fatigue asked him to lay down in the soft, tilled earth. The thought of reclining on his topsoil under the beauty of heaven appealed deeply to Randall, to let all God’s lights shine down and see him in his compromised state, to surrender his iniquity to the Almighty in a wordless cry for help. But if he lay down, he knew he’d fall asleep, and he needed his eyes open.

  He looked east again, his ears prickling at a whisper on the breeze. He told his boyhood self that lived inside somewhere, like the inner rings on a tree, to stop being afraid of the dark.

  He caught the soft purr of the plane engine before he picked out the red light to the north. Hundreds of feet above, the plane soared into view, quite high for any man, but quite low for most airplanes. It came in over the main house and cruised right over Randall and the no-drop beacon. It was carrying on to the south when it banked in a slow turn over the patch of land where the drop usually took place.

  “No, no.” Randall took a few steps in that direction, and waited for the big whump of a cargo drop, but nothing came.

  He waved his arms to the south to say, “keep going,” but the plane held its loop. Randall got as close to the no-drop beacon as he dared, waving repeatedly, hoping the pilot would see him somehow. This went on for five to ten minutes, until the plane rose to a much higher altitude, but still circled like a hawk, too far away to hear the engine. Finally, after a full fifteen minutes after arriving, the plane drifted out to the west, and Randall breathed easier.

  The plane banked again to the south, then the east, and came in low, lower than he’d ever seen it. It dropped close to the Phillips house, and Randall started running, afraid the plane would drop the cargo on the house again. It drew lower and lower to the ground until its running lights were level with Randall’s eyes, and it touched down on the smooth dirt road connecting the two farms. The pilot cut the lights and the single engine and let the plane coast along the dirt road.

  Randall increased his pace when he got off the rutted earth and onto the road. He slowed down so as not to alarm the pilot, but the pilot hailed him far sooner than he should have been able to see him.

  “Yo!”

  As Randall got within mere feet, a light kicked on in the cockpit. Standing on the road, the pilot removed some kind of optic from his head and ran a hand through his ear-length shaggy hair.

  “Hello,” Randall said.

  “Are you Galahad?” the pilot asked.

  “Randall. I run farming and set out the beacons for you.”

  “Well, Randall, you did one helluva job on the last drop, or so I hear.”

  The man was pale skinned and spoke in a cocksure but polite tone.

  “Ja, it was an oversight.”

  “My people told me it was a one-time snafu. What’s with the distress beacon?”

  “My boss said it meant no-drop.”

  “No-drop, distress, what’s the difference?”

  “Why did you land?”

  “Why did you set out the drop beacon and the distress beacon?” The pilot grew more annoyed. “I circled until I got orders to land and figure out what you want from me.”

  “I didn’t set out the drop beacon, only the no-drop beacon.”

  “Hey, buddy. I like putting down on a dirt road in pitch darkness as much as the next yahoo, but I don’t appreciate having my leg pulled.”

  Randall stared at him dumbly in the dim light escaping the cockpit.

  The pilot pointed to the normal drop zone. “It’s right there.” He leaned back into the cockpit and pulled out the single-eye device he used to spot Randall in the dark. It dangled on an adjustable elastic headband. “Just hold it up to your eye.”

  Randall put the reticle over his eye and the world went snow white, then his eye adjusted and saw the contours of the earth shadowed in black, and a pulsing hot white in front of the line of poplars by the east road.

  “Bugger me.”

  “There’s two figures out there near it.” The pilot reached over and toggled the view, and the device beeped. Now the colors were flipp
ed, earth glowing white and the trees dark in the distance. Two dark figures stood near the beacon which pulsed like the pounding of Randall’s heart. The two shadowy figures moved, and he caught the flailing of their arms.

  “That’s men,” Randall said. “I do not know what is going on.” He looked further south and saw the no-drop beacon where he’d placed it, pulsing with a different rhythm, three bursts, then a long pause, then three bursts.

  “Are you armed?” the pilot asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Ah, heck.” The pilot rummaged around the cockpit, then opened up a rear side door. “Fire extinguisher, no. Headset, no. Ah.” He pulled out a crowbar and hefted it in his hand.

