The Drought

by Patricia Fulton

  As if reading his mind Suzy gestured toward the bag and said, “What do you suppose would happen if we just tossed that bag out into the storm?”

  “You feel it too?”

  “I can feel heat radiating out across the floorboards. At first I thought I left the truck on.” She eyed him. So, what do you say? You want to chuck it?”

  Jar averted his gaze. “We can’t.”

  She knew he was going to say that but she wasn’t about to let him off that easy. “Why not?”

  He squirmed in his seat trying to find words. “We’re in this. We’ve got to finish it.”

  She laughed and pointed to the darkened window. “We aren’t finishing anything. We’re stuck. We’re done. What are we going to do? Walk to Lousiana?” She was in the middle of her tirade when she stopped short and looked out the back window.

  Jar followed her gaze. The bed of the pickup truck was filled with sand but beneath the thickening blanket he could make out the faint outline of a bike. The right handlebar jutted out like a hand reaching from the grave. “Is that what I think it is?”

  She stared at it like she couldn’t believe it herself. “Yeah, that’s my dad’s dirt bike.”

  *

  Before Jar could get excited about the idea brewing in his head she pointed toward the hostile landscape where it looked like dusk had already settled and stated, “We wouldn’t last five minutes out there.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “We could use the masks you found in the garage.”

  She shook her head.

  “Look, we’re going to die if we stay here. You know it and so do I. That’s the bad feeling we’re having. It’s death. We can feel it all around us and every minute we stay here, it’s getting closer. Now, I say, we put on the masks get on the damn dirt bike and try to make it out of here.”

  Clinging to reason she said, “It probably won’t start, it’s been out there this whole time. There’s gotta be sand in the carburetor.”

  “Maybe it won’t start but we have to try, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, here’s the plan. We go out there, make sure it starts, get it off the truck and then we come back in here for a breather before we set out.” Reluctantly he reached into his backpack and removed the clay box. Heat raced up his hands and he saw a bridge rising up out of the mist. He shook his head to rid himself of the image and placed the box on the floorboards.

  Suzy shot him a look of relief. “We’re leaving it behind?” In her mind they were getting on the bike and heading back to her house to wait out the storm.

  He retrieved the two slightly crushed masks from the bottom of the bag. “No.” He looked at her. “If you and I go back. We’ll die.” He shoved the box back into his backpack as quickly as possible. He handed her one of the masks.

  She gave him a sour look but accepted it and put the mask on her face. He did the same. They tied bandanas over the masks and put sunglasses on.

  Suzy said, “You look like Billy the kid only dirtier.” She opened her door and dropped down into the sand.

  Jar crawled across the seat and exited after her. The truck gave them slight protection from the full onslaught of the wind but when they tried to stand, a blast of hot, gritty wind struck them. Suzy looked back toward the cab of the truck ready to retreat and Jar moved forward holding onto the side of the truck bed. He unlatched and dropped the tailgate before realizing Suzy wasn’t with him.

  The reality of the storm was alarming. The front end of the truck was obscured by blowing sand and Suzy was a blur as she came toward him. It would be easy to get lost only a few feet out from the truck.

  Jar climbed into the bed of the pickup and Suzy followed. They positioned themselves on either side of the bike. He pulled and she pushed until the bike stood between them. Leaning across the bike Suzy yelled over the wind, “It’s not going to start.” She pointed at the sand still coating the bike.

  He nodded, and yelled back. “Let’s push it off the back. The fall will knock some of the sand loose.”

  They rolled the bike backwards and gave it a hard shove. The dirt bike hit the sand covered ground on its back wheel. It looked like a ghost rider was doing a phenomenal wheelie. The illusion lasted for only a moment before the front wheel crashed back down to the ground.

