“We’re finding a whole lotta nothing,” I said. “She said it was in the hills outside the town.”
“I ain’t seen nothin’ would count as a hill.” I had to give him that.
All the landscape we’d driven around had this weird feel. It was flat. There was nothing on any horizon which counted as a high point but it was still impossible to see more than two or three hundred yards in any direction. Whether it was the scrub, the natural curve of the earth or what, it meant we were going to have to get damn close to our target before we’d see anything.
“Too busy on this edge of town,” Cowboy said. “All these lanes to pissant lil’ dirt farms every coupla hundred yards. Not private enough for your guy, I reckon.”
“I know. That’s bugging me, too.”
“He’s not makin’ it easy to get saved,” Cowboy said. “I hope he knows ’at”
We pulled over a mile later and ate lunch in the shade of the truck’s cabin. Doors swung wide open to catch the slight breeze and our feet resting on the windowsills.
“I say we try out past the river after lunch,” I said, around a mouthful of sandwich. “Beyond the quarry. It might be more deserted; I can’t figure many people wanting to live near a quarry.”
Cowboy took a swallow of water and looked out through the dusty windshield at a cloud bank looming in the southeast sky.
“I ain’t seen anyplace today I can figure people wantin’ to live.”
He shrugged.
“Folks surely be strange.”
We rolled past the edge of town again, re-crossed Five Mile River and found the Lincoln Limestone Quarry. We worked our way up and down the network of roads surrounding and cutting through the quarry, and found something unexpected.
There were people in Lincoln, after all.
We got eyeballed by quarry workers and truck drivers a few times but a casual wave and big dose of confidence kept us moving. In a little over an hour, we had covered every road, lane and track we could find all the way north to the river, with no signs of the elusive Private Road 5150.
As we turned back to work further east of the quarry, the road network, such as it was, changed dramatically. There were larger swathes of land between each offshoot and intersection. Fewer farm gates and mailboxes. Everything was as flat as before and the visibility hadn’t improved, but the area felt more isolated.
We ran down one long road and found the highway again, so we turned around. Turning right onto Local 201 opposite the quarry’s back door we speared down the arrow straight road toward where it disappeared over the horizon through a gap in the low trees.
The first turn off this road was a dirt track, wriggling away into the scrub. Cowboy braked the truck to a stop in front of it. The clouds had thickened, the southern sky now dominated by a massive anvil-topped Texas thunderhead. The temperature had dropped and the first stirrings of a breeze had started to tease the dust and rattle the roadside shrubs.
“What d’ya think, boss-man?”
I looked into the turnout and then back down the road in front of us.
“Probably just used by four-wheelers for fun. Let’s keep going. We can always come back.”
Cowboy shrugged, popped the clutch and the truck lurched forward. We passed three more tracks on the right hand side, one on the left. They all looked disused and too small to be what we were looking for. Two miles further on, we crested another of those imperceptible rises and came to a T-junction. Dirt roads ran away in both directions.
“Hang on,” I said and jumped out of the truck.
It took a bit of wrenching to free the ancient signpost from the entwined grass and roots. It came out mostly intact, still with one road pointer attached. I had to root around a bit more to find a second one, half buried in the earth. The third pointer had long since rotted away, I guess.
I scraped the dirt and dust away with my pocketknife and made out the number 201 on one pointer. The second pointer broke in half when I tried the same thing, so I slowed my cleaning approach a touch. The paint was gone, but in the remaining shallow grooves I could see P…T … D … … 5 0.
“We might have it, Cowboy,” I said.
It was a three dimensional puzzle to reconstruct the original signpost orientation and it took me a few minutes to make sure that there was only one way it could have been standing before succumbing to years of weather.
I stepped back up into the truck.
“Left.”
The wind had picked up now, blowing ribbons of dust across the road in front of us, and throwing the truck’s rooster tail like a signal fire. The road twisted, turned and dropped beneath the hood. Cowboy’s hands turned into a blur several times as he fought to keep the rear end from fishtailing.
“Whoa there, Fangio,” I said. “This ain’t Indianapolis.”
Cowboy grimaced. Swung the wheel hard left and swore.
“Shit, Rafferty. Don’t you know nothin’? Fangio never drove Indy. You’re thinkin’ of Andretti.”
I shut up and hung on.
The sky started to spit rain.
Not heavy enough to dampen the dusty wind; just perfect for smearing the windshield into a poultice of half-moist road dust.
Cowboy squirted enough water onto the glass to be able to see the road ahead, but it was still a couple of near death experiences later when we squirted through a gap in the scrub with a screee sound as the brush scraped its tangled fingers down both flanks of the truck.
“Dang!” Cowboy said, as he glanced in the side mirror. “There goes the paint job.”
I wasn’t concerned about the truck’s bodywork. My attention had been distracted by the two pickups straddling a gated driveway twenty yards up on my side of the road.
Two pickups. In the country. Near a dirt driveway. Big deal, right?
It was the two guys standing between the trucks and cradling M16s which made it exciting.
“Cowboy,” I mouthed.
“I see em.”
