AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "That place bothers me. All government bothers me, but it is coming up on election time. They'll be hitting me up for some serious contributions. This time I want a few questions answered before I write a check or two."

  "It might be just what they say.” Bubba finished gnawing on the last rib. The beans were gone, the Texas toast consumed with most of the french fries. He'd had enough—for now.

  "Might, but I hate the idea of a fence that big up against my land. Right in the middle of my hunting range."

  "Florida grows. Won't stop for us."

  "You want dessert?"

  "Not today."

  "We're getting to be grownups, Bubba. I remember when you were lean and mean, and I was a stud-duck cowboy. You were the first person I ever met near as big as me. Good thing you carried a gun and a badge, otherwise we'd have had to see who was the meanest. Now we don't even have room for dessert."

  "There are supposed to be ten times as many people here as when I drove that Crown Vic around trying not to get lost on every other dirt road. But what are we going to do? I even know my cholesterol nowadays."

  "Go on with our lives and keep an eye out for strangers. Like always.” Charles picked up the check. “I'm going to put some food on this for Behane. He was pretty skinny, my boys said. Don't eat it on the way there."

  They stood and shook. Charles strode toward the register, calling out insults to three men sitting at a table in the front. They all laughed. After a few minutes, the waitress brought Bubba a white paper bag, heavy with food. He dropped a ten on the table as an extra tip. They'd taken the table for two hours during the lunch rush, and no one had said a word.

  The clearing looked desolate when Bubba reached the end of the dirt road. The trash barrel was filled to overflowing with unburned rubbish. The garden flourished with waist-high weeds. Grass grew around the pickup as if it had been unmoved in weeks. Bubba stopped and opened the door to the Bronco. He called out to Behane, but there was no answer. After a few minutes, he walked over to the picnic table and sat the bag on the top. He stretched out on the bench, leaned against the oak tree, and fell asleep.

  Two hours later, as he blinked his eyes, he saw the ghost. He sat up. The ghost had disappeared. It had been a bearded, skinny ghost. Bubba decided to wait on the bench instead of running off. After a minute or so, Behane, covered with white splotches, stepped out from behind an oak tree on the far side of the hammock.

  "Hi, Tim. I brought you some Fatboy's Barbecue. The best in this part of the county."

  Behane walked slowly, awkwardly, as if he was unsure of his footing. When he came close, he smiled and nodded to Bubba. “I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure. I've been seeing some things lately. Been alone too much, I guess.” He sat down on the other side of the table. “That smells good. I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.” Then he smiled.

  "Charles Baird sent it. Thought you might need feeding. We ate lunch today and were talking about you."

  "I bet you were.” Behane opened the sack and began to set the contents on the table. “I see his cowboys riding across my land chasing cows, but I haven't eaten any of them either. But I have been living off the land.” Behane picked up a chicken leg and smelled it deeply before he took a bite. Behane had lost weight. His face had deep circles under his eyes. The eyes were dull and watery. A red welt was on the left side of his neck. The T-shirt and camos were filthy and covered with a dried white powder. The powder flecked his hair and his arms.

  "You look tired, Tim. Want to come into town for a few days? Rest up. Get some regular food in you. Be happy to have you at my house."

  "You want me off this land? You too?"

  "No. You just look bad."

  "Been staying up late at night watching the soldier boys. They wish I weren't over here watching them. I can tell.” He finished the chicken leg and ate a slice of bread. He opened one of the Styrofoam containers and sniffed the beans. He tasted them, then dug in with the plastic spork that came in the bag. “They been coming around, poisoning my food. Poisoning the animals too. The food's been going bad. But you brought this, so it's safe. It is safe, isn't it?"

  "I ate it for lunch. Hasn't hurt me. What's the white stuff?"

  "More poison. I guess I ought to wash it off. I fell asleep last night in a thicket right beside the fence line. The deer sleep in it sometimes. I can smell them. The soldier boys came along spraying the thicket and got me. I guess I ought to wash it off.” He put down the spork and wandered over to the sprinkler head on the deck. He took off his shirt and turned on the water handle. Nothing happened. Bubba could see red splotches, like boils, dotting his back. Behane twisted the handle, then shrugged. “I guess I forgot to pay the electricity bill. No electricity, no pump. No pump, no water."

