The ground gets closer and the horizon rotates. Dad’s not flying any farther than he has to. “Can we get closer to a town?” I ask. “Closer to a hospital for Matt?”
Dad doesn’t reply. Reluctantly he brings the helicopter back up, and then we’re sliding across trees, fields and houses. We come to another major highway. There is a city to the right, and another smaller one way off to the left. We head for a business that looks to be closed because there’s a huge cracked parking lot just waiting for us to land. After we settle onto the ground and the engine shuts down, there is a shuttering sigh of relief from Dad.
Run out to the highway and flag down someone to call 911, he says.
I stop to tell Matt we’re almost there, and then burst out the door, ducking under the still turning blades.
Zach
My legs feel weak, and my bowls loose, but we’re back on the ground. I can hardly believe that I did it. As Becky runs across the lot toward the highway, I turn in my seat and find Sean and Lester looking down at me. Sean has the stick that he was using as a cane. There’s nowhere for me to go, and no cats to back me up. At least Becky is not here, instead safe fifty yards away, flagging down cars. I glance out there. She’s arriving, but no cars have stopped yet. I look back at my executioners, want to ask why, can’t utter a sound. Sean steps closer and shifts the stick from his right to his left. I stand, prepare to protect myself, ready to ward off a blow. Sean’s hand comes at me . . .
. . . and waits for mine.
I blink at it. I don’t know how many seconds pass by before I place mine in his.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” he says.
I nod my thanks.
“It’s not in our best interest to hang around.” He turns and heads out the door. Lester looks at me for a few seconds, nods his head and follows after his partner. I admit that I’m glad for Sean, that he is no longer under the thumb of Vandermill, that he has his freedom. He wasn’t a bad guy. Lester, I’m not so sure about. I think he would have done whatever it was he had to do, even if it meant killing us.
In any case, they’re gone.
I check on Matt. He appears to be lost in a fog of pain. I step out of the bird and walk over to where Becky is still trying to get someone to stop. There’s no visible accident so maybe people don’t see a reason. I’m close when a beat up truck with a load of tree branches and rotten logs throws up dust on the side of the road. Becky takes off on the run to the truck as the dust drifts away in the warm air.
Becky!
She stops and looks back at me.
They’re gone.
Her confusion is evident.
Sean and Lester. Don’t mention them.
She looks toward the helicopter and then turns back to the truck to face a young man in coveralls that look like they haven’t been off his body in a week.
“You got a cell phone?” She asks.
“You betcha, darling,” he says, spits a glob of brown juice, and grins.
I turn back to the bird to sit and wait with Matt. I don’t worry about Becky. She’s faced more than most women have faced. She can handle herself.
Epilogue
It was four days yet before we saw the skyline of Dallas, after the FBI and the sheriff decided they were through with us. Christi and Aunt Suzie met us at Dallas International with hugs and tears all around. We didn’t tell them too much on the telephone, or at least Becky didn’t. I wasn’t talking at all. By the time we got home I was able to grunt, and make soft words. I will be able to talk again, I’m told. They made me take rabies shots. I tried to fight it, but in the end, I knew they were right. It wasn’t worth the risk, no matter how small.
The group of hikers we saw as we were flying away was in fact three sheriff deputies and two FBI agents. They were one of two groups tracking Brian’s killers. They would have been to us in a couple of hours. Somehow they already knew they were looking for Victor Vandermill. We asked how they knew. They never said. We had no proof so we decided that it was in our best interest to not say that we thought it was Sheriff Grandy himself who turned Vandermill onto Sam. We also didn’t say anything about who Sam really was. About that, the FBI didn’t seem to have a clue. In his own best interest, the sheriff kept his lip zipped as well.
We talked it over with Matt and decided to say nothing about the sabre-toothed cats. What would have been the point? We led the authorities to believe that except for the bodies lying around—Nick, Sammy and the two at the camp who Matt took out—everyone was buried in the mountain. Otherwise it would have been hard to explain where all the bodies were. As it was we were nervous that the cats decided to use them for appetizers. They left them alone. There was talk of trying to recover those in the mountain, but fortunately for us it was decided that the cost was too high, and stability of the mountain uncertain.
We attended Brian’s funeral. Matt was allowed to go despite the doctor’s reluctance. He didn’t look good when it was over and was returned directly to the hospital. I gave my condolences to Sharon, Brian’s wife. She was cold. She blames me and Becky; wouldn’t even acknowledge Becky.
The dealings with the auto rental company went easier than I thought. Guess they often get cars back with all the tires shot to pieces. “You’ll be getting a bill,” they said. Becky and I happily walked away and boarded our flight.
The threat of Victor Vandermill is gone. We were visited yesterday by an FBI agent. “Tying up loose ends,” he said. He asked questions about the individuals who were with Vandermill. As before, we gave all the names we could—only heard first names—along with descriptions. Again, we left out Sean and Lester. I wouldn’t have any problem giving up Lester because of the way he handled Becky, but she says she started the fight between them. I don’t think he would have blinked an eye at killing her. The FBI agent went away with the usual, “Please call if you think of anything else.”
We held a quiet memorial for Tanya. It was enough trying to answer Suzie’s questions and those of our closest friends. We told her everything we told the FBI. Suzie is skeptical, says Becky. She thinks there may have been foul play. For some reason, she has never liked me all that much. If it wasn’t for Becky’s testimony collaborating mine, Suzie would probably be accusing me of murdering her sister. She visits almost daily with some maternal instinct that says she is responsible for her sister’s children. I’d tell her to bug off except that Christi loves her and she does provide some of the female role modeling Christi needs, if you call a role model someone who at thirty-nine has never been married and goes through a boyfriend on the average of every six months.