  Acrid air burned their lungs. Doubt floated in the haze. How long could they last in the sandstorm without adequate protection? They wrestled the bike off the ground. Once it was up, Jar straddled the bike. His toes barely brushed the ground. Shifting his weight onto his left foot he tried to crank the starter. The small engine sputtered. Sand spit out the back pipe. It died. He cranked on it again. Nothing.

  “Give it a minute, you’ll flood the engine.” She was crouched behind the truck trying to find protection from the gusting sand.

  He nodded, counted to thirty and tried again. This time a slew of sand shot out of the tail pipe and the engine roared to life. Afraid to shut the bike down, they left it running while they returned to the cab to get their things together and grab a quick breath of air. They stared at each other for a moment, doubt heavy in both sets of eyes.

  Jar wanted to say something reassuring but the words wouldn’t come. Not knowing what he was about to do he leaned in and kissed her softly. He didn’t know what a kiss was supposed to feel like, but this one felt right. He could taste the salt on her lips and he could feel the slightest bit of grit from the sand. He didn’t know if it was on her lips or his. He pulled away and whispered, “For luck.”

  Stunned, she whispered back, “For luck.” She handed him the helmet she’d retrieved from behind the seat and pulled on her face mask. He swung the backpack onto his shoulders and felt the warm heat from the Govi inching down his spin. Without saying another word they left the relative safety of the pickup truck, for the uncertain future of the dirt bike.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Junction, Texas

  Beth entered Griffin Tanner’s house the same way her son had twenty-four hours earlier, through the side door in the kitchen. Like Jared, she was overwhelmed by the size of the room. She searched the gleaming, granite counters for a weapon and spied a butcher block. She grabbed the biggest knife and her stomach twisted into a nervous knot. A knife meant she would have to be within arm’s length of Griffin in order to be effective and she desperately hoped she wouldn’t need to get that close. He on the other hand would most likely have a gun and he could pick her off from a distance.

  Moving silently through the kitchen, Beth padded on bare feet into the great hall. Her eyes followed the curving stairway, stopping on the third floor. Against the stained wood she thought she saw something darker. It looked like blood. Her eyes drifted higher taking in the mural. Although it was beautifully rendered it struck her as dark and hopeless. As she walked across the grand foyer she thought she saw a puddle of blood spreading across the marble floor. Like a mirage the shimmering, dark, fluid disappeared as she neared. She stood for a moment in uncertainty. It was as if her senses were playing tricks on her. First the blood and now, faint and far away the sound of a baby crying. Following the disquieting cries, she disappeared into the depths of the darkened corridors.

  Griffin had spent a sleepless night in his office. He was torn between his desire to find and kill Barry and the necessary pursuit of Jared Riley. The clay vessel the boy had taken was a priceless artifact from Haiti. It was also a family heirloom, given to him by his mother’s family on the day of his birth. How the boy had come to select this particular item had baffled him throughout the night. Not a single living person knew of its personal significance to Griffin, and yet, this was what the boy had chosen to steal.

  There had been one other time the two items had left his possession. He was too young to remember the night the townspeople of Junction set fire to his grandfather’s compound, but his father, (perhaps in the misguided notion it would teach Griffin about intolerance) told him about those events until the stories felt like memories and he could no lo
nger distinguish between the two.

  His mother and father had raced into the dark night toward the fire and the screams of the dying but it was too late. The flames had spread quickly, jumping from tent to tent. Several vehicles were on fire, the gas tank on one of the trucks exploded sending pieces of metal and debris into the sky and across the camp.

  His grandfather died trying to save the children. A new day dawned, the sun rose over the charred earth and smoldering remains of the trucks and tents. Scrawled across an old car was the message, “Take your damn curses and go home.” The surviving gypsies, his mother’s people, buried the dead and salvaged what they could from the burnt camp. When the last vehicle was packed and ready to go, his mother, her face stoic, and still smudged with ashes from the fire climbed into the truck.

  At this point in his father’s story Griffin always imagined himself breaking free of his father’s grip and running after the truck as it pulled away. He would have chased it until his legs gave out. He wouldn’t have let her go, not without a fight.

