The Last American Martyr

by Tom Winton; Rolffimages

  But before clicking on that, I saw something called Soles-sightings. I clicked on it, and what I saw made me feel like the camper’s walls had instantly shrunk and were closing in around me.

  Just that quickly, I felt trapped, as if I was constrained in a small box. I was mortified. My palms became sweaty, and I suddenly wasn’t getting enough oxygen. My heart stuttered; then missed a beat. When it kicked back in, it felt as if it might shatter its ribbed cage.

  I jumped to my feet in a panic and rushed for the door. I had to get outside— fast. I needed fresh air. I tried to breath but couldn’t. It was as if I’d swallowed something too large or too sticky, and it had blocked my airway. I was becoming light-headed.

  When I got outside I just stood there, hands on my hips. For I don’t know how long, I sucked, gasped, and labored to get my breath back. Finally, I did. The respirations were shallow at first, but they soon became full-blown breaths. I stayed outside for a while longer after that and tried to compose myself. When I eventually did, I went back inside to the computer.

  Again, I saw on the screen the map of the United States. Again I saw a route traced from the Northeast south—the exact same route Elaina and I had taken since we’d left home two months earlier. A footnote beneath the map said the path of my “retreat” was based on information provided by anonymous individuals who had sighted my camper. Just above the footnote was a small picture of the Winnebago—sitting in the Jersey dealer’s lot before we’d bought it. Next to that was another picture—a photograph of my New York license plate.

  At the very bottom of the page was an obscure, fine-print disclaimer. Only two lines long it read, “This web site is in no way meant to encourage anyone to bring harm to Thomas Soles. He has not broken any laws that we are aware of, and to the best of our knowledge, is not a fugitive from justice.”

  Less than twenty minutes later the awning was rolled up, Solace had done her business outside, everything inside was secured, and we rolled out of The Carolina Oaks Campground. That was now the second time I’d rushed out of a campground. Again, I didn’t even stop to ask for a refund of my site fee.

  Chapter 11

  As Solace and I motored down U.S. 17 in the gray rain at dusk, I tried to shove J. Henry Logsdon away again—this time from my mind. When he and all my hate and anger began to fade, I vowed to somehow keep my head together. I could not allow myself to fall to pieces again. I could not suspect that every car behind me and all those coming at me were would-be assassins on the hunt. But that wouldn’t be easy. Knowing what I did now, about that website, added a lot more black paint to my dark, dangerous predicament.

  While trying to fight back all the unfriendly scenarios lined up outside my mind, I made my way through North Myrtle’s business district. Miles of light, from miles of free-standing businesses and strip-malls, splayed a spectrum of colors on all the puddles and wet concrete. My wipers, now set on low, easily kept up with the surrendering rain. Exhausted as she was from all the chaos at the campground, Solace slept soundly beside me. An RV in front of me stopped for a red light, and I followed suit. As my headlights illuminated his Florida license plate, the orange and all, I suddenly got an idea. I thought of something that just might make my Winnebago a tad more anonymous.

  Why not take off the front plate? Why let anyone approaching me see I’m from New York? A lot of states only require one in the back, Florida’s not the only one. What are the odds a cop is going to notice? This thing is thirty feet long! If a cruiser comes toward me, what’re the odds whoever’s inside is going to turn his head after passing—notice a New York plate, and say, “Hmmm…where’s his other plate. He didn’t have one on the front, did he?” I don’t think so! That’s never going to happen. Not only that, but wherever I get a site, I always back in. If a park only offers drive-thru sites, I don’t stay there, simple as that. When I do find the right place, anybody walking by the front bumper won’t have a clue where I’m from. The benefits hugely outweigh the risks. Done deal! I’ll stop at the next gas station; as long as it’s not one of those two companies I boycott. I’ll fill up the tank, then pull in back and take off the plate.

  That’s exactly what I did. When I finished, I put the plate and screwdriver away, swung onto State Road 501, and headed toward Florence in the darkness. Much of 501 is desolate and very eerie at night, and I was damn glad to be on it. I decided that well before picking up I-95 South again, I’d drive only under the cover of darkness for a few days.

