Safe and Sound

by J. D. Rhoades

  “And when you find him,” Marie demanded, “what are you going to do? Bring him in?”

  Keller thought back to Ben’s words. Get the guy that shot my dad. He thought of Scott McCaskill’s last words to him. “I doubt he’ll give me that chance,” he replied.

  “But if he does…” He shrugged. “We’ll see what happens.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Bernie Caldwell slid a burger off the grill with his spatula and onto a bun. He looked over at the picnic table. His twin girls were already chomping away eagerly.

  Normally he would have scolded them for not waiting for the grown-ups, but he was in too good a mood. It looked like the financial worries he’d been nursing the past few months—the twins’ braces, his wife’s back surgery—were about to come to an end. The fact that the job was being put together by DeGroot meant that it was probably illegal, which didn’t bother Caldwell at all. Since Desert Storm, he’d worked on either side of the law so many times that the line had blurred for him until it vanished. The only thing that mattered was taking care of his family.

  “Honey,” his wife Gretchen called from the kitchen door. “Phone.” She was a plump, cheerful woman in a flowered sundress.

  “Coming, Liebchen,” he said teasingly. They’d met while he was stationed in Germany, but he used her native tongue around the house more than she did. She swatted at him playfully as he pushed past her into the kitchen.

  “Get those last couple of burgers off the grill, okay?” he said as he picked up the phone. She nodded and headed outside. “Yeah,” Caldwell said into the receiver

  “Sorry to interrupt your braai,” DeGroot said, using the Afrikaans for “barbecue.”

  “No worries,” Caldwell said. “Your message came at a good time.”

  “Glad to hear it,” DeGroot said. “We need to move fast, though. Can you kit us out?”

  “Depends on what you need,” Caldwell said. “But most likely, yeah. Who else is in?”

  “Mark Holley,” DeGroot said. “And Danny Boy.”

  “Markey? You sure? He’s been a little wobbly lately.”

  “Give him his toys to play with, and he’ll unwobble,” DeGroot said confidently, “and you’re the toy man.”

  “Okay,” Caldwell said. “Who else?”

  A slight pause. “I’m going to try and get Mr. Phillips.”

  Caldwell whistled. “He won’t work cheap,” he said. “Besides, I thought he was back in England.”

  “I have different intel. And I need a good long-gunner.”

  “Well, Phillips is your guy, then. I won’t need to get him anything. He always brings his own gear.”

  “Right, then,” DeGroot said. He gave him the time and the meeting place. “This will be the last time we speak on the phone,” DeGroot said. “Don’t try to contact any of the others.”

  “Wait a minute,” Caldwell said. “What’s going on?”

  “Things are going to get hot soon,” DeGroot said.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Depends on how hot,” Caldwell replied.

  “Not so hot the payoff doesn’t justify it,” DeGroot said. “We’ll talk more. Later. Just be there with the gear.”

  “Wait a minute,” Caldwell said. But the line was dead.

  He looked at the receiver in frustration. He wanted to know more. He considered hitting star-69 to try and ring back, but he figured it would probably be fruitless. He had a vague sense of unease. He looked out through the open kitchen door into the yard. His wife was eating with the twins, but she stood by the table to eat, where they were sitting down. For time to time, when she thought the girls weren’t looking, he saw her grimace in pain and put her hand to the small of her back. When the twins’ attention was on her again, she was smiling.

  Caldwell sighed. He couldn’t afford to be picky. He went out and joined his family.

  After dinner, as Gretchen was doing the dishes, he went out to the large storage shed that dominated the side yard. It was kept padlocked at all times, with Gretchen and the twins under strict instructions to never, ever go inside. Gretchen had been raised to believe a good wife never questioned her husband, so she complied without another word. He had caught the twins nosing around one time when they were six. It was the only time he had ever used his belt to spank them, and the experience so far had kept them terrified enough never to try it again.

  Caldwell unlocked the shed and stepped inside. He carefully latched the door behind him before switching on the light.

