by Michael Priv
That ’s when I saw him, as if in slow motion, coming through the back door and strolling past us toward the agents, who were about to storm the joint. A big guy. Graying crew cut. About forty-five. Light on his feet. Calm, intelligent gaze. Thick neck, very muscular— excessively so. Couldn’t have been clearer if the word “Guard” was tattooed in red on his forehead. Damn! Cold beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I rushed out into the morning freshness.
“Wait, Picky, wait!” Linda half-yelled after me. We had to go. The FBI, or whoever was after us, were too close for comfort. And the Guards were here, too. Not a good place, by way of an understatement, not good at all.
Some older guy had parked his beat-up Camaro across the street in front of a liquor store. Our next ride.
“Howdy.” I smiled the best I could and waved. He eyed me indifferently. “Hey, listen, partner, how much do you want for your Camaro?” I inquired as casually as possible. Linda emerged from the café, looking all worried and remaining aside, as if she didn’t know me.
“Not for sale.” The old guy’s stare turned suspicious. “Ten thousand, cash,” I replied and handed him the money. “I’m a collector. I like this car. It’s got character. Okay?” I kept glancing at the back café door, expecting to see the Feds any second. Nobody came out. Why? Somebody or something was holding them inside, that’s why. Could it be that the Guard was running interference for us? Nonsense.
The old man snatched the money from my hand so fast, he could’ve dislocated all kinds of joints at his age. “Knock yourself out, kid. Dunno where’s the title’s at, though.”
“Hey, no problem,” I assured him. True, the title was the least of our problems.
“She’s a little slow on the uptake, so watch that, and the carburetor’s…” the old man continued. “Oh, don’t worry , pops, we’ll give her a full once-over when we get home to Phoenix,” I promised. “Thanks!” Then to Linda, “Aisha, honey, look what I found! Isn’t she a beaut? Get in, let’s take’er for a spin.”
The old-timer threw a startled glance at Aisha. Oh, no, an interracial couple! They probably considered this exactly the kind of behavior people normally got themselves brimstoned for in the afterlife.
“Crazy city brats,” he mumbled, pocketing the money on his way to the liquor store.
Linda got in with a tight frown. “Aisha? Seriously? Racist pig.” “Relax, Aisha. At least you got a race. All I got is the default setting.” Sudden sounds of a fight from behind us were followed by yelling and sounds of overturned furniture and then several gunshots in rapid succession. I departed in a hurry. Several local police cars whooshed by at high-speed with their sirens blaring. The cops paid no attention to us. What the hell happened?
The Camaro was slow on the uptake, just as the old-timer promised, but ran fine once it got going. Clocking ninety, her large, throbbing V8 rumbled easily.
“Now, this is a real car!”
The SUVs were still nowhere to be seen.
27 “I need some cloth es!” Linda’s announcement was music to my ears; she must be feeling all right and back to her own self, the Special Ops be damned.
“Sure, honey, let’s stop in South Lake Tahoe, have a dinner, buy some stuff.” Security-wise not the absolute best time for hanging around, but sometimes morale of the troops supersedes the immediate security concerns.
We hung around the small town, bought new clothes for both of us. Linda’s black designer jeans hugged her butt most admirably and her turquoise silk blouse didn’t do very much to obfuscate her curves. Her new turquoise high-heeled shoes were way too chic for where we were going.
“Very nice,” I declared, looking at her shoes. “But not the most practical footgear for running.” Linda ’s steely glare adequately expressed her opinion that she deserved the shoes after all the suffering I’d put her through. So naturally, we got the shoes. We also got a pair of New Balance crosstraining shoes for me, as well as a pair of Levi’s, couple of Nike Tshirts and a few other little things—nothing too ostentatious. At Kuztum Bargains in Tahoe City we scored a cheap laptop and two blank flash drives. Then against my better judgment, Linda got me a haircut encounter of a really close kind.
A good dinner was next on the agenda. Linda felt like Greek or Mediterranean, as usual. We decided on Artemis Grill on Lake Tahoe Boulevard. I ordered my favorite Kalamboki as a starter—roasted corn with spiced feta butter. Linda started with Karpouzi— watermelon and feta cheese with pine nuts.