  That night my new travelling partner and I ate up more than six-hundred miles of road before giving it up near DeFuniak Springs, Florida. Yes, believe it or not, Florida! Time and again, while driving those wee hours beneath the southern stars, I looked at Solace sleeping beside me. I can’t tell you how comforting it was to have her company. No longer did I feel so alone. I now had a compatriot who, despite her size, would willingly fight to her death alongside me. I also had something else to live for, which I badly needed. Think about it. What were the chances of ever finding a semblance of normalcy in my future? Any hopes I had left of improving my sense of well-being were all but gone. They seemed to be dwindling with every passing day, hour, and minute. I needed another reason to live.

  A few times, when I glanced over at Solace that night, I felt another emotion. Right alongside comfort, envy kept shouldering its way into my psyche. Not jealousy of course, just plain old envy. Each of those times I couldn’t help feeling like Frank Baum’s cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz. When I looked at Solace those times I couldn’t help but to wish I had half her courage.

  * * *

  The reason I doubled back to Florida was because it was warm and there were two full months of winter left. I’d thought about Arizona, but didn’t think the desert would be for me. I entertained thoughts of Brownsville, Texas, on the Mexican border, but realized I needed to hole up somewhere away from the beaten path. Knowing that the Florida Panhandle is a heck of a lot more like Georgia than it is South Florida, I hoped to find a small out-of-the-way town.

  It was still dark out, around five AM, when I rolled into a convenience store/gas station fifteen-miles east of DeFuniak Springs. Not only was the needle on my fuel gauge flirting with the “empty” mark, but the windshield was enshrouded with DOA insects. There were so many bugs that when I hit the windshield washer and turned on the wipers, the result was a solid smear across the glass. We’d been on the road twelve hours, and I was beyond tired.

  A forest of pines—black as the pre-dawn sky—surrounded “Jasper’s iffy Stop” (the J was missing); and on the other side of the deserted two-lane, was more of the same. This was logging country and not much more. It was no surprise that the pump area and parking lot were also deserted.

  I climbed out of the camper on uncertain legs, inserted the gas nozzle, and walked Solace beyond the glow of the station’s lights. On a spit of grass alongside the dark pine forest, I waited for Solace to do her things. Listening to the incessant chirp of a nearby cricket congregation, I tried to focus my blurred vision on the stars overhead. A nearby turkey gobbled in the woods, a real treat for an old city boy to hear. But then I saw something. And it was far from a treat.

  A mud splattered pickup truck with four huge wheels pulled up to the storefront. The tailgate was open and there was a flat-bottomed aluminum boat sticking way out the back. After killing the headlights, a tall, hulking figure slowly got out. He stood there a few seconds staring at my RV. He then adjusted his ball cap, hitched up his jeans, looked side to side once, and sauntered over to the Winnebago. Scratching his behind a couple of times, he slowly walked alongside it; inspecting it closely.

  Then, as if it was nobody’s business but his own, he removed the nozzle from my camper and hung it back on the pump.

  I was going to yell, but I’d learned many years earlier, in Southeast Asia, just how valuable the element of surprise can be. I figured now, if I could sneak back into the driver’s door, I could get a hold of my pistol before he even knew I was there.
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  The guy then stopped in the back, surely seeing the license plate. Next, he went around to the far side where I could no longer see him. After giving Solace’s leash a slight tug, we did a quick half-trot back over there.

  Damn, I thought, as we made our way toward the pump island, what the hell was I thinking. Middle of nowhere, pitch-black out here, not a soul around other than the store clerk, and I‘m out here without the Glock. Shit! What an idiot I am!

  Then Solace blew my plan wide open. From her low vantage point she’d seen the guy’s legs moving on the far side of the camper. She did what she did best and went ballistic. Before we were close enough to the door, the big man had come around to the front! Right on the other side of the concrete island when we reached it, face to face with us, he said, “Whoooah, take it easy killer!”

  Then, smearing a grin across a face wide as those atop Rushmore, he said, “Now, just you take it easy big boy.”

