Behind him, a TV with the sound turned off was showing an aerial picture of a fire. My parents’ house! CNN was broadcasting live, and whoever had taken those pictures could just as easily have spotted me from the air. My escape had been even luckier than I’d imagined.
Seconds later, my driver’s license picture came up, along with a banner headline. SIX DEAD; ONE AT LARGE, WANTED FOR ARSON, MURDER, & WITCHCRAFT. Then they flashed a picture of a white pickup that was the same make, model, and color as mine. My license plate number was displayed under the picture in bold letters.
Son of a bitch! Six deaths meant Carol had definitely been killed in the barn. Almost as bad, Cantor was trying to put the blame on me. No doubt he’d alerted police throughout the plains states. They’d be trying to trace my cell phone, too.
Luckily, the clerk’s eyes remained half-closed, and he was gazing at me instead of the screen.
“Finding everything okay?” he asked in a monotone.
“Actually, do you have those prepaid, no contract phones.”
He pulled one off of a display next to the counter and handed it to me. I couldn’t risk stopping much to resupply, so I bought enough snacks and drinks to last a couple of days. Then I gave him fifty bucks for gas.
He took my money and returned to reading his celebrity magazine.
Back at the car, I pumped the gas. Hopefully, it would be enough to reach Colorado. I didn’t want to give any other clerk in Kansas a good look at me. Life on the lam was going to be complicated.
When I drove off, I obeyed the speed limit. Ten minutes later, I reached Interstate 35 and took it north to the state’s only east-west freeway, Interstate 70. While I drove along, I put my cell phone in the glove compartment and activated the new burn phone.
To reduce the chances of my being pulled over, I kept the Eldo in the right lane going the speed limit. Even at 75 mph, I seemed to crawl across the mostly empty prairie. Damn, Kansas was big. I prayed for help from all the gods. Best to cover every bet.
Thanks to divine intervention, or the state’s latest round of budget cuts, I didn’t encounter many state troopers.
When I got to I-70, I headed west. It would take me directly to Colorado—unless I managed to get arrested along the way. I did have to fill up my tank again in Hays, Kansas, which set my hands to shaking. Luckily, the sales clerk had her TV tuned to a soap opera, and she seemed fascinated by the show.
Western Kansas was even emptier than the east, but a few minutes west of Hays, a state trooper with flashing lights and a whooping siren shot toward me from behind. He had to be going 100 mph.
Had the store clerk back in Hays merely pretended she hadn’t recognized me? Instead of pulling me over, though, the cop raced by in the left lane and disappeared into the distance. I sucked in deep breaths and tried to ignore the blast of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Ten minutes later, I saw why he was in such a rush. He and two other state troopers had stopped a white truck with Oklahoma plates. It looked suspiciously like mine, and the cops were pushing a tall white guy with a scraggly beard onto the hood, even though his hands were handcuffed behind him.
Had they confused this bearded guy with me? I found that hard to believe. I probably weighed forty pounds more, and my skin was much darker. But the other guy had black hair like mine.
I kept driving, feeling damned sorry for the guy if he’d been mistaken for me. But maybe he was wanted for some other crime. I sure wasn’t going to stop to clear up any possible confusion.
-o-o-o-
SHORTLY AFTER SUNSET, I reached a Welcome to Colorful Colorado sign standing out in the middle of nowhere and blew out a huge sigh of relief. As far as I knew, this state hadn’t passed any anti-magic laws, but I’d heard something about the City of Colorado Springs adopting a local ordinance. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to drive anywhere near that backward town.
The strain of being a fugitive was taking its toll. By the time I reached the tiny town of Burlington, Colorado, my whole body was shivering from exhaustion and pent-up worry. I scanned each side of the freeway looking for a secluded spot where I could sleep for the night. Unfortunately, eastern Colorado seemed to have damned few trees, or even bushes, to hide behind.
I finally exited the freeway and drove north on a quiet two-lane dirt road until I found an abandoned farm. I pulled into the property and parked behind a partially collapsed barn. From there, I couldn’t be seen from the road. That was the main thing.