  But Lloyd Tanner had let her go, and in the end that was always between them. He’d tried to convince Griffin there was no making her stay. “They got to her son. She believed the townspeople. She believed her family was cursed. She was leaving to set it right.” He splayed his large calloused hands. “She promised she’d come home when it was done.”

  Griffin grew up hating the townspeople of Junction. He would have left the little-shit-ho-dunk town after college but his father died. That alone wouldn’t have kept him in Junction but discovering what his dad had kept at the back of a storage shed for nearly three decades certainly made life more interesting.

  Most people would have said Lloyd Tanner was a simple man, even honorable. Even the most honorable man has secrets. During the last months of his tour of duty in Germany he had stumbled across a cache of hidden treasures. It was not uncommon for wealthy families, museums, churches and art dealers to hide historical and valuable items out of fear they would be plundered by the Nazi’s. The Nazi’s weren’t the only one’s doing the looting.

  Stories were rampant about GI’s finding items in deserted mine’s, under the floorboards of vacant houses or stashed in chimneys. The natural assumption of course was the original owner was probably dead, followed by the second thought, if I don’t take it someone else will. He started shipping the pieces home. One or two at a time, nice and slow figuring he’d get what he could before his discharge papers came through and he was sent home.

  Stateside, the real problem became abundantly clear. These weren’t little trinkets you could take down to the local pawn shop and hawk when you were short on cash. Unable to find a buyer and afraid to be linked to stolen war loot, Lloyd crated the items and left them in a storage shed.

  After his father’s death, Griffin faced the same obstacle. It took several years to make the right contacts in the underground art market but eventually he was able to move a few pieces without detection. He used the money, his new found knowledge and his connections to start his own business as a dealer. His willingness to handle sensitive transactions earned him an enviable position and allowed him to start building his own private collection.

  More important, he started to buy up delinquent notes from the bank and slowly took possession of prime grazing land in and around the town of Junction. Eviction wasn’t nearly as violent as what these families had done to his family but taking a rancher’s land was as close as he could get to taking a man’s life without committing murder.

  This fortuitous chain of events also brought him closer to finding his mother. The two items given to him on his birth and taken the day his mother departed were Haitian artifacts. The irony nearly made him choke with laughter. Leave it to a gypsy to give stolen artifacts to a newborn baby. He found the history behind the two pieces interesting but his hope in tracking the items was personal. He wanted to find his mother.

  The search for his mother led him to Reserve, Louisiana and there the trail went cold. Nearly a year ago, the items appeared on the black market and one of his brokers out of New Orleans (known for unearthing rare items) contacted him. Griffin paid half a million dollars to a man driving a crappy Mercury to get them back.

  Jared Riley’s theft was a taunt. The one thing he had stolen mattered the most to Griffin. For now, he had to bide his time. Eventually, Barry would show himself. He had to if he wanted to kill Griffin. And that was the one thing he was certain Barry wanted more than anything. Moving through the dark halls, Griffin called out to the silent house, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  Barry could not hear the taunting voice. He was in the attic, sleeping alongside his dead mother, a loaded shotgun between them. The gruesomeness of his sleeping companion did not faze him. He had come searching for her, knowing from his time as an astral specter she would be here, locked in the attic. During their time together she appeared to him as a living woman but now all that was left were her skeletal remains, tucked under the covers as if she had gone to sleep and simply never awoken. It was almost a peaceful scene except it was obvious her skull had been crushed.

  The room was insufferably hot but well appointed. During her captivity, Dora had all the pleasures of her own room: A nice bed, her vanity table, a sitting area with two comfortable chairs and a Persian rug. The furniture under the low eve made his mouth go dry, a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair with a low table and a breast pump. The door to the dumbwaiter, his point of entry was slightly obscured by the little dresser with blue trains painted along the edge.