  He then turned his head to the side and spit tobacco juice through his teeth. It splashed on the cement about eight feet away. As he did this, my eyes were drawn to a holster at his side. Yes, he was packing. The flap on the holster was unbuttoned, which wasn’t a good sign. On top of that, this guy was huge. He had to be about six-eight, crowding three hundred pounds. He was carrying a little extra weight around his midsection, but he was one powerful looking man. His green cap said “Remington” across the front, and it was tilted back on his head. A shock of thick brown hair hung from beneath it, covering his forehead. His blue jeans were rolled up, and where they met his knees they were wet. Standing there in his bare feet this guy looked like a cross between Paul Bunyon and Huckleberry Finn. I didn’t know what to make of him, and what he did after spitting did nothing to calm my nerves.

  He turned back towards us then drew up his right hand. In the process he brushed up against the holster flap. For sure I thought he was reaching for his pistol. I was just about to jump on him, try to bury my thumbs into his eyes. I’d once seen a very small friend of mine do exactly that in a bar fight and totally disable a man twice his size. But thank god I didn’t have to resort to such a measure. After brushing the flap he finished his motion and simply wiped the residue saliva from his mouth.

  “Ya’ll ain’t from around here, I see.”

  “No … we’re not. We’re just passing through; just making a pit stop.”

  Solace was now on top of the cement island, still carrying on like she wanted to tear him apart. As I held her back with the leash, he crouched in front of her and gently offered his hand.

  “Be careful.” I said, “She may very well try to bite you.”

  “Naw, she won’t bite me, will you girl?” he said, ever so slowly easing his down-turned hand toward her.

  I could not believe what I was seeing and hearing. This fortyish giant was like one of those animal whisperers. A moment later Solace actually stopped all her barking and sniffed his hand. Soon he was stroking her head, and I felt a whole lot better.

  Still down on his haunches, looking up at me now, he said, “Hope you don’t mind, I pulled that there nozzle out of your gas tank. You were up to a hundred and two bucks and fuel was spillin’ all over the concrete there.”

  “No, no, heck no! Thank you very much. I’d thought for sure it had had an automatic shut-off.”

  “I’ve been tellin’ ole Jasper in there,” he said, nodding at the store, “he needs to update. But hell, nobody round here’s got that kinda money, ‘specially Jasper. Only thing he’s got for sure is a missing letter on his sign and a gambling problem.”

  Rising to his feet he put out his hand. “Name’s Franklin Dewitt. I live just down the road. Where you headin’? I see you got New York plates.”

  I shook his hand and immediately knew how that J. Henry Logsdon character must have felt when I was fool enough to shake his. I felt like a Boy Scout shaking with his scout leader.

  “I’m Jay, Jay Henry,” was the best I could come up with at the moment. “Solace and I are just bouncing around a bit. In the spring I want to go out West, but for the time being, we just want to stay somewhere warm. The main thing, right now, is to find a nice quiet campground. We’ve been driving all night, and I’ve had it.”

  “Well, Fallin’ Waters State Park is back just a ways, off I-10. They have camp sites there. There’s a little bitty mom and pop place just the other side of DeFuniak Springs, too, but none of ‘em would be open for at least a couple of hours. Can’t be any later than five, five-thirty about now.”

  Checking my watch I said, “Yup, you’re right, it’s only five-twenty. But that’s OK. I’ll just pay for the gas. We’ll figure something out. Thanks for shutting off the pump and…”

  “Whooa, hold on,” Franklin interrupted. “Like I said, my place ain’t far, just a couple a miles from here. You want to, you and Solace here can set up there for the day, get caught up on sleep, whatever.”

  Under normal circumstances I’d never consider such an offer, especially from such an imposing stranger. Granted, the guy seemed to be on the up and up, but you never know. On the other hand, was I better off parking somewhere—here in the middle of nowhere—for two hours until the state park or the other place opened up? Who was to say a bored country sheriff might not happen along with an arsenal of questions? I didn’t even know if it was legal to have a loaded gun in my glove compartment.

  “Look,” he said as I deliberated, “it’s up to you, but I got sixty acres in the woods. It’s just me there, ain’t no wife around or nothin’. Got a pond out back that’s full of bream and bass, and the place is a lot prettier than those campgrounds. A lot more private, too.”

