by Nathan Roden
Q rubbed his eyes.
“I did something stupid today,” he said.
“What? Did you buy a Rolls-Royce, or a Bentley, or both?” I asked.
“Juuust a little bit more extravagant than that,” he said.
“Are you gonna tell me?” I asked.
“I bought a new house,” he said.
“Uh, I’m guessing you could buy a new house every day if you wanted to. Why is that stupid?”
“Well, I was all ready to buy a house for…for Blair…and me,” he said.
“Wow. Really? A woman you’ve known for an hour? Man, you weren’t kidding about snap decisions, were you?” I said.
Q was taking a long swallow. He sat down his glass, shook his head, and said, “Nope.”
“Just back out of the deal, then, if you need to. You know, put things on hold until you get in touch with her,” I said, confident in my role as ‘The Voice of Reason’.
Q screwed up his face and raised his shoulders.
“It’s not really the kind of deal I can turn off, I’m afraid,” he said.
“I don’t get it. What kind of deal can you not break off?” I asked.
“I bought eight hilltop lots overlooking the lake—in that new development—the one with the twin golf courses and the amphitheater,” Q said.
“I still don’t see why that’s a problem. You haven’t even started building the house,” I said.
“I’m not building a house. I’m moving one.”
“Moving one? You lost me again,” I said.
Q stood up and stretched. He put his hands on the table and leaned toward me. He had been drinking a lot.
“I’m a hopeless romantic, kiddo. I lost my parents when I was really young, and we had pretty much less than nothing. I inherited my land from an uncle I’ve never met—land that was pretty much good for nothing except generating property taxes—there was hardly any water, and not enough grass to run cattle to get an exemption from the county.
“Big whoopee deal! Quentin Lynchburg the Big Time land owner—he’s gonna have to sell off the whole thing for pennies on the dollar because the tax man was going to take it anyway.”
“I’m sorry, Quentin. I had no idea,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Wylie. I’m just crying in my beer, you know?” he said, sliding back into his chair.
He motioned to a waitress, who was already on the way with full glasses. The waitresses here probably knew all about Q’s wallet.
“So, you’re moving a house. I still don’t see what you’re so upset about,” I said. “Where is it?”
Q took a big drink, sat down his glass, and breathed an “Ahhh,” of pure pleasure.
“Scotland.”
I blinked. Several times.
“Scotland,” I repeated.
“Scotland,” he said, as if Scotland was just off of I-44, between the truck stop and the Waffle House.
“I found it on the internet about two thirty this morning and I made a phone call. I met their asking price, and it was a deal—done before sunrise. It seems that the owners have fallen on hard times—a bridge was destroyed, etcetera, etcetera. That was the easy part. I wired considerable sums of money to three different companies that are going to take the place apart and ship it over here. In fact, I paid extra to have them drop the jobs they’re on right now,” Q said.
“Take it apart? And have it shipped here? From Scotland? What kind of house is this?” I asked when I was able to breathe again.
“It’s called Castle McIntyre.”
“Cast…Jeez Louise, Q! You bought a Scottish castle?”
“It all seemed so… reasonable at four o’clock in the morning,” Q whispered.
“Take it apart, move it, ship it, reconstruct it, that’s going to cost you millions—“ I said, pulling on my hair.
“Yes,” he said. “Sev-e-ral, sev-e-ral, several, millions and millions. Almost a kajillion. About half a Brazillion. I should only have about a Centillion left, as long as the crude keeps flowing.”
Our last set of the night went off without a hitch. We made our bows, waved to the crowd, and stepped off the stage for a water break, and to wait for an encore call. The crowd doesn’t leave without “I’m So Lonesome”.
The club owner finished up our encore introduction. I was hoping, even more than usual, that the night was going to end without an incident.
No such luck.
It wasn’t loud, but I could hear it, all the same. It was the same guy as last night.
“Old Hank is turning over in his grave every time this Cheater butchers his song!”
I turned toward Nate, who had his eyes on me already. He raised his eyebrows.
I wasn’t in the mood. It had been a really good night, other than Q not meeting up with his mysterious lady friend. I barely know the guy, but he seems so cool and so sad at the same time. I cared about what happens to him. That is what being a human being means to me.
I closed my eyes and shook my head slightly toward Nate. I opened my eyes and saw him nod.
I had a couple of beers with the guys in the band after we finished up. We congratulated each other on one of our best shows ever.
The bar was empty of everyone other than employees when I hit the front door and started toward my car. I was feeling pretty good, and why should I not? A good show followed by going home to see Toby, followed by our Sunday snooze marathon. Ah, life is good.
Not for long.
As I put my key in the car door a fist hit me just above my left kidney.
When I rolled over and looked up from the ground, there they were.
My Hater. And two friends.
This was not good at all…
I scrambled to my feet. I knew that if they started kicking me while I was on the ground, I was at least on my way to the hospital—if not the morgue.
“You recognize a sucker punch, huh, Mister Rock Star? Like the one you threw at me last night?” the Hater asked, tilting his head.
I took a step back, holding my side, and looked around. Nope. I had no help.
