Applewood (Book 2): Fledge

by Myers, Brendan P.

  Reaching to the table beside him, he picked up a blue folder and handed it to the young man, who had seen enough of them to know what it was. Still, he thought it surprisingly thick for a mere fourteen-year-old boy.

  This was as bad as it gets, the young man thought. There had been a few disastrous efforts in the past to do exactly what the DCI now suggested. All had ended in carnage and death. The man shivered to realize then that more often than not, the carnage and death had been visited upon the men given the task. In fact, the very idea brazenly disregarded the most important lesson taught to all those who wore the black uniform: they’re not people. Some of them look like people. Some of them even talk. But never forget . . . they are NOT people.

  What the old man was asking him to do went against the most fundamental precepts of their organization. It was a perversion of their mission that also went against the pledge that each of them took, the pledge that even the old man had taken. That was what the young man would have said, had he only been given the chance.

  “Where are they now?” the old man asked.

  Pulled from his thoughts, the young man hesitated before answering.

  “Credit card receipts indicate they’ve been on I-40 heading west in the uncle’s vehicle. We lost track of them in Memphis, where the man withdrew all his cash and closed his bank account. Present rate of travel would put them somewhere in the vicinity of Kingman, Arizona. We maintain close satellite surveillance of the area in the event they travel south.”

  “Do not let them get across the border!” the old man said.

  The young man nodded, well aware that the new administration’s get tough policy on drug traffickers had led to a tug-of-war with Mexico regarding extradition. But he suppressed a smile to think that Mexico might refuse to turn over this particular subject. He promised himself to let out a hoot if it ever came down to that. It would serve them right, he thought.

  “The DCI has asked to be included on this one,” the old man continued. “He has assigned an operative to the task who will be getting in touch with you. Are there any questions on that?”

  He raised his head to look at his young protégé, knowing it was overkill. The tone of the question itself brooked no dissent.

  The younger man just shook his head as yet another hundred year old tradition fell by the wayside. It was almost too much to bear.

  “When he does make contact, he will provide you with all the information you need,” the old man said, getting up from his chair in signal that the meeting was over. The young man reached for his briefcase and stood.

  Smiling now, seemingly himself again, the old man came over and shook the young man’s hand one last time.

  “Will you be seeing mother during your visit?” he asked.

  The young man shook his head. “Can’t. I gotta get right back. There’s still that situation up in Michigan that needs my attention. Just a few loose ends, though. Jacksonville too. Nothing to be concerned about. Give her my love though, will you?”

  “I will, I will. Truly good to see you again, son. And as always, be careful out there will you?”

  He ushered the younger man to the door. As he reached for the handle, a perplexed look came over his face. Turning to his son, he asked a question that had apparently just occurred to him.

  “You say the uncle was last seen in Memphis? And you believe he is . . . traveling with our subject?”

  The young man nodded, wondering why it took the old man so long to ask the most obvious question of all. It was the very question that was right now being investigated and heavily debated by the finest minds in the Task Force. How was it possible that the uncle was still alive?

  But the question itself never came. Perhaps the old man had lost something on his fastball after all, the young man thought. Or maybe, he had just thought better of it. Whatever it was, he eventually simply shook his head and smiled again, before patting his son on the shoulder and ushering him out the door.

  4

  The two stayed at the rowdy bar just long enough for the man to wet his whistle before making their way across the alley to the restaurant. Greeted at the door by a young girl with dark hair and brown eyes, she showed them to a table near the back. Only after they were seated did the man inquire about a room. The girl smiled and said she’d find out.

  While perusing the menu, the man guardedly scanned the faces of the few other diners scattered throughout the small space. The older couple to their left probably belonged to a giant RV parked outside. The young couple with a fidgety toddler appeared to be finishing up their meal. An older gentleman sat at a corner table, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. Salsa music blended with traditional Mexican songs of love played softly from a boom box on a small shelf in the back.