With our deadly predicament always in the back of our minds, we found the strength to converse pleasantly and even horse around. Linda relaxed quite a bit over her Galeos Halibut steak. I had Mousaka lamb, chased by half a bottle of Shafer Merlot, Napa Valley 2009 for sixty bucks, completely unfazed by the prices or any sentiments as to how fitting our wine was with our dinner.
Now all I wanted was to check in some out of the way motel and get some rest. I was looking forward to a wonderful, short, and quiet evening together and then plenty of sleep. After a pleasant stroll to our parked Camaro, we drove off in search of a suitable hole to crawl into.
“Here’s Motel 6,” Linda announced. “Is that nondescript enough?”
“That’ll do. Probably half-empty and deserted.” I didn’t want attention. A crowd of tourists with children in the small lobby created a terrible din. Two clerks in attendance were busy shepherding the flock. Nothing like I’d imagined.
“ Sixty-nine dollars for the night, plus taxes,” a tired-looking older man, probably from India or Pakistan, informed me matter-of-factly. “Cash or charge?”
“ Here.” I handed him a hundred. “Keep the change. I’ll be out by eleven tomorrow. Can I just get my room and crash? I’m really tired.”
Through the window the clerk saw Linda in the car, smiled and nodded his understanding. He gave me a key and waved me out, skipping the formalities.
Exhausted out of our minds, we crashed and slept like two rocks—at least I know I did. I dreamed of Linda again. Her name was Ursula then, my one and only, my true love, my Ussie. Several months passed before we were finally caught in the act by Ursula’s husband Phillies. That fateful night, we were making love in the barn, basking in every delicious moment, when the fat bastard attacked us with a pitchfork.
Although I was preoccupied and working hard at that moment, survival instincts honed by an eternity of nearlyconstant trouble saved my skinny butt once again, as well as Ussie’s much nicer butt. Even before I was analytically aware of Phillies’ presence, I had already grabbed Ussie, moaning and hopelessly lost in her adorable oblivion at that moment, and rolled both of us a couple of feet over, outside of the pitchfork’s reach. I then grabbed the extended pitchfork, and yanked it, while kicking Phillies’ hand on the pitchfork staff. He lost his grip, and the pitchfork flew out of his hand and mine. I lunged at him, pushing the old man off the ladder. We both fell, rolling around on the earthen floor in uneven candlelight, kicking various implements around.
Ussie screamed. Phillies had at least a hundred pounds on me. It was not to my advantage to roll around with the fat hog. Having disengaged from him, I jumped to my feet and kicked him a few times before he got up heavily, spitting blood. Fighting naked, I felt awkward and vulnerable. My nakedness was also pissing Phillies off beyond belief, I could tell. I punched him several times in the face while easily escaping his slow punches. I only succeeded in getting him even more pissed off. Looking into his bloodshot eyes, I suddenly knew that he was going to kill me.
I kept successfully evading his bear hugs, repeatedly punching him in the face now slick with blood. That, unfortunately, did not seem to affect him. He was too angry to care, too much adrenaline. Sooner or later, he would connect and that would be the end of me. I glimpsed Ursula’s horrified, white face just as Phillies threw one of his slow, heavy punches. I was blocking and stepping in for an uppercut when I stumbled in the dark on the uneven floor and ended up in his bear hug, squeezed mightily. My attempts to break the hug, my head butts and kne
e kicks were all futile. I was dimly aware of my ribs cracking and vision fogging. I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating.
The unbearable pressure suddenly let off. I slid to the ground gasping. It took me a few seconds to come around and realize that Ussie had hit him on the head with a large chunk of firewood. He was sitting on the floor, smearing blood all over his head listlessly, while Ussie recovered her chuck and was getting ready to whack him again.
Coughing and retching, I staggered to my feet. Ussie lifted the log high above and brought it down on Phillies’ head for the second time. Her husband slumped on the dirt floor—out cold but obviously breathing.
While I was resting outside, painfully sucking the air into my lungs and nursing my broken ribs, Ussie got the cart ready, saddled one of their horses and went inside the house to see the sleeping kids for the last time. We left our old house forever, abandoning the children into the care of her husband. My lover’s dear face was contorted in anguish, tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked back at her home for a long while after it was completely swallowed by the darkness behind us.
