Breaking Point

by Jon Demartino

  "OK, and, Sis, thanks again for the chow. We'll really appreciate it at lunch today." Woody walked in as I was hanging up and sank into one of the plaid client chairs. I asked him how his run was and a stream of words poured out.

  "Great. Man, I love this place. I ran all the way out Dubuque Street and followed the signs down to the boat ramp. Did you know there are bald eagles out there across the lake? I saw some in the trees and one flying way up above me. Do you have binoculars? I think I could see one fishing on the other side of the road but it was too far away." He unzipped the deep side pocket of his coat and reached inside with his hand around something big and round. I figured it was a snowball which would soon be flying across the room at my head. It was round like a snowball but was brown in color.

  "Look at this, Rude. I saw it in the little place down the street yesterday and I went back today and bought it for my mom." He handed it to me and I tried to look impressed while I figured out what it was. It seemed to be a world globe, topographically correct and marked with grooves where all the longitudes and latitudes were located. It was about four inches in diameter and was made of some hard wood, stained and then waxed to better enhance the tight grain. It looked to be hand carved and was kind of pretty. Mrs. Bloom had been a geography teacher so it seemed like a gift she would enjoy. I told him as much and tried to hand it back.

  "No, it's not just a globe. Pull on the little north pole there at the top." He yanked off one glove and wiggled his forefinger at the spot.

  "I know where the North Pole is, Wood," I said, sliding the little knob upward and out of its perfectly fitted niche. Attached to the bottom of the polar ice cap was a cylindrical wooden cigarette lighter. I withdrew it from its niche and flipped the little wheel at the side. The top flipped upward, and the lighter sparked to life, producing a small blue flame. "Hey, this is cool, man. Your mom will love it." Woody's mother had smoked cigarettes for as long as I'd known her and probably would until they, or the infirmities of old age, finally took their toll. I asked how old she was and he said she had turned sixty-five a few months earlier.

  "Her arthritis is bad this time of year, but other than that," he said proudly, "My mom is healthy as a horse." He told me she'd canned over fifty quarts of tomatoes from her garden at the end of the summer. I could picture her in her kitchen, then, the same place where she'd served her son and me hundreds of slices of her pecan pies over the years. I asked if she still made those pies and Woody said she sure did and that he'd bring me one the next time he came out. I planned to hold him to it.

  Remembering what he'd said about the bald eagles, I suggested we take a drive out to see them. I hadn't known there were any near here. We spent the rest of the morning at the lake, watching them through my binoculars and returned home only when our feet were too frozen to stay outside any longer. The leftovers and football games kept us occupied until we left for Keokuk at three.

  The snow was starting to fall again as we pulled away from the door. I had bought a little weather radio a few weeks ago at the mall and we brought it along. It picked up the nearest National Weather Service broadcast twenty four hours a day so would be useful wherever I was carrying it. Woody switched it on and the announcer said there was a storm front moving in and we could expect winds of up to thirty miles per hour by nine o'clock tonight, with blowing snow that would accumulate to about five inches near Iowa City, with the front moving south through the evening. Well, we would be heading south, so maybe we'd get there and back before it arrived.

  Chapter 21

  By four thirty, we'd left the snow storm behind. But we were starting to get low on gas. We were already on Route 2, so I knew the convenience store would soon be in sight. When I saw the lighted sign through the snowflakes, I pulled in and stopped at the first pump. "We're getting close," I told Woody. "It's only about a mile to the first turnoff."

  "Are you sure you'll know it in the dark? Is it marked?"

  "Yep. It's called Upper Bridal Road. Must be a horse path." I got out to fill the tank while Wood made use of the station's rest room. By the time he got back, I'd paid the tab and was ready to roll. I drove slowly and Woody spotted the dark sign in the headlight beams in time for me to swing up onto the old road. "This part of the way isn't too bad," I said. "I figure we can drive back in a little ways and leave the car at the next turnoff."