  The inside of the shed was an armory. Various rifles and shotguns hung on racks on the walls. Several automatic weapons were locked in cabinets with clear fronts.

  Caldwell was a federally licensed gun dealer, and he had permits for most of the weapons on display. Certain other more exotic items, however…Caldwell plucked a crowbar from a hook on the wall. He walked over to spot on the floor of the shed. There was a straight crack across the concrete floor of the shed. Caldwell shoved the sharp end of the bar into the crack and grunted as he lifted. He tried his best to spare his back; if he ended up like Gretchen, it would do none of them any good. He pried up the concrete slab, revealing a hole beneath. He put the crowbar down and slid into the hole. The area beneath the shed floor was cramped and smelled of Cosmoline. Caldwell worked quickly, selecting the items he needed and setting them carefully at the edge of the hole. When he had made his selections, he climbed out. With considerable effort, he fitted the slab back in place. He took the things he had chosen and set them by the door of the shed. He glanced at his watch. After the kids were in bed, he’d back his truck up quietly to the shed and load up. He’d have to leave early if he wanted to make the meeting, probably before the kids got up, but there’d still be time to say good-bye to

  Gretchen. Suddenly, he wanted very much to hold her in his arms.

  I have a very bad feeling about this job, he thought.

  ***

  “How do we get there?” Keller said. They were standing in front of the cabin, by Keller’s car.

  “There’s an old logging road that starts out back of the cabin,” Powell said. “We take it to the end, about six miles. Then we get out and walk,” Powell said.

  Marie glanced at Ben. He was oblivious to their conversation. He was holding some kind of conversation of his own with the stuffed frog he’d been carrying since they left the overlook. He had latched on to the toy as if it was a lifeline to a normal existence. Maybe it was. “How far do we walk?” she asked.

  “Until Harland finds out we’re there,” Riggio said grimly.

  “What happens then?” Keller said.

  “Hope he doesn’t shoot us,” Powell replied.

  “Whoa,” Keller said, “You never said—”

  “Relax,” Powell said. “I’m kidding. I think.” He glanced at the car. “I’m more worried this thing’s going to bust an axle on the way. This road hasn’t been maintained in a while. Harland only comes out of the woods about once or twice a year for supplies.”

  Keller opened the door. “Let’s get moving.”

  The logging road was an old dirt trail, slowly being re-claimed by the forest. The car pushed over thick clumps of weeds like a tank. They weren’t able to make more than a few miles an hour over the rough track. Keller steered as carefully as possible, but every now and then a hidden or unavoidable rut would rattle their teeth. The woods loomed around them on either side. The road began to slope sharply upward. The trees on their left side gave way to a weathered rock face. The trees on the right abruptly thinned, then the shoulder sloped away, revealing a broad vista. Unlike the others they’d seen, this view was not one of green and rolling forests. The forest down the slope was still standing, but the leaves were gone. There was some scrubby undergrowth beneath, but the taller trees stood bare and brown, stripped of all vegetation despite the fact that it was late summer.

  “What the hell happened here?” Keller asked. He gritted his teeth as the car slammed into another rut.

&n
bsp; “Acid rain,” Riggio said. “Power plants and shit in Tennessee and the Ohio Valley. The wind blows the smoke right up here. When the clouds form, they’re like battery acid. Any trees that don’t die outright are so weak they’re killed by bugs.” As if to emphasize his words, a wisp of cloud blew by below them in the valley. It would normally have been a beautiful sight but for the army of dead trees beneath the cloud. Then the road took a hard left and the blasted hillside was out of view as they passed between up-thrusting rocks on either side. Then the rocks were gone. The road suddenly widened out into a large circular clearing, like a parking lot. A battered and ancient Ford pickup sat to one side. There were pine needles covering the trunk and stuck on the windows. Keller pulled the car over next to the truck. They got out. Next to the truck, a gravel path led into the trees. Another no trespassing sign was nailed up by the path

  “Jesus,” Keller said. “This guy really doesn’t like company.” He reached back into the car and pulled the shotgun from its rack.