We ran away from home in the night’s g loom, each of us boiling in our own personal hell that we carried with us through the ages wherever we went, whether we remembered the why, the what and the wherefore—the two of us, together.
At about 6:00 a.m. or so my blissful state of unconsciousness was rudely interrupted by Linda’s insistent nudging. “What? Guards ? Cops?” I jumped off the bed naked, with the Glock on the ready, covering the entrance door and the window. “Linda, cover the back!”
“Relax, Norm, nobody is attacking us. Nothing bad. I think I have some good news, actually.” I relaxed and climbed back into the bad. True, it’snotsobad,I thought, as I was greeted by the pleasant sight of a butt-naked Linda sitting cross-legged on the bed next to me. Turned out she was examining the flash drive picture on our new laptop.
“Picky, look at this.” She pushed me excitedly. Linda smelled good and looked delectable. Caramel. M-m-m.
“See the trees?” “No. I see the bush. And I like it!” I replied, spreading her legs. She snickered. I tried to stick my head between her legs, but she turned me away. “Later,” she said. Didn’t sound much like Linda. Well, let’s see what had gotten her so interested.
“Look!” She said. I looked. Same hills, trees pummeled by wind and rain. “I saw it already, sweetie. Let’s get back to sleep, okay?” Having established that we were not under attack right that very moment and Linda was not in the mood to fool around, I wanted some more rest.
“Honey, look again. Here.” She pointed at some water gushing out on the side of the hill. “Yes, I know, it’s called water. There is a lot of it in this picture.” “Keep looking. What does it look like?”
“L ooks like the water is rushing down the hill in a torrent, which we don’t see as it is hidden by the hillside, and then splashes high, hitting something. Maybe a rock?”
“No, it isn’t a rock, Picky. It’s a pipe.”
“A what?”
“A drain pipe of some sort. See how even the flow is? Look, just look.” Linda zoomed in, immediately throwing off the resolution of the image, but bringing closer the torrent’s point of emanation. “What does this look like?”
I saw it now. It looked like the edge of a large pipe, at least two feet in diameter, judging by the trees next to it. “Well, okay, it’s a pipe. So what?”
“Nothing in itself. That’s what I thought, too. Could just be a drainage pipe to prevent land erosion or something, right?” “Right.”
“But now look here.” She pointed at a tree on the side of the hill.
“A tree? Good night.” I tried to pull the blanket over my head, but she wouldn’t let me.
“I said look.” I looked again. A tree among other trees. Most of the trees were bent violently by the wind, at least the canopy. The other trees were not bent. Well, different trees bent differently under the wind. No? How would I know, I was no botanist. Wait a minute; it did look strange that some trees were noticeably straighter than others, as if almost unaffected by the wind and the torrential rain. I peered some more. The unaffected trees happened to grow in a certain pattern, a rectangle. Wait a minute!
“Are we at top resolution?” I asked. Linda nodded. “Zoom larger.” The image was blurred now, but I saw clearly that a group of trees in a square pattern behaved differently from the rest. An anomaly, to be sure.
Linda unwrapped a brand-new Yellow Pages book she found on the night stand and placed the uneven piece of clear plastic on the screen. She carefully traced the outlines of the anomaly with her lipstick, creating a square, drawn in perspective view, roughly a fifty by fifty foot, judging by the approximate tree sizes.
“Wow!” I br eathed out.
“Right? Look at this now.”
Silently, she moved the plastic to find a clean spot and then traced the height of the trees on the anomaly’s down-slope side. She then picked the plastic off the screen and moved it over a bit to line up the second drawing, the height of the tallest trees on the downslope side, with a large green clearing right next to and down-hill from the anomaly.
“What do you make of it?” she asked, incredulous. “This looks almost like a huge lid or something. See? This whole part of the hill might be a lid that pivots on the down-slope side and stands on its end, perpendicular to the ground. At that point these trees are lying flat.” She demonstrated on the screen. “These trees aren’t real, it is an illusion. And the hill might be hollowed out inside.”
I stared at Linda in amazement. “I’m so proud of you, babe!” Linda continued, happy with the effect she ’d created. “Now this pipe here serves as an additional indication that the hill might be hollow inside.”
She was right. And it could even serve as a point of entry for us—when time came.