  We bumped along for almost three miles and I was starting to think I'd missed the trail, when I saw a small opening in the trees on the right as we passed it. "That must have been it," Woody said. "I could see some ruts as the lights went by."

  I stopped and backed into the opening, glad for the frozen ground that kept us from sinking. Pulling out, I drifted back down the Bridal Road a few feet and then backed straight up past the opening and stopped the car. I could hear the grating sounds as the stones and ruts brushed against the underside of the Grand Am. Its low carriage would never make it up the next two miles. Maybe I should look into another type of car for my work. Or maybe a bulldozer.

  It was cold in the open air, but the snow hadn't arrived yet and I'd noticed a pale moon on the horizon. Its light wouldn't help us a lot in the thick trees, but it lent a silvery cast to the shapes around us. We pulled our hoods up and bent our heads against the wind as we started up the old trail. It was all uphill, and I was pretty winded by the time we got to the burned out cabin. It hadn't seemed to bother Woody much at all.

  We stopped in the clearing and I told him our destination was about another half mile up the trail. Pointing to the right side of the path, I warned him about the deep ditch that seemed to run parallel with the road for the rest of the way up. With our eyes adjusted to the darkness by now, we were able to see several feet ahead as we walked. My feet were starting to feel cold, despite the new socks. I knew that walking through the snow in this severe temperature would have produced numb toes, maybe worse, if not for the extra insulation provided by my new thermal wear. The weather radio had reported wind chills near here of minus ten, and that was about a half hour ago. It was probably colder now, with the storm front moving this way.

  In a little while, we could see the flicker of yellow lights through the trees. Somewhere up ahead to the left, around the next bend in the road, was Frank Goodwin's cabin and possibly, a methamphetamine lab in the woods. I put my hand out to stop Woody but he was already motionless beside me, a finger to his lips. Putting his face close to my ear, he whispered in the cold wind. "Let's go single file, and stay to the left side of the road. I'll go first and try to spot a window where we can look in. You keep an eye out for any movement" I nodded and let him slip past me and watched his broad back as he moved slightly ahead.

  The road curved up and around to our left, ending in a clearing that wasn't more than a hundred feet square. The cabin sat on a level spot with some gravel thrown in the dirt near the front door, where the blue pickup truck was parked, along with two big motorcycles. Moonlight dappled through the trees, illuminating the chrome that was plentiful on both bikes. The smell of ammonia was strong in the wind that blew down toward us from the cabin. Woody motioned me to follow as he left the roadbed and crept up the slope toward the clearing. We lay side by side on the frozen ground and surveyed the scene.

  The building was a square one-story structure, about twenty-five feet on a side, and was covered with dark-colored shingles. A door was located in the center of the front wall, with a window to the right as we faced it. Dim illumination was visible in the window, filtering through some sort of curtain. Along the left side were two windows, both aglow with light from the cabin's interior. A few small trees had been left in place inside the clearing. I could hear the drone of a generator from somewhere behind the building, which explained the origin of the lights. Woody pointed to the two side windows, one for each of us. He'd take the one nearest the front, and I'd slide by him to the next one.

  We crouched and moved quickly to a spot beneath some young oak trees and near the first window. Woody made his way to a spo
t under the window and stopped. I passed by him under the trees, slipping behind a tall white tank that stood outside the second window. Slowly, I raised my head and peered into the brightness of the room. It was the kitchen. On a table in the center of the room were several clear glass trays or maybe baking dishes, as well as a bunch of bottles and a few glass beakers. I could see a round propane tank on the floor beside the table, with a section of rubber hose attached to the nozzle. The hose was draped around the tank a few times, with the other end dangling in the air. From what Bill had told me, the tank had probably been refitted and filled with stolen anhydrous ammonia.