  “Hold it,” Powell said. “You’d better leave that here.”

  “Like hell,” Keller said.

  “He’s not going to like you coming onto his property armed,” Riggio warned.

  “He’ll get used to it,” Keller said. “You said you were on an exercise when you first met Harland. I don’t suppose you were carrying bouquets of flowers.”

  Powell sighed. “Whatever. At least sling it on your back, okay?”

  Keller thought for a moment.

  “Look,” Powell said impatiently, “We’re here to talk, not fight. And if he does decide to fight, that thing won’t do you a bit of good. You’ll never see him coming.”

  “Okay,” Keller said. He slung the weapon on his back.

  Powell and Riggio shouldered their packs. “Follow me,” Powell said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When the telephone rang, the man his colleagues knew only as Mr. Phillips was seated in his arm-chair, reading. He sighed and put the book aside. No one ever seemed to call until he was sitting down engrossed in a book. And the book was one of his favorites, too. He picked the phone up. “Hello?” The voice was soft but steady, with a distinctively British accent.

  “How’s retirement treating you, rooinek?”

  Phillips grimaced. DeGroot never tired of calling him by the Afrikaans term for an English speaker. It literally meant “redneck,” but any of the ironic humor of the term being applied to the reticent Phillips had long since been bled away by repetition.

  “I’m well,” Phillips said politely. “And you?”

  “Fine. I scheme that retirement’s gotten a bit boring for you, else you wouldn’t have answered my little message.”

  “It was the bit about a potential large payoff that caught my eye.”

  “Need some money, hey?”

  “Who doesn’t, really?”

  “Willing to take a few risks for it?”

  “If the payoff is sufficient.”

  “Don’t worry. As always, no one will ever know you’re there. Not until it’s too late. Still got your skills, have you? Still in practice?”

  In fact, Phillips had taken his rifle out to the range the day before and fired over two hundred rounds through it. He didn’t stop until he could consistently put six consecutive bullets into a one-inch circle at a hundred yards. “Not bad for an old guy,” another shooter had remarked. Phillips had ignored him.

  “Yes” was all he said.

  “Lekker,” DeGroot said. “So you’re in, hey?”

  “Yes,” Phillips said again.

  “Got a pencil?” DeGroot asked.

  “I don’t require one,” Phillips said. “Just tell me the meeting place.”

  DeGroot chuckled. “Still showing off, I see.” Phillips didn’t answer. DeGroot gave him the directions. Phillips said good-bye and hung up. He looked at the phone for a moment, then dialed again. The voice on the other end answered by repeating the last four digits of the phone number.

  “He called,” Phillips said.

  “You told him yes?” the voice said.

  “That’s what you asked me to do.”

  “Good. I’ve booked a flight for you. It leaves at six-thirty.”

  Phillips grimaced. “Commercial?”

  “Anything else would be too conspicuous. When you reach your destination, I’ve rented you a car.”

  This was the second time the man on the other end had said “I” and not “we.” This operation must truly be off the books. It wouldn’t be the first time, but, Phillips thought, it was going to be the last if he could help it. The comments of rude Americans aside, he was getting old for this sort of thing. He hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. He sighed. If he was going to make his flight, he’d have to leave immediately. Properly cased and unloaded, his rifle could be checked as baggage, as could his specially hand-loaded ammunition when properly stowed. Eventually, the airline security people could be convinced that he was harmless, just a rich hunter traveling to find big game. But that took time. The one thing he dreaded, especially where he was going, was when some security guard wanted to talk deer or dove or some other kind of actual game hunting with him. He had no interest in killing defenseless animals.

  Phillips stood up and stretched. He picked up his book again. He would finish it on the plane, but he didn’t think he’d bring this copy. It was a rare first edition and he didn’t want to risk damaging it. He ran his finger over the raised letters of the title. Red Harvest.