“A true genius! Your brains is why I love you, hon. That and your money, of course.”
Linda, pleased, frowned at me quizzically. “Does it make any sense to you?”
“Yes, it does.”
“I think it’s time you let me in on the whole thing, Picky. Right now.”
“I sure will, hon. What about the poem? Maybe it gives the location.”
“Maybe. I looked it over. Not a word. Some weird language with lots of hyphens.” “Well, we are onto something anyway. Cool.” I gave her a hug. “Well done! Thank you. You’re right, I’m way overdue on the explanation. It’s gonna be a bit unpalatable but bear with me, okay?”
“Okay.” Linda propped her back on the pillows and turned attentive eyes to me. Here we go, the moment of truth. I felt nervous and unsure. How was she going to take it? I didn’t believe for a second she’d believe a word. Was she going to go crazy, like Jane Rosenthal said? Had to go easy but tell her anyway, no other choice. “Well, you see…” I started.
Loud knocking on the door interrupted me. Linda slid under the covers, peering out apprehensively. I put my new briefs on before opening the door. The Indian clerk from the office was very agitated. “Out, out! Both of you. Get up please, get dressed right now and get out!” he yelled, waving both hands in the air.
“What the hell, man?” “Th ey just showed the two of you on TV. Cops are looking for you everywhere, and I’m getting off my shift now. You aren’t even registered. I don’t want anybody to see you here. Get out right now!”
“Cops?” I asked, shrugging. “Ridiculous. What have I done supposedly?”
“Armed robbery. And the black lady’s some chemist or something.” Somebody fabricated new lies. Somebody really wanted me cornered. “So, they say I’m an armed robber and you just barge in here like this, pissing me off? Look, man, if I was an armed robber, wouldn’t I be blowing your silly head off right this minute? Think. You’re so dumb, you mixed up everything. Doesn’t matter. Honey, we’re leaving!” I was getting dressed quickly now. Time to go.
“Chemist, am I?” Linda suddenly pitched in from under the blanket. “Never been so insu
lted in my life. What kind of a motel are you running here? Terrible service, simply atrocious. One star on Yelp.”
“ At most,” I chimed in. “Half a star. Come on, honey, get up. Let’s go.” And then to the clerk, “Get out, man! I’m gonna complain to the manager. I gave you a hundred bucks, and what do I get? Nothing but insults. Out!”
The unhappy clerk left the room muttering about not getting a tip—that’s after he pocketed the hundred. Dick. “Linda, let’s go,” I repeated.
“Shut up, you, armed robber. It’s all your fault.”
She had a point. We dressed quickly and got out. Probably unaccustomed to being thrown out of motels because of a televised APB on her, Linda was still pouting. I held the car door for her as an old El Camino drove by slowly, cruising through the parking lot toward the office. The driver glanced at me. A young guy, nothing special or noteworthy—nothing at all, except, perhaps, for his huge, muscular shoulders and enormous neck.
28 “ How are we gonna decipher the poem?” I mused as we drove off, heading north on 50 in the general direction of Washington, DC, not purely at random.
“No, first we need to change cars,” Linda objected, still upset. She was right, of course. I just wanted to see if the Guard followed us. We were not being followed.
“Exactly. I meant after we switched cars. What kind of ride would you prefer this time?” Linda ’s look failed to incinerate me yet again. This car was compromised. We needed to get out of town. What else could I do but steal a car? Rent one? Buy one? Leave a paper trail a mile wide? Damn sorry, Linda. I took the nearest exit and drove onto a Safeway parking lot. The car I stole this time was a Honda Accord, pretty new, with plenty of gas.
“What’s hidden in that hill on the picture?” Linda asked, still sullen. “I want answers and I want them now. What’s in there?” “A spaceship,” I replied honestly, searching for understanding in her eyes and finding none.
“Norman, I swear to God! Stop horsing around. Drugs? Human trafficking? What did you get me into?” “ No, no drugs, no smuggling. Pentagon, remember? The DOD? They don’t care about such things. Not usually, anyways, I hope,” I added remembering the Oliver North affair, where CIA was selling drugs to illegally supply weapons to Nicaraguan thugs or rebels or somebody like that. “I don’t do drugs, you know that,” I added honestly.