  "Why don't you come back with me? Take a shower, get a good night's sleep. You'd be safe. No one messes with me."

  "I bet they don't. Them soldiers are going to quit messing with me soon. I think I have their secret. Want to go see their secret?"

  "Where's that?"

  "Not far.” Bubba nodded and started to cover the food. “Don't bother. They'll poison it while we're gone. Bring the chicken along, if you want. I might be able to eat some more in a little while. I'm full now."

  Bubba carried the sack while Behane led the way. Behane followed a trail that was well worn at first, but then faded out as they went into another oak thicket. They had walked about a mile in a winding arc when Bubba could see the chain-link fence. Behane raised his hand for him to halt. Then he crawled on his hands and knees into a thicket of scrub oak and Virginia creeper, sweet briar and palmettoes. The oak trees in Seven-Mile Thicket were seldom over twelve feet high because of the poor, sandy soil, but the rest of the plants grew around, over, and between each other until they were a tangled mess. This ecosystem was ideal for deer, rabbits, raccoons, and field mice, not private detectives. Bubba sat the bag on a stump, hoping the ants wouldn't find it, and crawled in after him.

  After a few feet, there was a surprisingly open space. Bubba could see where perhaps a dozen deer had bedded down. The space would have to feel safe, with tangles forming walls and ceiling. It had a smell much like a clean doghouse. Behane motioned him to follow. He crawled through another tunnel in the thicket. He reached another space big enough for him and Bubba to sit. They were within a foot of the chain-link fence. Every leaf was covered in the white powder. The ground was white. On the other side of the fence white covered everything to a height of eight or ten feet. Christmas in October.

  "Here's where I hear the executions,” Behane whispered. “They don't know I can get this close, but I've gotten pretty good in these woods. I could show those paintballers a thing or two now."

  "Executions?” Bubba wiped sweat off his face with a bandanna. It was immediately replaced by new sweat.

  "Machine gun bursts. I see the Humvees go by, and I hear them stop. Then rat-a-tat, they blast that machine gun that's mounted on it. They're executing someone. I know they're after me, but they can't see me anymore. I'm too close to nature now. I'm becoming one with the forest."

  Bubba nodded and looked through the fence. He didn't want to get into a deep discussion of executions and nature while sitting in a hole in a thicket with Grizzly Behane. Besides, the space was filling up with a stifling odor of unwashed neglect. He would call Mickey tonight and let him know that family needed to come down here and help out.

  On the other side of the fence it was evident that a bulldozer had been scraping a path even wider than a Humvee needed. It was a good twenty-feet wide at this point. The white covered the entire ground.

  "I wait here every night. I can see them plain, but they have no idea I am here. When I find the secret, I'll tell you. You and Baird are big enough to do something about it. I could maybe shoot one or two of them, but that wouldn't be any help."

  "Shooting them wouldn't be a helpful thing at all, Tim.” Bubba wiped his face and neck.

  Tim nodded. “I'll just keep watching.
Can you find your way back? It's mostly west back to the house. I'll just stay here and watch."

  "I can get back. Sure you don't want to stay the night with me?"

  "No, thanks. I like it here. No bugs crawl on me here."

  "You want me to take the food back to your trailer?"

  "Leave it there. The ants won't bother it here, and nobody can poison it.” Behane stuck out his hand and shook with Bubba. “Glad you came out. I had forgotten how nice it is to talk to real people."

  Bubba crawled out of the thicket. The bag of food had been ignored so far. He walked back to the Bronco without much trouble. He took an evidence bag out of the glove compartment. He still had a goodly supply left from when he was a real deputy. Scraping the white powder off his arms and pants into the bag, he thought there was enough for an analysis. It was something that needed a name.