  Bingo! The word “private” lit up inside my head like neon. It might just be the perfect place to get a good day’s sleep. What did I have to lose? Even though I only knew this man for five, maybe ten minutes, I somehow couldn’t help but to trust him. Of course, I’d still lock all the doors before going to sleep. And if by some chance my instincts proved wrong, I still had the Glock.

  “I really appreciate the offer, and I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, but if you have any loose dogs or anything, Solace would never let me sleep.”

  “Don’t worry. I ain’t got no dogs. Just buried my Missy ‘bout two months ago. It’ll be a long spell before I get another dog. Can’t take that kinda hurt, if you know what I mean.”

  That was it! The way I saw it, anybody with the capacity to truly love a dog like he seemed to, couldn’t be all that bad. The fact that Solace actually warmed up to him also threw a lot of weight into my decision. I offered to pay Franklin Dewitt but did not press the issue when he refused to accept money. His overgrown boyish face actually looked disappointed, maybe even a tad insulted. In my neck of the woods, a monetary gesture would be expected; in his, it obviously would not be tolerated.

  I still had to pay for the gas, and Franklin wanted to buy some chewing tobacco, so the three of us headed toward the store. As we approached his truck, with the boat in back, I asked him if he’d been out doing some night fishing.

  “Nuh uh,” he said, “take a look in the boat.” And I did. There was a hand-held spotlight wired to an automobile battery in there, along with about a twelve-foot pole. Stretched out next to the pole, and just about as long, were two freshly-killed Florida alligators. Just like Franklin’s knees, their bodies were still soaking wet. The storefront lights eerily reflecting off the hulking primeval creatures. With both of them lying on their bellies, the light seemed to glisten off their wide, treaded backs in a thousand different directions.

  It turned out Franklin Dewitt was a true gentleman—a genuine prince. For far too long, I’d believed that the bigger the man, the bigger his ego and attitude had to be. Boy, did Franklin disprove that nonsense. Solace and I went on to spend most of the winter at his place, and he could not have been more accommodating. The only money he would accept was thirty dollars a month for the electric I used.

  When he wasn’t using his boat, he’d leave it alongside
the six-acre pond for me and Solace. And it was no accident that, whenever we felt like using it, there was always fresh bait, a tackle box, and a well-cared-for fishing rod sitting in it. Whenever he roasted a wild hog or barbequed meat, he’d always cook a few bass or bream fillets and bring them to me. If I happened to be outside the camper when he was heading to Jasper’s iffy Stop, he’d always ask if I needed cigarettes, beer, or anything else.

  Franklin’s place was two miles off the paved county road. The only way in was a dirt road through the thick pines and palmettos. If it was possible anywhere, this was the perfect place to try to simmer my fears and pain a bit. A place I never left except for the occasional trip to Jasper’s or to dump the camper’s sewage. It was a refuge, so to speak, a place where I could disassociate myself from the rest of the world.

  I never once looked at a newspaper and did not miss them. Not reading all those slanted views allowed me a refreshing hiatus from my usual early-morning funks. My only connection to the so-called real world was the cell phone. There was no DSL for the laptop, no cable for the TV. Franklin didn’t even own a television, and that certainly added to my sense of security. He said he once put up an antenna, but it was worthless.

  The only other structure back there was the remnants of an old, wood-framed cracker house. Totally collapsed by now, his great-grandfather had built the place in 1901, when he was seventeen-years old. Boar and deer were still in good supply, and on the occasions Franklin killed one, I totally understood. He was a man who lived off his land and earned very little money when he was off it. That’s why he poached alligators, had a nuisance trapper’s license to remove them, and totally disregarded all hunting season dates. As for me, I stuck to my jogging routine on his dirt road, and wrote the entire first half of this book during my stay.

  In early March, on the last night before Solace and I were to move on, I learned something else about Franklin Levi Dewitt—something else he occasionally did for money. Something, had I known the night I met him, dog-tired or not, I would have sped out of Walton County so fast the camper would have gone airborne.