  It seemed pretty quiet so I took a chance, sliding along the side of the building to have a peek at the backside of the cabin. I edged my face near the rough corner post of the structure and peered around to the rear. A low porch ran across the width of the cabin and extended outward for about eight feet from the back door. The warped wooden decking had but two corner posts, which held a roof over the porch, but no railing enclosed the space. The ground behind the cabin sloped gradually upward, beginning a few feet beyond the porch and extending fifty feet or more up a little hill, to the edge of the open space that had been cleared around the small cabin. The dark shadow of old timber was barely discernible beyond the clearing. The cabin apparently sat in a little pocket of man-made baldness at the base of the next hill. Pulling my head back, I carefully turned and retraced my steps alongside the building until I was once again near the window.

  I stretched my neck a little to see more of the room and could barely catch sight of the edge of the stove, which was right under the window. I wasn't able to see what was on it, but could feel the warmer air near the glass. There was probably something cooking in there, a pizza or more likely, a batch of drugs. Just then I heard the sound of a man's voice and someone moved into the doorway across from the window. I saw a glimpse of his hairy face as I ducked back behind the tank. That was most likely Frank Goodwin. His words were clear as they drifted through the window pane.

  "It should all be ready by Monday and we can get out of here," he said. He must have turned away from my direction then, and I couldn't make out any more words. Another, deeper voice came closer to the window.

  "Man, this place is perfect. Don't nobody ever come up here at all?" Assuming the speaker was looking out the window, I willed my frozen feet to stay perfectly still on the frozen leaves. Frank answered from somewhere inside but I couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter. I'd seen enough to report to Bill Felton and let him take over from here. The deeper voice continued, but was less audible as he moved off into another room behind Frank.

  I looked over to where Woody had been standing. He turned to me and held up three fingers. He'd seen three men inside, probably two bikers and Frank. Then with his palms up, he shrugged. Apparently he hadn't seen anything else notable through the first window. I gave him a thumbs-up, followed by a backhand wave to send him back toward the road. I peered in one last time for a look at the kitchen, in case I'd missed something. By laying my head up against the rough shingled siding, I could see the back wall of the cabin, including the little window I'd noticed over the back porch. Beyond that was the rear door and between the two was a stone fireplace that could probably heat the entire structure. A wide smooth hearth, of gray stone, inlaid at floor level, and extended several feet into the room. It seemed like the cabin could have been a nice week-end retreat spot for somebody else. For Frank Goodwin, however, it was more of a factory in the forest. I stayed close to the cabin's wall and crept along the side, several feet behind my partner. Woody was moving faster than I was and had already scrambled down the slope and out of sight. I knew he'd wait for me along the road. As I crossed the edge of the parking area, I heard a voice and paused, squatting near one of the bikes. My back was already stiff and I hoped I didn't have to stay in this position much longer. A strip of light appeared on the rock that served as a step as the door was opened from inside. Shit!

  The familiar deep voice cut through the night. "Let's get some fresh air in here. The place stinks." Another voice answered from inside. "Shut that damn door. It's freezing out there!"

  Deep voice cursed his partner as well as the weather and slammed the door. The minute or so that I waited seemed like a few hours. I could feel the pressure of the leather holster against my back but it was a small comfort. A shootout was never a really good option, and in these dark woods, it could be a fatal mistake. I'd found out what I'd come for and was ready to run for the warmth of my car. As I started to move alongside the bike, a voice called out, "Hey shithead, get away from the damned bike."

  I spun around and in that moment realized I'd tripped a voice alarm on the Harley. Damn It.! I must have gotten too close or else my movement had activated it. I crouched and ran as fast as I could across the clearing and down the slope to the road. Behind me, I heard the biker's recorded voice on the alarm as it continued to warn me away. A moment later, the door opened and I heard voices and the shuffling of footsteps as they stepped out of the cabin. We needed more of a head start than we'd gotten, so I pulled the pistol free of its holster and popped a shot into the shingle siding, somewhere near the door. The door slammed with a bang. I hoped that meant they would be a little slower in starting after us. It would give them something to think about, anyway.