He gave the customary farmer’s greeting. One finger up off the steering wheel and a slow tilt of the head. The two gatekeepers didn’t respond, just swiveled their heads to follow our progress. Soon they were lost in the dust cloud latched to our rear bumper.
“Don’t that beat all,” Cowboy said as he reached forward and mashed the odometer button with his thumb. “The only folks we done seen all day, and they carryin’ heavy artillery. Must be feeling distrustful of their fellow man.”
He started to slow the truck.
“Keep going,” I said. “I want them to see the dust trail so they don’t think we stopped around the next corner.”
“Ah yuh.” He squirted the throttle and we were off rocking and rolling. I reached again for the Jesus strap.
“I think we’ve found it,” I said.
“Whoever’s behind that gate is feeling a mite secretive, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, they don’t want anyone to get a look at whatever’s at the end of that driveway.”
“What to do, boss-man?”
“Keep going for a few more miles.”
“And then?”
“Then we wait for dark, sneak back and get a look at whatever’s at the end of that driveway.”
Cowboy grinned.
We made it three miles further before we ran out of road.
The river sliced across the landscape, and the road, in front of us. There was a stand of trees to the left, and we took the opportunity to get out of the truck and stretch our legs. The weather had continued to build, now with constant rain. Flashes of lightning lit up the clouds.
Cowboy pulled a thermos of coffee and two tin mugs out of the sports bag. Good idea.
We shuffled in the dirt, mostly out of the rain, and sipped the coffee.
“Good huntin’ weather,” Cowboy said.
“Yeah, the storm and darkness will help. You think they bought the idea that we’re just two guys out for a drive?”
“Maybe,” he said, “I’m more wonderin’ if they
figurin’ to see us go back past. There’s a whole lotta nothin’ up this enda the road.”
“Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.”
He shrugged. “Not much we can do ’bout it now.”
“Maybe they’ll think we’re up here fishing.”
“In the rain? Plus, that look like a fishing hole to you?” He jerked his thumb behind us.
The river slugged its way between the two road ends, thick and murky white. Thanks to the Lincoln Limestone Company, I bet.
“Not really,” I said, “but then I know next to nothing about fishing.”
“Goddamn city boy.”
“I do know those boys won’t follow us off their turf.”
“Yep. They looked like yokels, but I ain’t never seen a farmer with a semi-auto. Prob’ly just tryin’ to keep people from wanderin’ in.”
“That’s my read, too. Guess we’ll find out if they’ve got anyone else on the perimeter.”
“Less’n you figure to be goin’ in through the front door.”
“This boy may be from the city, but he’s not stupid.”
We drank coffee and ate the rest of the sandwiches as the last remnants of daylight were snuffed out by the storm. We sat in the truck after the rain got too strong for the small trees to cope with. I tried napping and succeeded in putting a cramp in my neck and waking up with a taste in my mouth like I’d cleaned out Cowboy’s horse stalls with my tongue.
On the good side, I’d wasted ten minutes.
“I guess Mimi was disappointed to not be able to join in our rock and roll mystery tour today,” I said.
Cowboy spoke from underneath the hat tipped forward over his face.
“Hell, Rafferty, I told her we wasn’t even gonna get to shoot no-one. She said it sounded borin’. ’Sides, she had washin’ and what-not to do at home.”
Cowboy’s shoulders shook the tiniest little bit.
Screw him.
I packed a pipe, got it lit and adjusted my butt in the seat for the thousandth time.
What would we find out there? In the rain and the lightning. Images of Jonestown flashed into my vision.
People who looked normal but accepted the ravings of a madman. Huts and buildings. These images morphed into photos I’d seen of the WWII concentration camps.
More huts. More zombies. More madmen shrieking their words of conviction to throngs of sycophants.
I hoped we weren’t dealing with the same thing.
A new image burst from a darkened bubble behind my eyes.
Kimberly.
Robed in glowing white. Kneeling.
“I am the Way.”
Green eyes. Wide. Unblinking.
“Follow me home. I am the Way.”
Kimberly stands. Robe drops.
Naked.
Unashamed. Uncovered. Open.
“Follow me.”
She steps.
Flames explode in the air behind her.
Smell of burning wood and chemicals.
Something else.
Burning flesh.
Screams.
“Ow, fuck,” I yelled and snapped awake.
I looked down to the smoldering hole in my jeans. Slapped at it and brushed the ashes into the footwell. They winked and sparkled. I grabbed the pipe from where it had fallen between my legs.
“Damn, that smarts.”
“Told you it was a bad habit,” Cowboy drawled. He was trying not to laugh, but wasn’t wasting a lot of energy on it.
I wanted to rub my leg but I didn’t want to give the bastard any more satisfaction. Checked my watch. 9:17. It wasn’t gonna get any darker.
“What say we do this?” I said.
“I surely do enjoy settin’ around watchin’ you set yourself on fire, but if you’d rather walk through the rain looking for guys with guns …” He shrugged. “I guess we can do that instead.”
He chuckled and fired up the truck.
I glowered.
Chapter 22
Cowboy stalked back down the road at less than five miles an hour. It was the exact opposite of our earlier wild ride in Mr Toad’s F150, but he only had the parking lights on to find the road so I gave him that. Aside from a solitary jackrabbit which burst into and then out of our faint light spill, nothing else was moving out there.