  ***

  “Whoa,” Keller said.

  The path ended abruptly at the edge of a deep ravine. A hundred or more feet below, the stream that had cleaved the cleft of the mountain foamed over rocks. A narrow wooden trestle spanned the gap to the other side, a distance of forty to fifty feet. Rusted railway tracks ran down the center, ending where the trestle joined the trail.

  “What is this place?” Marie asked.

  Powell gestured to the other side. “There’s an old played-out mine on the other side. It dates back to before the Civil War. This is what’s left of the tracks for the train that brought the ore down the mountain. The trail we just came up is the old railroad bed.”

  “You were right,” Keller said. “You could hold off an army from here.”

  “Told you,” Powell said. “This is the only way in from the road, across here. Down the other side is just woods.

  It’s where the national park begins.”

  “So where’s your friend?” Keller said.

  Riggio cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey!” The sound bounced and echoed off the walls of the gorge. There was no response.

  “He had to have heard that,” Powell said. “Let’s go on.”

  “I don’t want to go on there,” Ben said. “It’s scary.”

  Marie bent down and picked him up. “Just put your head on my shoulder, baby,” she said. “I’ll carry you.”

  Ben looked dubious, but he put his head against Marie’s shoulder and closed his eyes. They picked their way carefully across the bridge in single file. Halfway across, Keller looked down. He saw several familiar objects fastened to the supports of the bridge. He pointed. “Are those what I think they are?” he whispered to Riggio, who was right behind him.

  Riggio nodded. “Yep,” he said, “he’s got the trestle wired.” He gave a tight humorless grin. “Don’t worry, though,” he said. “He wouldn’t blow it just to kill us. He could have just picked us off if he wanted to do that.”

  When they reached the other side, they could see the mouth of the old mine, recessed slightly into the cliff ahead. The opening was sealed shut with heavy timbers nailed close together, the whole construction overgrown with a snarl of vines and creepers. A well-worn path led past the mine, into another stand of trees. “The camp’s through there,” Powell said. “When we get to the edge, we’ll stop and call again until somebody answers.”

  “How do you know anyone’s still here?” Keller asked. “Maybe Harland g
ave up, too.”

  Powell shook his head. “No,” he said. He gestured at the path. “That’s been kept clear.”

  “Okay,” Keller said. “Let’s go.” The woods were thick here, arching over the path like the roof of a tunnel. They fell naturally back into single file, Powell in the lead, Keller behind him, then Marie with Ben in her arms, then Riggio bringing up the rear. After a few hundred yards, they began descending. They had to pick their way carefully; even though the way was clear of brush and vine, rocks jutted up through the clay soil. Finally, the trail and the trees ended together at a low stone wall with a wooden gate. Beyond the wall was a large rectangle of flat ground, about the size of a football field, where the slope of the mountain leveled off before beginning its descent again.

  The long sides of the rectangle were lined with small log houses, a half dozen on either side. The area between them was grass, as flat and well trimmed as a parade ground. On the opposite end of the rectangle was a larger building, two stories tall, also made of hewn native timber. An American flag hung limp on a pole in front of the broad wooden doors.

  Powell cupped to his hands to his mouth and called out. “Hey! Hello!” There was no answer. He called again. Still nothing.

  “Maybe he’s out hunting,” Powell said. He turned to them. “I think we should…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Where’s Mikey?”

  Keller looked around. Riggio was gone. He reached for the shotgun slung on his back.

  “I wouldn’t,” a voice said.

  Keller froze.

  “Put your hands down,” the voice said. “Where I can see them.”

  The speaker was standing a few feet away. She seemed to have materialized out of the trees. She was a short woman, barely over five feet, dressed in green camo. She looked to be barely out of her teens. Her features were clearly Asian, but she spoke with no trace of accent. Her dark eyes were hard and appraising. She held a shotgun of her own trained on Keller’s chest.