  The girl returned a few minutes later with an overweight woman in a black dress. The man stood and offered his hand, mentioning Fred Leroy had suggested they might be welcome here. Smiling broadly at the mention of his name, Maria ended her scrutiny. She replied in lightly accented English that she could certainly provide them a room, though it wasn’t much, and the two would have to share. The man answered that he and the boy would be grateful for anything they had. Before she left, he asked apologetically that no garlic be used in their food. The boy was deathly allergic. She answered she would see to it herself.

  The man ordered huevos rancheros with a side of flautas and a bowl of green chile. The boy ordered steak — rare — and baked potato. The man was pleased to see the boy eat more than half his bloody steak before he pushed the plate away. When they finished their meal, Maria returned from the kitchen to ask how everything was. The man answered sincerely it had been more than fine.

  After convincing her they couldn’t eat another thing, she asked her daughter to show them their room. The girl walked the two of them down a narrow hallway that went past the rest rooms, through a door, and up a narrow staircase. On the landing above, she pointed out the bathroom on the right and a balcony straight ahead before walking to a door on the left and showing them in.

  She apologized for just the one bed. The man said that would be fine. He asked about the pile of folded clothes laid out on the bed next to an empty duffel bag. The girl answered shyly her mother asked that they put their dirty clothes into the duffel bag and leave it outside the door. She would see to it they were freshly laundered and waiting for them in the morning. The man almost wept with the show of kindness.

  While changing into their borrowed clothes, though he tried not to stare, the man noticed again just how skeletal the boy had become. Watching him bend over to pull the loose sweats above his narrow hips, the man saw every disc in the boy’s back. His pointy pelvis jutted out from both sides. Loose skin dangled beneath. When the boy turned while pulling on a three sizes too big University of Arizona sweatshirt, the man caught brief glimpses of both his ghastly neck wound and the even more horrific abdominal wound. Though now mostly healed — if healed was the right word — the man almost sobbed to think that was probably the wound which had killed him.

  No. He’s not dead. It’s just a disease. A virus of some sort.

  After putting on his own borrowed pair of loose fitting shorts and gray T-shirt, the man filled the duffel bag with their filthy clothes and dropped it outside the door. He walked across the hall to use the bathroom and wash up, noticing that clean towels had been laid out for them.

  When he returned to the room, the boy sat lazily upon the floor. He had his arms crossed. His back was to the wall. His spindly legs stretched out in front of him. He stared fixedly at nothing. The man turned on the bedside lamp before shutting off the overhead light, then went over and sat on the bed across from the boy.

  “How you holding up, kid?” he asked.

  The boy smiled, but didn’t look up when he answered.

  “I’m feelin’ pretty good right now.”

  Relieved to hear it, the man lay down on the colorful red quilt and stretched. After piling a couple of pillows on top one anot
her and making himself comfortable, he noticed the boy looked deep in thought.

  “What’s on your mind, son?”

  It took a while for his stilted answer.

  “Nothin’. Just thinking how nice the people here are, is all.”

  The man smiled. He had been thinking the exact same thing.

  “They’re living up to their name, son. That much is certain.” When another shadow crossed the boy’s face, he asked again, “What is it, Scott?”

  The man immediately regretted it. It came out too harsh. Still, there were times he found himself frustrated with the boy’s cryptic answers and monosyllabic responses. The endless silences. He wondered sometimes how much was just the simple brooding of adolescence and how much was the disease.

  From his perch atop the bed, he watched the boy struggle to articulate what it was he was feeling.

  “Nothin’. I’m alright,” he said, a moment later adding, “Uncle Dan? Why don’t you just enjoy that big comfortable bed and get yourself some shuteye. You can’t be stayin’ up with me all the time. I mean, I appreciate it and all, but really. I’ll be fine. Honest. I feel good right now, better than I have in a while. So you can stop worrying about me, for tonight anyway. I’ll be sure to wake you up just before mornin’.”