  He drove home a bit too quickly, took a shower with Elvis's flea shampoo, and ran his clothes through the washer twice. He started the Mr. Coffee and microwaved a frozen cheese danish for fifteen seconds. Clean, with his return to civilization firmly established, Bubba reached for the telephone. Mickey had not been at O'Malley's very long and so immediately agreed on the severity of his brother's problem. He promised to make plans to be there as soon as work would let him off, and he could get a flight out of Boston for Orlando. He'd be there soon.

  Baird said that he'd make sure that any of his people working the south end of the range would keep an eye out for Behane, and that he would call a friend at Florida Power and get the electricity turned back on today. He said to take the powder to Environmental Technologies in Bartow. His cousin was the chemist there; he'd find out what the powder was immediately.

  Then Bubba called the dispatcher at the Sheriff's Department. After they reminisced for a few minutes about how much fun it used to be riding in a patrol car, Bubba found out that his buddy, young Corporal Marx, was supervising the patrols in the lower eastern quadrant of the county. He'd be the one to talk to about what was happening in that sector.

  Bubba caught Marx at home, just coming off shift. They agreed to meet the following morning at Behane's dirt road. Marx was late for the gym and didn't have time to talk right then.

  The next morning Bubba got up early, went to Big Al's, and did his upper body routine until he was soaked with sweat. Once showered and shaved, he went to Happ's for a real breakfast and conversation with the early morning shakers and movers of the area. Two generations of Happ's had been serving breakfast and lunch to the backbone of the establishment. Anything worth gossiping about passed through there first or, at worst, second.

  For a change, Bubba brought the gossip. No one had heard much of anything about a DOD project in their back yard. After he finished his omelet, his five pieces of bacon, and four slices of rye toast, Bubba knew that by tomorrow whatever was known about the fenced compound would be the conversation at Happ's.

  He drove home and picked up Elvis. He'd been stuck in his pen for the last few days and going to the woods was a just reward for not howling all night. When Bubba arrived at the dirt road, Marx was sitting in his patrol car with the windows down, enjoying the fall breeze. Elvis had hung his head out the passenger window and howled for twenty miles down Highway 27. He was a happy dog. Bubba stopped beside Marx's patrol car so they could talk without having to get out.

  "Good morning, Corporal. Are you enjoying those new stripes?"

  "I am. Despite the meetings and the paperwork. Better to boss than be bossed.” Marx's shaved head gleamed in the morning light.

  "Want to go down to Behane's place with me?"

  "I better stay up here. I'm an officer short this morning. If shit happens, I need to be near. What's going on out here?"

  Bubba told him about Behane and the changes in his behavior. About the executions and the white powder. Marx lifted his eyebrows and shook his head.

  "Why didn't he just buy a condo and play shuffleboard like all the others do?"

  "The purity of Florida called him. Have you had any problems with the DOD site?"

  "Other than plain rudeness, no. I introduced myself to the gate guards on various shifts, and they were uniformly rude. That was a joke. They informed me about not needing any stinking civilians helping them; they were the U.S. Army. I talked to a colonel, and he led me down the primrose path. But no actual problems."

  "Have you been able to keep an eye on them at all?"

  "My officers, as part of their regular duty, patrol all county roads and observe. There are four Humvees and three government sedans that come and go. None of the vehicles ever stop in Polk County. They must be going to Tampa, maybe to MacDill Air Force Base, when they leave. Thirty-two soldiers—twenty-six male, six female—eight civilians and, as of yesterday, two truckloads of U.S. Game and Wildlife men, rifles, and a pack of dogs."

  "But have you been able to learn anything?"

  "The sheriff isn't the least bit interested in what is going on. Not his precinct, he says. Really, he did."

  "Something's going on, but my real worry is Behane. I think he's going nuts."

  "I could Baker Act him for seventy-two hours for observation."

  "His brother is supposed to be coming down in a few days. He can do that if he needs to. Colonel Hughes said they were going to do deer studies. Sounds more like hunting season to me. If the dogs chase the deer, you'll have to shoot them to study them."

  "My thoughts exactly. A fenced area, dogs, professional hunters. Deer eradication is more like it."