“That’s right, Mr. Rock Star, you got no posse to bail you out tonight, do you? Now, ain’t that a shame.”
“What did I ever do to you?” I said. “Why do you even show up here?”
He stepped forward and shoved my shoulders, which lit up the pain in my side all over again.
The guy snorted a laugh.
“What right do you think you have—showing up in our town, dancing around and singing like you never did anything wrong? You were on Brand New Voice, man! Living the dream! But that wasn’t good enough for the great and mighty Mr. Westerhouse, now was it?” He shoved me again and I stumbled backward into the side of my car.
The Hater stepped toward me. He was standing on top of one of my feet.
“You freakin’ dirt-bag! You and your stinking dirt-bag manager. Did you think you were going to get away with it, trying to fix the vote with your east coast, big city mafia crap? What were you gonna do next, huh? Burn some American flags? Go around the country telling little kids that there’s no Santa Claus?”
He was in my face; yelling and spitting. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelled of beer and cheese nachos.
I was about to get hurt. Bad.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” I said.
This was true.
“Yeah. Right,” the Hater said, drawing back his fist.
CHK-CHK.
The sound of a pump shotgun is an attention grabber almost anywhere in the world.
The three individuals who intended to pummel me before sunrise took one step back. They looked toward the trees at the edge of the parking lot.
He stepped from behind a tree holding a sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun and dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo.
“It is a most unmistakable sound, is it not?” he said. “One of the most intimidating sounds known to man.”
This is not happening. I looked up and saw that
one of the three guys was twirling a huge hunting knife. Oh, man. Marathon Sleep Sunday is ruined.
The guy with the knife seemed to relax a little. He pushed his jaw forward.
“Yeah, right. He’s not gonna use that. Like, he’s gonna go to the pen for the rest of his life over this little punk.”
“Are you all right, Wylie?” Q asked, taking a couple of steps toward me, keeping an eye on my three adversaries.
“Yeah. I might be missing some high notes for a couple of days,” I said, a little braver than I was a minute ago.
Q looked at the three guys and then held the shotgun in front of him.
He looked down at the gun and chuckled.
“You’re right, of course. I carry this mostly for dramatic effect,” Q said.
He tossed the shotgun to the ground.
Holy Crap! Now, what?
The three took a step toward us.
“Ah, ah, ah!” Q said, reaching inside his jacket. He pulled out what looked like an over-sized electric razor. The three guys froze.
“Now this…this is a very interesting item, gentlemen. It’s a prototype—available only from a very exclusive community of serious individuals from the former Soviet Union, and for a very healthy sum.”
The Hater must have felt his prey slipping away.
“Big deal. You have a Taser. Maybe you get to one of us, but you’re not gonna get all three,” he smirked. His two friends took a step to the side, spacing themselves.
“Oh, this is more than just a Taser, I’m afraid,” Q said. He turned it over and over in his hand.
“A rumor exists, neither confirmed nor denied; that a one-and-a-half second contact with this particular model will leave its victim not only stunned— but it also carries the curious side effect of rendering his ‘wee-willie-winky’ totally and permanently dysfunctional. Thankfully, there are diapers available in adult sizes. So, what do you say? Who would like to volunteer for some top-notch research, in the name of science?”
The fight was over. The three guys looked at each other to get a clue about how they were going to exit. I heard shouting and footfalls and saw Nate sprinting in our direction from the far end of the parking lot. The Hater’s friends were leaving in a hurry. The Hater dropped his hands and started to turn. I couldn’t help myself. I had a clear, open view of the same jaw I had hit last night—
So I hit him again. The next thing I heard was someone yelling “Cops!”
I turned to my right and ran two steps—
Right into a name tag pinned to the muscular chest of one Officer Terry Browning.
Six
Holly McFadden
McIntyre Village, Scotland
Holly grabbed her helmet from the top of her dresser on her way out the front door. She was on her way to the little store down the hill for a loaf of bread and some milk. She turned the corner beside the house and stopped in her tracks. The space under the breezeway was empty. Her moped was gone.
“Seth! Uncle Seth!” she yelled and ran to find her uncle.
Seth began to loose one of his infamous belly laughs from the rear of the house.
“What the h—” Holly said, walking in that direction.
Seth laughed even louder as Holy rounded the corner. Holly stopped in mid-sentence like she had run into a wall.
Beside her bellowing uncle stood a brand new blue Vespa scooter dressed with matching blue fiberglass saddle bags. The whole package was tied up with a blue ribbon and a big blue bow.
“Happy birthday, Christmas, and Sunday, little girl!” Seth said.
“What is this, Seth? Where is my…?” Holly stammered and swiveled her head around.
“She’s all yours, Holly. Do I get a hug or not?”
Holly hugged him.
“It’s neither my birthday nor Christmas, Seth. What is this about?” Holly asked.
Seth took both of Holly’s hands in his.
“It sold, Holly. The McIntyre. In less than three weeks’ time, child! Can you believe it? Early, early this mornin’. And at the top dollar price, too! I’m not sure I believe it myself!”
Holly let go of Seth’s hands.