I should be safe unless some snoopy county deputy notices my fresh tire tracks in the dirt where I turned off. Rural cops have too much time on their hands.
-o-o-o-
Tuesday, September 3rd
I WOKE UP BEFORE dawn, as usual. I hadn’t gotten much sleep because my body was too big to fit on the Eldo’s back seat. Still, I felt better than I had the night before. The shakes were gone.
I didn’t look any better, though. My eyes were red and puffy. The sooner I got to Boulder, the sooner I could really rest—if I could ever get those awful images out of my mind.
On the way back to the interstate, I was surprised to notice that eastern Colorado was even dryer than western Kansas. Drought had turned this area into a desert. People were supposedly flocking to Colorado, but not to the high plains.
I drove west on I-70 and again tried to relax. With the blessing, I should make it to Boulder within a few hours. The Eldo’s engine was missing on one cylinder, but the huge V8 was way overpowered. Hopefully, it would still get me there.
As I passed the town of Agate, I spotted a county sheriff’s vehicle parked on the side of the freeway. I gave him a wide berth and kept the speedometer needle at 75 mph, but he hit his lights and pulled up behind me anyway.
What the hell does he want? Except to make trouble? My bowels churned as he strode up behind me with his mirrored sunglasses and his frown. I tossed my driver’s license under my seat.
A patch on his uniform proclaimed him to be an employee of the Elbert County Sheriff’s Department. This cop was older, with gray hair peeking out from under his hat.
“What seems to be the problem, Officer?”
He glanced back and forth between me and the car. His right hand rested on the strap holding his pistol in place.
“You’re the fugitive out of Oklahoma, aren’t you? Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
I opened the door and stood with my hands outstretched in front of me. He could see I was wearing an OSU t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. I obviously wasn’t packing a gun or a knife, so I figured him to be paranoid by nature.
I slowly gave him Francis’s driver’s license. “I am from Oklahoma, sir, but law-abiding. Don’t know about any fugitives.”
I hadn’t given him much, because we were standing next to a car with license plates that proudly proclaimed Native America and showed an Indian shooting an arrow into the sky. Yep, I was an Okie all right. Francis Sitting Bear.
The deputy stood back from me a couple of feet as though he was worried I might pounce.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, but he ignored me. That pissed me off, but I remembered something my mom had often told me. “Don’t let a cop provoke you into a fight so he can arrest you.”
That happened to be damned good advice, probably exactly what the deputy was hoping for. After what seemed like forever, he patted me down roughly.
“Don’t move.” Then he returned to his car.
Eventually, he came back. I fought to keep my voice steady. “Can I go now?”
“No.”
“Am I under arrest? What’s the charge?”
“We haven’t decided.”
Dad used to love Law & Order reruns after a long day in the fields, and I’d watched plenty of them with him. So, I was well-qualified to spot improper criminal procedure. “If you’re detaining me, I have a right to talk to my lawyer.” I pulled the new burn phone out of my back pocket. That was
a bluff, because I didn’t have a damned lawyer. I’d never needed one before.
The deputy made a grab for my phone. “No, you don’t. Give me that.”
I didn’t hand my phone over, but I didn’t run away, either. “Do you have a search and seizure warrant for my property?”
The deputy froze. He glanced from side to side as though he was looking for someone watching. I seemed to have struck a nerve.
“It’s…uh, it’s coming.”
He was obviously on shaky ground, so I pushed a little harder, just like those jerk defendants on TV. “You have arrested me and refused to state a charge. You’re denying me my right to counsel, and you’ve attempted to seize my property without a warrant. I’m going to own your house soon.”
He rubbed his chin with his hand. “I didn’t stop you. Go ahead, call your lawyer.” The cop walked back to his car and talked to someone on his phone.
I called Grandpa Samuel and told him what’d happened.
“Hold your temper,” he replied. “Keep telling him you want to leave. Don’t start a fight, though.”