  The small door had been latched from inside the shaft just like the main door to the attic was bolted from the outside. The inside of the door looked as if it had been assaulted more than once. Long gashs ran its length, with a fury of scratches concentrated around the doorknob.

  The idea of being locked in the attic made him feel claustrophobic. He walked across the room, and double checked the dumbwaiter. The door was still unlocked, the dumbwaiter still at the top waiting for him to make his move. He ran his hand along the smooth metal of the shotgun, comforted by its presence. He wasn’t helpless. He wasn’t a defenseless woman who was afraid for her child, and he damn sure wasn’t some sucker who came unprepared to his own death.

  A deeper voice within him whispered. Careful Barry, that sucker was your dad. He died trying to save you and your mother. He pushed the thought away and cracked the shotgun open. It was loaded and ready to go. “If he wanted to save us he should have brought a gun.” He had six more shells, three in each pocket. He should have taken Griffin out yesterday. Damn him for his stupid story. Today, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Opening the door on the dumbwaiter he leaned in to listen. There had been a shot earlier. He figured Griffin was trying to flush him out of his hiding place. Murmuring to himself, he said, “Well you dumb bastard, I’m smarter than that. Let’s see how smart you are.”

  He climbed into the dumbwaiter, secured his gun against his shoulder and started down. He went slowly, aware that if Griffin were in the hallway when he passed through the wall the sound of the dumbwaiter would be audible. As he approached the trapdoor on the third floor, he came almost to a standstill and inched his way past the little door. He paused momentarily, listening for the sound of footsteps, but didn’t hear anything. On the second floor he went through the same routine. This time he thought he heard footsteps in the hall but they were light and timid.

  Was someone else in the house? Had Jar come back?

  The inside of the dumbwaiter was like a miniature oven. His hands were slick with sweat, the rope damp from his grip. Taking a deep breath he lowered himself to the first floor and waited. This was the moment of truth. If Griffin were outside waiting for him, he was a sitting duck. There wouldn’t be a chance to climb out, get the shotgun against his shoulder and aim, before the back of his head was splattered against the wall.

  An eternity seemed to pass as he waited inside the small space. Sweat rolled down his pale face and his leg
s felt clammy against his chest. A low, deep grumble came from his stomach. He felt weak with hunger. A slight tremor affected his thin arms and legs, bringing his attention to how wasted his body had become. He had been dying. If he had stayed away from his body much longer there wouldn’t have been anything to come back to. Jar’s presence in the house had broken his link with his mother. If not for Jar he would have stayed with her forever, brushing her long hair, giggling over little jokes, he would have let his body die.

  A shiver of apprehension shook him. He placed his hand on the small latch. In his head he could see Griffin standing right outside the door, gun ready. Would he kill him right away? No, that wouldn’t be Griffin’s way. He was like a big cat who liked to toy with the mouse. He wanted Barry to think he had a chance to escape, only then would he pounce.

  He let out a ragged breath, “It’s now or never,” and swung open the door. Hazy light filtered into the small space, but he couldn’t see Griffin. The butler’s pantry was attached to the kitchen by a short hallway. It also served as a mudroom which had its own exit. He lowered his shotgun first, turned and climbed down. Unarmed, his back turned, he was now at his most vulnerable. He waited, expecting to hear Griffin’s laughter.

  The room remained quiet.

  Once he climbed out of the dumbwaiter he paused near the door that led to freedom. The sandstorm still swirled but it looked as if the wind had slackened. He could end it. Open the door and walk away. His hand touched the doorknob, lingered for a moment. Then as if denying his own weakness he backed away, shaking his head. “No, I have to finish this.”

  Entering the kitchen with stealth, he grabbed two bread rolls, opened the refrigerator; grabbed a chunk of cheese and a jug of orange juice, and fled the room. He didn’t dare go across the great hall. What he wanted was not in that direction. He wanted more shotgun shells and those were kept in the study.