  Randall’s gaze pinned on the large rectangle of packed canvas sitting in the open doorway.

  “You push that out all by yourself? While you fly the plane?”

  The pilot patted the packed duffel. “Do these things really stay together? Or do coke heads in Taipei snort up a little bit of Washington with their jollies?”

  “It stays together. Sometimes the zipper is broken apart, but it’s packed so tight, it holds.”

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun. Strange business, isn’t it, Randall?”

  “Ja, strange is one word for it.”

  The pilot took the optic back. “There anyone you need to call to deal with this?”

  “I think I know who it must be. Two of my workers. No idea why.”

  “I’m up to stretch my legs a bit.” The pilot flipped the crowbar and caught it. “Shall we?”

  Randall led the way across the field, while the pilot strapped the optic around his head.

  “You look like you flew in from the future,” Randall said.

  The pilot chuckled. “You sure know your way in the dark.”

  “Walking in a straight line is maybe the only thing I’m good for.”

  “Hold on.” The pilot stopped and slung an arm out, hitting Randall in the shoulder. “I don’t see anything.”

  “The beacon is gone?”

  “The beacon’s fine. The men.” The pilot scanned side-to-side. “They’re gone.”

  Randall looked ahead, eyes useless in the inky dark.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. They’re gone.”

  “Maybe they crawled?”

  The pilot led from there, jog-walking toward the beacon.

  “I’m close enough that I could see them crawling,” the pilot said. “They’re not there.”

  “Look toward those barns. Maybe they’re running.” Randall pointed to the north.

  The pilot looked, toggling his view. “Lemme try thermal.” He hit another button on the side of his device, then scanned about, Randall ducked down out of his way.

  “I see a house far off,” the pilot said.

  “They aren’t in there.”

  The pilot scanned all around, even straight behind them. “Ahh, shit. They’re at the plane.” He started running the way they’d come, and Randall took off after him in stumbling fashion.

  “Crazy fucking Mexicans,” the pilot said.

  “How did you know they were Mexicans?” Randall asked.

  “Wild guess.”

  The pilot pumped his long legs and pulled ahead of Randall who was a fast runner himself.

  “Hey!” the pilot yelled. “Hey, put that down! You trying to get yourselves killed?”

  Randall heard something topple out of the plane. “Chito? Jorge? What the blazes are you doing?”

  The pilot flipped the light on in the cockpit again. Jorge and Chito stood there silent, the duffel at their feet. They shared a glance.

  “We see the plane land.” Chito shrugged. “We come to help.”

  “Did you put out the fence post in the cement coffee can?” Randall asked.

  “Yes,” Chito said. “Just like you asked me to. But I put it in the right spot this time.”

  “I did not tell you to do that,” Randall said.

  “Serious?” Chito scratched his head. “I thought you did tell me, boss.”

  “I blerrie well didn’t. And what’s this?” Randall gestured to the bag, which lay on its side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “We were just trying to help,” Jorge added in Spanish. Then Chito said as much in English. “Trying to help, boss. That’s all.”

  “At three in the morning?” Randall asked in disbelief.

  The pilot leaned close and whispered. “You need to take care of this. Call your people.”

  “I don’t have my phone.”

  Besides, Randall’s people were up in Spokane, waiting to bushwhack an assassin.

  Randall pressed his palms into his face.

  The pilot whispered again. “Get them walking to the house, then I’ll crack them over the back of their heads. Mm‘Kay?”

  “What? You mean to…?”

  The pilot put and arm around Randall, turning away from Jorge and Chito. “These men are stealing from you. This is the first rule of business.”

  “You seemed like such a nice guy,” Randall whispered.

  “I am nice.” The pilot sounded wounded. “I’m offering to help you, aren’t I?”

  Jorge leaned close to Chito and whispered, “What are they saying?”

  Chito kept his eyes forward but spoke out the corner of his mouth. “I think the pilot is discussing killing us with a crowbar.”

  Jorge smiled at the two white men and, keeping the appearance of calm, leaned even closer. “Like I can let some skinny gringo kill me with a crowbar? What kind of asshole would I be?”

  The two parties stared at one another for a time.