I explained what I’d said so far.
He laughed, although it didn’t seem the least bit funny to me. “According to my lawyer, Cantor is trying to get an Oklahoma arrest warrant for you, but the prosecutors are sharp. They know this case could blow up in their faces. The arrest warrant asserts one charge, witchcraft, and that’s not a crime in your state. Most important, Francis, you’re not responsible for your Cousin Ian’s problems. Tell the cop we’re filing a civil rights case in federal court in Denver seeking damages for false arrest.”
I hung up and wandered over to the deputy’s car. Then I repeated what Grandpa had said. “I need to leave. You’ve got the wrong man.”
The cop shook his head.
Soon, two other sheriff’s cars pulled up, their lights flashing. The passing cars slowed down to see the bust of the century.
Instead of waiting for the other cops to approach, I walked over to them with my phone recording a video and said, “Can I get your names, please? We want to get them right for the complaint our lawyer is about to file in federal court.”
None of them spoke.
“Am I under arrest? If so, what am I being charged with?”
One of the cops had several stripes on his sleeve. He started to speak and then froze. After a pause, he shook his head. “No arrest. You were stopped because you were driving erratically.”
The first deputy handed me back Francis’s driver’s license. Although the erratic driving allegation was bullshit, I kept my temper. “Can I go?”
“You’ve always been free to leave, Mr. Sitting Bear.” More bureaucratic manure, but I hopped into the Eldo and took off before any more trouble could rain down on me.
Once I’d left them behind, I caught my breath and called Grandpa back. Then I asked about everyone.
“We’re all fine. We have twenty braves here ready to reenact the Battle of the Little Bighorn if necessary. Yesterday, a Morgan County deputy drove by but didn’t stop. Cantor is being asked by reporters for the justification for his morning raid and all the slaughter. The tribe’s lawyers are going to make him sorry for murdering four tribal members, and then I plan to make him even sorrier.”
I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t want specifics over a phone. “I know I should’ve done more to help my family, but I still can’t figure out how I could’ve saved them.”
Grandpa’s voice turned firm. “You save them? You had no training in fighting or a weapon you could’ve used. You couldn’t do a thing except to get yourself killed. You have what’s called survivor’s guilt, and it’s bullshit. I and your uncles, on the other hand, have both training and weapons. Cantor will be served justice, and we’ll find out who the other sorcerer was with him.”
I thanked him again for his help, turned the burn phone off again, and drove west.
When I entered Arapahoe County, I was overjoyed to leave the Elbert County yahoos behind. They seemed as anti-witch as the cops in Morgan County. I had to seriously consider the possibility of becoming a liberal. Yuck.
-o-o-o-
I DIDN’T REACH BOULDER County until the afternoon. That’s when I called Maggie, introduced myself, and explained why I hadn’t warned her I was on my way.
“Of course you couldn’t,” she said. “I’m thrilled you made it.”
That was reassuring. “Can you give me directions to your place?”
She did, and it was somewhere high in the mountains. Great, but my nerves were shot. I’d thought my long drive was almost over.
I stopped to eat at a fast food place along U.S. 36 in a town that claimed to have a butterfly pavilion, whatever that was. I’d been on the road for more than a full day, and I’d spent most of my waking hours suppressing the memory of the horror my family had suffered. No time for butterflies.
Shortly after lunch, I reached the town of Boulder. It lived up to my fear that it’d be a bastion of liberalism gone wild. I drove past the University of Colorado campus, and a guy wearing dreadlocks was selling bongs and CU jerseys along the side of the road. A bumper sticker on the Prius in front of me said Don’t Eat Anything with a Face.
The traffic was horrendous. A centipede could’ve crawled up Broadway faster than the Eldo did. People jaywalked in front of me constantly, and bikes zoomed in every direction.
What have I done?
All the publicity surrounding me would draw attention from the local sorcerers. A metropolitan area with millions of people had to include plenty of those assholes.
I finally crossed Boulder Creek and found the road that led up the canyon. Unfortunately, the traffic here was almost as bad as in the town proper. Lots of folks seemed to love the mountains.