  Struggling to keep his eyes open, the man muttered, “Are you sure, Scott? I don’t mind. Really I don’t.”

  It was so tempting. The bed was comfortable. Almost against his will, he felt his eyes close. He didn’t see the boy smile.

  “Gonna happen sooner or later anyway. Goodnight, Uncle Dan. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. And you know what else? I think you’re gonna feel good in the morning after a good nights rest. Real good. Better than you’ve felt in a long, long time. Matter of fact, I promise you will. And thanks again for everything you’re doing for me.”

  His words and voice seemed to have an almost hypnotic effect on the man. A moment later, the loud snores coming from the bed above him confirmed the boy’s suspicion. He had yet another trick up his sleeve.

  5

  With a good night’s sleep sandwiched between two fine meals, the man stepped onto the second-floor balcony and walked down the wooden staircase that ran down the side of the restaurant. There were still a few minutes until his eleven A.M. appointment, but he didn’t want to keep the man waiting. For some reason, he had awakened this morning feeling more refreshed and fully alive than he had in quite some time. After thinking it over, he chalked it up to the combination of good food, a comfortable bed, and safe haven for the boy. For one merciful night, anyway.

  As promised, their clothes were freshly laundered and waiting for them just outside their door. The boy had let the man sleep in, leaving himself only enough time to change back into his own clothes before the dawn caught up with him. Once the boy was safely secreted, the man took a long, hot shower before getting dressed and going down to breakfast. Before leaving his room, he had drawn all the shades and locked the room up tight with the boy safely ensconced beneath the large double bed.

  Not surprised to see Maria already there, he thanked her again for her hospitality and told her about his car trouble. He went on to add apologetically they would probably need the room for at least one more night. Would that be all right? She smiled and answered it was no problem before asking after the boy. He returned her smile and answered he was letting the boy sleep in, but after the sleepy head woke up, the two would be gone for most of the day. He pondered asking her not to go into his room, but immediately regretted the thought. With these people, he knew, there was no need.

  While walking from the shadow of the restaurant into the daylight, Dan heard the healthy thwack of cue shots coming from the pool tables in the Diamond Bar. There were cars parked here and there in front of the Laundromat and the post office. Motorcycles clumped together in front of the bar. Taking in a deep breath, he truly tasted the desert air for the first time and discovered it had a unique, smoky flavor all its own.

  He walked a few steps toward the highway, then turned around to take in the entirety of Mercy, Arizona. Turning again, he looked across the highway and saw nothing but desert for miles and miles. Cartoon-like tumbleweeds danced idly across the road, pushed along on hot desert breezes. Glancing down the road, he saw through the hazy mirage a car approach. As it drew closer, he saw the steer horn ornament and smiled again. It pulled to a stop in front of him, kicking up dust and small stones. When Dan got in, he found the interior of the car mercifully cool. Country music played softly from a cassette deck mounted beneath the dash. Fred smiled and put his hand out in greeting.

  “How was your evenin’?” he asked. “Maria take good care of ya?”

  “Couldn’t have been better,” Dan answered honestly, gripping the man’s hand tightly. He waited to catch Fred’s eye before adding, “Thanks again for the tip, and for the ride as well.”

  “Already told ya. It ain’t nothin’. Happy to do it.” Sending Dan a puzzled look, he asked, “Hey, where’s the boy?”

  “He wasn’t feelin’ real well,” Dan replied, perhaps too quickly. He smiled and added more slowly, “Told him to take the day and rest up.” Fred said that was a shame. But the answer seemed to satisfy.

  The trip into Benson took about seventy-five minutes. There wasn’t much to look at along the way, except more of the same flat desert scrub. But off in the distance was a natural wonder, the sharply serrated peaks of a tall mountain range. After Dan asked about them, Fred replied they were the Chiricahua Mountains. He went on to say that it was deep within those mountains that Geronimo and his renegade band of Apaches had holed up.