It took about twenty minutes before Cowboy pulled the truck off the road into a patch of long grass and killed the engine. Rain drummed on the cab roof and the world outside the streaked windows was pitch black.
“I reckon we’re less than a mile from the gate. Best not go any further, less’n they’re still there and lookin’ for us.”
I nodded. “We’ll cut inland a few hundred yards and use whatever brush we can find for cover. The driveway might curve south though, so we could be up for a couple of mile walk.”
“Ain’t no hill for high steppers like us,” he said. “Let’s git it done, boss-man.”
Cowboy turned in his seat and opened the sports bag again. He extracted a dark ranchers coat and then the night’s choice of weapon. I was wrong about the shotgun. He produced a gleaming rifle, with a telescopic sight.
I whistled. “That’s a beauty.”
“Winchester Seventy. Birthday present from Mimi. She’s too sweet.” He smiled. “I was gonna be bringin’ the sight anyways, and a little firepower … I don’t have to use it.”
I shrugged into a Dallas Cowboys windbreaker and a camouflage-patterned baseball cap, slid the hunting knife into the scabbard around my right leg and secured the Colt in the new shoulder holster. I was still glad I’d spent the money on that. Tucking a pistol into the back of your pants only works on TV, and only then if you don’t move around too much.
Having your gun fall out and skitter across the ground can be embarrassing. While you’re running, let’s say. Chasing a bail runner, for example. Then being burdened with the choice of continuing the chase or retrieving the gun, which is unregistered so no problems there, but is a handy and reliable weapon, and that’s not something you find everyday, so …
Trust me on this. A shoulder holster is worth the investment.
We thunked the truck doors shut and walked into the scrub. Water cascaded past the windbreaker’s collar and plastered the shirt to my back. The ankle-length grass flicked and swiped at my legs and my socks and jeans were soon soaked through.
The rain swirled off Cowboy’s Stetson and darkened the shoulders of his rancher’s coat. He moved easily with no signs of discomfort. Other than the Springfield over his shoulder and the pouring rain, he could have been out for a relaxing night-time walk.
Lightning flashed every few minutes as we made our way through the scrub.
With the low cloud base the effect was the reverse of a ceiling light in a dark room trying to short out but not quite being committed to the decision. The upside: we could check our progress with the lightning’s after-image of the landscape.
On the other hand, each flash shot my night vision to hell, so it was even money on being a good thing.
We lurched and pitched over tussocks of saltbush. I kept having to tug my feet free as my sneaker laces tangled. Cowboy took the lead and I followed with him at the edge of my vision. I’d rather have kept more distance, to present less of a target, but it was so dark that any more than five steps apart and we’d lose track of each other.
“Dang! I knowed I shoulda brought the night vision scope,” Cowboy said.
I wondered if that was also a present from Mimi.
After what felt like an hour, but was probably only six or seven minutes, Cowboy turned us south, tracking parallel to the dirt road. We had agreed that with each lightning flash he would scan the quadrant to the front and left. I would take front and right. Together we’d piece together the whole 180 degrees in front of us.
We continued like this for the next month.
Or so it felt.
“Let me check sumpin,” Cowboy said. He brought the rifle up.
“What?”
“There.” He pointed. “’Bout six, six-fifty yards, I reckon.” I followed the direction of his finger. Didn’t see what he was pointing at but I could sense something.
“Hard to see through the rain,” he said. “There’s lights over there.”
“The interstate?”
“Naw. That’s further ’round to the right. Not headlights, anyways. More like spotlights.” He held out the gun. “Check it through the scope.”
I put the gun to my shoulder and the sight to my eye. Swiveled through an arc.
There.
It was just a less-dark island in the ocean of darkness. A meek reflection of lights, out of sight below the horizon, on the low cloud base. Like seeing the glow of a distant town on a cross country drive, long before any details are visible.
“We’re okay for a while,” he said, “but we best start bein’ careful less they got eyes out for us.”
Now with a specific target to focus on, the walking became easier. The terrain and weather hadn’t improved, but the simple fact of having a specific direction to go, and knowing we were making progress towards that target, made a difference.
Go figure.
Another interminable period picking our way through the soggy Texas desert and the loom was visible without Cowboy’s scope. Shortly after that I could see the ground in front of me lit by the glow beyond.
Cowboy took a knee beside me. “We gonna be visible from here on, partner.”
I nodded. “Yep. So are they.”
“’less they’ve dug foxholes,” he said.
True.
I checked my watch. Quarter to midnight.
“You make out specifics?” I said.
Cowboy squinted down the rifle barrel. “Nope,” he said, swinging the gun through a wide arc. “Nothin’. Just scrub and rocks. And the rain ’course.”
There was still barely any light to speak of, but after the previous two hours of pitch blackness it felt too damn bright. I was getting that itchy feeling between my shoulder blades and had to talk myself into walking forward. I found I was starting to tiptoe, too, then realized that I couldn’t even hear Cowboy’s footfalls and he was so close I could have reached out to touch him.
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