  Jumping from the top of the embankment, I hit the road running. I was a couple of hundred yards down the road when I heard the bikes engines kicking over. In a few seconds, my eyes had become accustomed to the moonlight again and I could make out Woody's form as he sprinted down the road ahead of me, turning once to make sure I was coming. I waved him on and hoped my back held out for the next couple of miles. By the time I was nearing the spot where the burned out cabin had been, I knew I was in trouble. I'd jammed my spine when I'd jumped back down to the road and could barely put any weight on my right leg. Woody looked back and saw my limping gait. He stopped and I vigorously waved him on. I was forming a plan of sorts and in case it failed, there was no reason for both of us to be caught.

  The staccato bursts of the bike engines closed in on me from behind. As I emerged from the wide looping bend that led to the old cabin site, I stopped and crouched lower to the ground. My numb fingers grabbed hold of the top of one of the bigger rocks that dotted this part of the road and wiggled it in its frozen socket. It moved a little but held fast to the ground. I swore at it and kept pushing it back and forth, aware of the bikes bearing down on me. Finally I felt the release of suction and it popped out. Tucking the football sized stone under my arm like a running back, I scooted to the side of the road where the drainage ditch curled in, and slid down its icy bank.

  In the ditch, I felt for a solid place to stand and anchored my left foot under a root that protruded near the bottom. Holding the rock over my head, I focused my eyes on the spot a few feet up the road where the bikes would be visible as they shot out of the curve. I hoped they were running single file. My right foot and calf were now numb, as the muscles in my back began to tighten up to protect the injury. In a few seconds, the first bike came into view, with the second one a few feet behind. They'd ridden this road many times, and probably could do it blindfolded. Their lights were on, however, and I ducked my head briefly as the beam played across the roadbed and over the top of the ditch where I was standing.

  As the illumination from the first headlight swerved back to the road, I stood and threw the rock. With both hands, I hurled it away from me and toward the front wheel of the first bike. I'd figured that leading him by three feet should be about right and threw it there as he neared. The rock hit the side of his front wheel perfectly, pitching the roaring bike and its rider to the other side of the road. The front of the Harley flew upward, wheels spinning, and came back down just in time to be hit by biker number two.

  I saw only the first part of that scene and heard the rest. I was already making my way down the drainage ditch, following it to where I hoped it came back out on the main road
. It went downhill and besides being easier on my legs, it was headed the general direction I wanted to go. I didn't hear the truck, so maybe Frank had counted on the beagle boys to catch us. Or maybe he'd had to stay and tend the drugs. Either way, I was glad for the silence above me. Except for the muttered cursing of the two bikers, and the echoing of metal on metal, it was pretty quiet back there. Once, when I looked back, I could see a smoky whiteness against the sky, where a headlight pointed straight up through the trees. White flakes were visible in the beam and I could feel them melting on my cheeks as the heavy wet snow began to fall.

  As I'd walked, the gully had become increasingly wider, so that by the time I neared the bottom of the woods, I was standing in a dry creek bed that went underground at the end of the trees and continued under the highway. The highway itself was barely visible through the blowing snow and seemed about two hundred feet away from the edge of the forest. Farther down the road, I could make out the haze of red and white flashing lights on several emergency vehicles. The snow had piled up during my walk and now several inches lay along the side of the road. If my inner compass was right, the lights were located right about where we'd turned off the highway onto Upper Bridal Road. Stepping onto the berm of the highway, I limped off toward the lights.

  As I got closer, I heard the sound of a vehicle coming down out of the woods on Upper Bridal Road. If it was Woody, he'd learned to hot wire a car somewhere, which wasn't totally out of the realm of possibilities. It sounded more like a truck, though. The driver must have seen the flashing lights, because the truck stopped and with a grinding of gears, sounded like it was now backing up the dirt road. The whine of the reverse gear was shrill in the cold night air. Closer now, I heard men's voices shouting and doors slamming. Two cars sped up the dirt road, wheels spinning as they hit the icy surface and snow covered leaves. One of the cars had a sheriff's logo on the passenger door, while the second car racing after the truck bore the three oak tree emblem of the Oak Grove Police Department.