The Eldo wound its way up the creek’s narrow gorge, and it began to misfire even worse. The elevation was over six thousand feet and climbing fast. Gray granite cliffs rose steeply on one side of the road, and Boulder Creek raged on the other.
Behind the Eldo, cars tailgated and honked. Such rude drivers.
I tried to keep to the speed limit, but it apparently had been set for Formula One race cars. One sharp bend followed another in a seemingly endless progression. I pulled over a half-dozen times in turnouts to let folks pass, but more kept rushing up from behind.
How did anyone survive on this road during the winter? According to the Oklahoma papers, avalanches were always killing some poor schmuck here. And if folks survived until spring, they could be incinerated by giant forest fires.
What have I done?
The Eldo crested a mountain, and the road flattened out. On the left side, a lake sparkled in the sunlight. At the lake’s western end, a small town sat nestled in a picturesque valley. Late-summer sunflowers and asters were blooming along the hillsides. And farther west, snowy mountain peaks towered over everything.
Maybe Colorado wouldn’t be so bad after all. I could understand why Maggie had preferred the mountains to the city.
As I approached the Town of Nederland, the congestion was every bit as bad as in Boulder. One traffic circle contained half-dozen tentacles, and I swung around it twice before I found the right way out. In the process, I almost took out a pack of anorexic bikers. A cute teenage girl flipped me off. This definitely wasn’t laid-back rural Oklahoma.
After more wandering, I found the side road Maggie lived on. I pulled into her long driveway and thanked Wakonda, Jesus, and Druantia for keeping me alive and out of jail. So far, at any rate.
Chapter 3
WHEN I KNOCKED ON Maggie’s door, a short, stocky woman answered. She looked the same as she had twenty years ago, but she was supposed to be in her early nineties.
The woman beamed. “Ian, is that you? My, you’ve grown so big. I’m Maggie.”
She must’ve used magic to stay this young. I extended my hand, trying to control its shaking from my trip.
She took my hand in both of her s
trong and calloused hands and gave me a hug for good measure. “My, so tall and handsome.”
Tall, sure, but I’d never been called handsome. Years ago, I’d broken my nose by falling off a hay wagon, and, more recently, I’d cut my forehead by smacking it on a low-hanging branch in my parents’ front yard. I still cringed when I remembered that pain.
But what did it matter now? I wasn’t planning on becoming a movie star.
I shook my head to clear the fog from it. “I’m so glad to be here. Been chased by the law through three states.”
“Listen, I’m so sorry to hear about your family. I talked to Samuel a few minutes ago, and he filled me in on some of the terrible details.”
Good, so I won’t have to.
Maggie waved me in. Her billowing red and black calico dress seemed to be so typical for Oklahoma.
“I’m sorry to say I’m wiped out.”
“Sure you are,” she replied. “Thank the gods; we don’t have sheriff problems here. Sorcerers are a whole other story, but I’m sure your grandma told you all about that.”
No, she hadn’t, and I’d had enough bad news for a while. So, I didn’t invite any explanation.
“Just tired.”
Maggie hugged me again. “Let’s get you inside.”
-o-o-o-
I COLLAPSED ONTO AN old leather sofa in her living room that smelled like lemon oil. For the first time since I’d heard that magical thunder yesterday morning, I could relax. Damn, what a nasty two days it’d been.
Maggie sat next to me. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay. Relieved to be safe.”
She patted my shoulder. “Tell me what really happened back at the farm. Samuel didn’t know many details.”
I told her about the massacre, but I had to stop a few times because my throat was burning so badly. I could hardly speak for minutes at a time. When I mentioned the fires, tears streamed down her face. I didn’t even try to explain why I hadn’t done more to help my family. Grandpa seemed to think I was taking on too much, but he hadn’t been there to see how I fell apart. I could barely hold my phone steady, much less fight.
Lone Survivor: The Sorcerers' Scourge Series: Book One Page 2