  Randall cleared his throat. “Why don’t you all stay here while I go to the house. Then we can sort this out calmly.”

  Randall was glad Arlo was off hunting down that Joller guy, otherwise he’d have already murdered them. Iris was probably going to want their heads, too, but maybe in a figurative sense.

  “I’ll run and be right back.”

  The pilot ignored him and in a commanding voice barked, “To the house! Á la casa!” He swung his arm toward the house, while keeping the crowbar behind one leg. “Vamos á la casa. Vamos!”

  Chito and Jorge exchanged another glance, befuddlement transforming to something more resolute.

  “No,” Randall said. “No, no. Don’t!”

  But it was too late.

  Chito vaulted off the hay bale sized cargo, throwing a punch like superman while Jorge let out a growl and tackled the pilot at the waist. They swung punches down on the man until he rolled free and scrambled to his feet, somehow still clutching the crowbar. He poised it behind his head in a martial crouch.

  “You should know, I was Royal Canadian Air Force.”

  Jorge and Chito got to their feet, each one clutching stones the size of grapefruit.

  “Oh yeah?” Jorge said. “In the Air Force, did they teach you how to fight Mexicans with rocks?”

  “Please, everyone. Stop!” Randall pleaded.

  Jorge and Chito hurled their stones at the pilot. Each one thudded into him as he held his arms up by his face. He winced and arched his back, dancing in a circle of pain. “Oww! You bastards. Oww. Is that all you got?”

  Jorge and Chito picked up more rocks.

  “Shit,” the pilot said. “Shit. Okay, now. Let’s be reasonable.” Suddenly, he charged at them, roaring a war cry. As he swung the crowbar at Chito’s head like an axe, Chito reared back and instinctively put an arm up to block. The heavy bar broke the bones cleanly, folding the forearm and smacking into his forehead.

  The pilot barreled Chito to the ground and stumbled to keep his feet. Before he could turn his crowbar on Jorge, Jorge fired off a stone from point blank range.

  It cracked the pilot behind the ear so hard the sound jolted the air.

  Unconsciousness stiffened his entire body like instant rigor mortis. He tipped and fell like timber.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Ahh, my arm!” Chito writhed on the ground. “My
arm is broken!”

  Jorge stooped to look at it. “But you’re still pretty.” He spun on the balls of his feet, flipped the pilot over and slapped his face. “Hey, Cabron! You dead?”

  The pilot gave a grunt and lurched.

  “He’s not dead,” Jorge said to himself with a shade of disappointment. He picked up the crowbar and stepped toward Randall.

  “What are you doing?” Randall backed away, hands out.

  “You tell me,” Jorge said in English.

  “I’ve been good to you. I told him not to hurt you.”

  “Is true.” Jorge’s shoulders drooped, and he spun the crowbar so the claw pointed up instead of down. “So, what now?”

  “Take it,” Randall said. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Serious?”

  “I don’t care. But what will you do? Chito’s arm is broken.”

  “Chito?” Jorge called over a shoulder. “It’s just the one arm that’s broken?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay let’s go. We can take the stuff. Randall says it’s okay.”

  “I didn’t say that exactly,” Randall said in bad Spanish.

  Jorge helped Chito up, who whimpered with pain, trying to cradle his left arm. “Jorge, I can’t. I can’t move a step.”

  “You need a sling.” Randall motioned by pulling his shirt up over one of his arms.

  “Ah.” Jorge pulled his own shirt off, muscles gleaming with sweat in the dim edge of the cockpit light. He tore the collar apart, turning the shirt into a loose loop, which they fitted around Chito’s neck. Chito cried out as they pulled it under his arm. Jorge cursed at him to keep his mouth shut and tied the slack off.

  “There. You’re ready.”

  “It’s hurts so bad. I can’t.”

  “This is our future, you little bitch. We have two hundred paces to the truck. Come on.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Fine. You need medicine.” Jorge unzipped the bag and chopped the claw of the crowbar into the contents, prying out a lump of white powder which he brought before Chito. “Snort this.”

  “I’ve never—”

  Jorge pulled Chito by the curls so his nose made contact with the claw. Chito snorted, knocking hundreds of dollars-worth of product to the ground and leaving a white patch around his nose.