  They went quiet after that, and it was while Dan contemplated hunted Indians in a hidden refuge when a question suddenly occurred.

  “Hey . . . and this might seem a little silly. But anyway, me and the boy passed some kind of a farm — in fact, looked like it mighta been a pig farm — before you picked us up. You know it?”

  “Sure do,” the man answered. “Used to be owned by a local fella named McDermott, ‘fore he sold out to one of them national companies. Think it was Armour that mighta bought it. What of it?”

  Dan struggled to phrase his response just right.

  “Nothin’, I guess. Just seemed built a little strange for a pig farm, is all. From what I could see from a distance, I mean.” He smiled sheepishly when adding, “But what the hell do I know?”

  Fred flashed him a wan smile. “Well, my friend, you might just know more than you think. By that I mean, it wasn’t always a pig farm. No sir.”

  Something in his voice made Dan look over to see Fred’s brow had furrowed. His eyes had saddened somehow. In fact, they reminded him eerily of the look in his nephew’s eyes just last night as he stared up at the rusted pole in the center of the square. An awkward moment passed before Fred again began to speak.

  “Course I was only fifteen then, just a coupla years away from my own service. But I was handy with a saw and the money was good. We built it back in ‘42. It took only a coupla months. Guv’ment sure can act fast when it wants to, but hey, I guess they was in a big hurry back then. There was a war on, after all. Funny to think about it now, but back then, we all thought we was doin’ the right thing.”

  Dan did not at all follow, but decided to remain quiet. After another moment, his patience paid off.

  “They called it Camp 42,” Fred went on, “and the first of them folks started arrivin’ around June, I guess it was. Nipponese, we called ‘em back then, Japanese-Americans we call ‘em now. They rounded ‘em up from all over the west coast. By the time September of that year rolled around, there were ten thousand people sharing all them buildings. Dozens more just like it went up all over the west. There were dormitories for the women . . .”

  A chill ran up Dan’s spine as he recalled his nephew’s cryptic words. Husbands separated from wives.

  “. . . and they had separate dormitories for the teenage boys and girls.”

  Children from pare
nts.

  “I used to drive by there with my father. I tell you without shame that the man used to spit out the windah every time we passed by. But understand, he had already sent two boys off to war and was about to send a third. That, and folks ‘round here seemed to take Pearl Harbor a little more personal than most. Remember, it was the U.S.S. Arizona that was sittin’ at the bottom of the sea with more than twenty-five hundred souls trapped within. So, I just ignored what my father did. Didn’t dare comment on it anyway. But unlike him, all I saw when I drove by was the faces of them little kids standin’ at that barbed wire fence I helped put up, just watchin’ the cars drive down the highway. Man, the looks on them faces, I tell you what. Haunts me to this day.”

  Like a river of tears, Dan thought.

  “Anyway,” Fred went on, “coupla years later I find myself over there in the Pacific, and unlike a lot of my friends, somehow I lived to tell old war stories about what those bastards did to us on Saipan and Guam and Tinian. But even as I watched my friends dying to my left and my right, the thought I returned to most often when I was over there were the faces of them little kids waving at cars from behind barbed wire. And it was during those times that I asked myself just what the hell it was we was fightin’ for.”

  Dan thought about that a moment before realizing his nephew had given him at least one answer to that question last night. What Fred and those other men were fighting for was a place of sometimes broken promises.

  Fred turned to Dan and answered the question in his own way, and it was as good an answer as any.

  “And the answer is just what Pogo said it was. I have met the enemy and he is us. It’s us. The worst parts of ourselves, anyway. That’s what we gotta always stay on guard against.”

  The two went silent after that, driving past the occasional tourist spot selling cheap cigarettes and Indian blankets and turquoise jewelry. Fred seemed to snap out of his funk a few miles out of town and began making small talk. He said he was semi-retired but still did some freelance work as a broker in the cattle business. Matter of fact, he was headed into Benson today to sort out some kind of bureaucratic foul-up with his license.