“Who bought it, Uncle Seth? Someone we know? Where are they from? Was it a family? Or some company? What do they plan to do with it? Did they say?”
“Slow down, Holly,” Seth laughed, but he looked uneasy.
“It was just a man. A single man, so he says,” Seth said.
“A man from around here, then?” Holly asked.
Seth bit his upper lip and looked away.
“A man from America. A place called Misery.”
“A place in America called Misery? Aye, he sounds like a kindred spirit for David and Arabella,” Holly said.
She looked over the Vespa, opened its luggage bags, and peeked inside. She turned and smiled at Seth, and then threw her arms around his neck.
“I just love it, Uncle. Thank you,” she said. She stepped back and turned in the direction of the Castle McIntyre.
“So, we await the man from Misery and hope that all will turn out well. Will you come with me, to tell the Baron and his family? And the other two dung beetles?” Holly asked.
“Of course, Holly,” Seth said.
Seth and Holly climbed into Seth’s old pickup truck and set out toward Castle McIntyre. They drove into town to fuel up, and then drove along the road that paralleled the river. New, bright green growth had already sprung up where the raging river had torn away the banks. The day was warm and sunny—nearly perfect for a Sunday morning drive.
A flagman stepped toward the edge of the two-lane road, waving his red flag at the approaching pickup truck. Seth slowed to a stop.
“G’mornin’ to ya lad,” Seth said.
“Good mornin’ to you, sir,” the flagman said. He nodded toward Holly. “’M’ lady,”
Holly nodded hello.
“What brings ye out on this fine Sunday morning, laddie? Don’t tell me we’re working on the new bridge, already? I’ve never seen the government move that quickly in all my days,” Seth said.
The flagman shook his head.
“The pack of galoots we got around here? They haven’t even formed a committee to discuss the possibility of forming another committee to discuss rebuilding that bridge,” the flagman said, laughing at his own joke.
“Well, what are we doing here today then, my friend?” Seth asked.
“I would swear that someone is totally off their head,” the flagman said as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
“Big trucks brought in these huge barges, plunked ‘em in the river, then they brought some trucks and flatbeds over to this side. They didna even want to wait on getting the cranes up the south road. They’re starting to take the first loads back to the udder side of the river right now.”
“Ya don’t say, now? What might they be movin’? On a Sunday mornin’, no less?” Seth said squinting up the road.
“So far, they’ve loaded up the barges with all of the doors and the drawbridge,” the flagman said.
“They what?” Holly squealed, sliding across the seat. She stretched as far toward the flagman as she could, across Seth’s lap.
The flagman jumped backward, stumbled, and fell on his backside.
Seth opened his door. He and Holly were at once hovering over the frightened man, their faces close to his.
“What are ye bloody talking about? Loading doors and the drawbridge?” Seth inquired of the man.
“The castle,” the man said, crab-walking backward to escape this suddenly crazed pair. “The McIntyre place. It was sold—”
“I know it was sold!” Seth bellowed. “It was me that sold it, man! Nobody said anything about taking the bloody place apart!”
“Please, Mr… Sir…I just work here, don’t you know? They don’t tell me anything—just stop the traffic while the trucks back up to the barges! Turn folks back toward the little bridge, they said to me. They’re payin’ us an extra months’ wage to get this do
ne in a flash, Sir…and Madam. Somebody has some deep pockets and is in a mad hurry, that’s all I know. I swear on my blessed mother!”
Holly and Seth scrambled back into the truck. Seth spoke to the flagman, “Aye, you’ve done what ye were paid for then, lad. But we won’t be stoppin’ here.”
The flagman nodded. He stood up and dusted off the seat of his britches as the old pickup kicked up gravel and sod. Seth drove around the twin barricades and toward the castle.
“Sweet Mother of Mercy…,” Holly and Seth whispered almost at the same time, as they crested the hill. A total of nine large trucks with huge flatbed trailers surrounded the castle. No less than sixty workers moved about the place like a colony of ants. One entire wall of the castle was no longer intact. That wall was being secured with heavy chains and booms to two trailers. A large crane moved toward another wall.
The blare of an air horn cut sounded, and every eye was drawn to the road from the south. Seth stabbed at the brakes of his pickup, sliding to a stop beside one of the loaded trailers. Seth and Holly sat staring out of the windshield with their mouths hanging open. A crane that was almost the size of the castle itself materialized over the horizon. The crane was mounted on a low trailer with enormous trucks on both ends of it—pulling and pushing.
Seth wrestled with his door handle amid a chain of muttered curse words. When he finally got it open, he turned toward Holly and said, “Sorry, me words got loose of me.”
Holly nodded and opened her own door.
Several men turned from the sight of the crane and walked toward Holly and Seth.
“This is a restricted area, folks. And how might you have gotten here, by the way?” a man in a gleaming white hard hat asked as he stomped his way toward the new arrivals. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to the men behind him and pointed at two of them.
“Thomas! Mitchell! Get up that road and see if Albert is asleep at his post. One simple job I give him, and in less than half a day I’ve got civilians walking around underneath twenty tons of stone!”