  Marx's radio gurgled. He acknowledged it, punched an entry on his dashboard computer, and said, “Got to run. A wreck on 27. Call me if there is anything else I can do."

  "Will do."

  The clearing at the end of the road looked the same as yesterday. Elvis ran around with his nose to the ground, stopped a few times and sneezed, then howled. The water came on, the pump hummed when Bubba opened the shower valve. Once again, Bubba sat on the picnic bench against the oak tree and watched Elvis run circles and howl. The picnic table was comfortable enough that Bubba thought he'd put one in his living room for guests. While he waited, he got up once to open a faucet for Elvis to drink, and once to donate morning coffee to the acquifer. After the morning ended and no Behane, he left, heading for Bartow and Environmental Technologies. When he arrived, he parked, leaving the windows partially down. The day was cool and Elvis would be fine. A harried receptionist paused in her data entry to buzz the back. A tall, skinny man with his glasses on a cord around his neck came out and introduced himself.

  "Do you have the sample Cousin Charles called about?"

  "Here it is. The stuff had been sprayed all over the ground and the surrounding woods."

  "Hmm.” The man held the sample up to the light, then opened the bag and waved the aroma toward his nose. “Hmm.” He turned toward the door he had entered through. “Oh, I'll call Cousin Charles as soon as I know something.” And he left the room.

  Bubba looked at the receptionist, who shrugged. Bubba returned to the Bronco and drove home. Elvis slept all the way.

  There was a message from Mickey Behane saying that he would be arriving in three days, the fastest he could get there. Call him if there was any news. Bubba called, but Colonel Hughes was out of the office. No idea when he would return. Bubba tried to think of something useful he could do; a nap was out of the question. So he fed Elvis and changed the water in his pen. He put in a load of laundry, then checked his answering machine. Nothing. He threw the tennis ball for Elvis out the porch door and down the slope. Elvis enjoyed that for a while, then he decided that a nap was called for. Bubba put the towels in the dryer. He called the office and checked the answering machine there. Nothing. He was wasting the day. He needed to be back at Behane's. When he found Tim, he'd take him out of the woods regardless of what he thought of the idea.

  That decided, he checked the back of the Bronco for supplies. There was plenty of insect repellent, a couple of blankets, a folding shovel, a roll of paper to
wels, more than one flashlight: all the usual things needed to go off-road. He filled a cooler with drinks and food in plastic baggies. He changed into heavier trousers and pulled a sweatshirt over his T-shirt. He laced up his hiking boots, then put the Browning Hi-Power under the front seat. After the Bronco was loaded, he put Elvis in his pen and left.

  It was nearly dark when he reached the clearing. He parked and off-loaded the cooler onto the now familiar picnic table. He walked around the clearing, but there didn't appear to be anything different from the morning. Before it became absolute dark, he layered a blanket on the bench, sat on it, and leaned back against the oak tree. There was a flashlight on the table, a blanket for when the temperature dropped, and the Browning in its holster. Quickly, it became night. No moon and darn few stars. Bubba could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around, but none landed on him. DEET was a very effective chemical.

  His watch said almost eleven when the cold woke him. He stood and walked around. The woods were busy with rustling limbs and bustling insects, but nothing out of the ordinary. Bubba sat in the dark and ate a sandwich and some cookies and drank a diet soda. He'd forgotten a thermos of coffee. He wondered how big a thermos Davy Crockett had carried.

  Just before four, Bubba reluctantly eased out from under the blanket and headed for the outhouse. He took the roll of paper towels and a flashlight. There were some things that needed illumination. He had almost returned to the picnic table when he heard the faint crack of a high-powered rifle, then another. The sound came from the south and east. Then there was a deeper rifle shot. That was quickly followed by what could only be automatic weapons fire. One burst, then a second. There was quiet for a moment, then a third rip of automatic fire. The deeper rifle fired again. Immediately following, both of the other rifles fired. Then there came a long burst from the lighter machine gun. Bubba opened the Bronco door and grabbed the car phone. He dialed Marx's number. He answered after three rings, “This better be important."

  "This is Simms. I'm at Behane's. I hear automatic weapons fire close by."