Becky and I went through the house inch by inch and found three listening devices. . . bugs. We’ve come to the agreement that the house has to go on the market. We destroyed some walls and a bit of ceiling looking for the bugs. There’s some work to do before I call the realtor.
There’s also the dent in the wall where one day, upon noticing my framed Pulitzer nomination hanging over my desk, I snatched it and flung it across the room. There is probably glass in the carpet where I jumped up and down on it.
You may have figured out by now that my psychic talents are gone, except for seeing auras, if you call that psychic, and that is getting less and less every day. Becky has my talents ten-fold, way beyond anything I would have ever imagined. Only she and I know her secret, and maybe Matt Shwartzberg a little, plus Sean somewhere in Seattle. Lester knows little more than that she controlled the sabre-toothed cats. Why would he talk, and who’d believe him?
Speaking of Matt, Becky talked to him this morning. He hung around the hospital another two days after we left. It’s now been over three weeks. He spends a lot of his time in a wheelchair, watching the building of his mother’s—and eventually his—large animal veterinary clinic. He is holding up well it seems, Becky tells me. Apparently Sharon, his mother, is still taking Brian’s murder pretty hard, and she’s taking it out on the contractors.
We all grieve in our own way.
&n
bsp; Becky spends her days on her laptop computer; sometimes in the living room; sometimes in the backyard; usually in her bedroom. It’s hard to believe, but despite everything, the computer survived. Sarah, Becky’s best friend, came to visit. She didn’t stay long, and didn’t look very happy when she left.
“I’m writing,” Becky tells me. Writing what? A journal? A Novel? I should be writing as well. I can’t get myself near the keyboard.
We all grieve in our own way.
We leave Becky to her self-appointed task, of which I am very curious but won’t ask, and together, father and youngest daughter, go out for the day. It was Becky’s idea and she was supposed to go with us, but she backed out at the last minute. We go to the Dallas World Aquarium. It’s a cool, literally and figuratively, place to be on a hot Texas Saturday afternoon. Most of the rest of Texas seems to agree. We fight the crowds until we find an empty bench where we can watch the playful river wolves, the giant river otters of South America. Lobo Del Rio, the sign says. Several boys jump in front of us and get excited, making noises and snotty remarks at them. The otters pay them little notice and the boys scurry off to find an animal that will pay attention.
“Stupid boys,” Christi says softly.
The otters swim back and forth, playing with each other, or playing alone. Christi doesn’t laugh and smile. Until she does, I will be unable to. She takes my hand and leans her head against my shoulder. I know there are tears. I won’t embarrass her by mentioning them.
“Can we go there someday?” she asks.
“Where?”
“To the place . . . in Montana . . . where Mom is?”
On the surface I don’t think it’s a good idea. “Sure,” I say. Deep down I know we have to do it, not just for Christi’s sake, but for all three of us. “Why don’t we have a plaque made like you see on graves; something like, ‘Here lies the greatest mother in the world.’ We’ll attach it somewhere prominent.”
“Greatest mother and wife,” Christi says.
“Yes.” The otters slide down the water chute, one after the other.
“That looks fun,” Christi says without an ounce of enthusiasm.
The boys return suddenly. “Why do they do that?” one demands. “Cause they’re stupid,” the other says. A matronly voice yells and they scamper away.
“Why do you think boys do that?” I ask.
“Cause they’re stupid,” Christi says. Her head remains against my shoulder.
We all grieve in our own way.
# # #
The Last Sabre (Book 3)
The Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy
By
James Paddock
Published by Desert Bookshelf Publishing
Copyright © 2011 by James R. Paddock
Cover photo and art by James R. Paddock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
To order additional copies of this book contact:
Desert Bookshelf Publishing
www.desertbookshelf.com
Chapter 1
August 2, 2008 – Saturday
Fort Worth, Texas
“They were stupid boys,” Christi blurts and drops onto the sofa. She finds the remote, points and clicks.
Christi is my fourteen-year-old little sister. I give Dad the, “What happened?” look. He shrugs and lifts his eyebrows. What does that mean? “Did you have a good time at the aquarium?” I ask. Dad and Christi had gone to the Dallas World Aquarium to get away from the oppressiveness of the house. It was my suggestion, but at the last second I backed out. No reason.
“We watched the otters,” Christi says, and then turns the volume up.
Dad gives me a weak thumbs up as he carries the plastic bag of what appears to be the entire lunch I packed for the outing, into the kitchen. I follow and watch him stuff it into the refrigerator. “You didn’t eat?”
“Not hungry. Drank the sodas. Watched the otters. A couple of boys were being boys, making fun of the otters.”
“That’s it?”
He shrugs again. “That’s what she liked; she almost smiled.” He closes the refrigerator. “We’ve got supper.”
I follow him back into the living room. Christi has MTV on; the volume is low.
“I’m going to go lie down for a bit,” Dad says and starts up the stairs.
“I want to go there.”
We both look at Christi. “Where?” I say. I have no idea what my little sister is talking about.
“Montana. I want to go to where Mom . . .”
I wait for her to finish her sentence. She doesn’t. She hasn’t accepted that Mom is gone, won’t say it. “Why?” I say. I’m not sure I want to go back there; at least not yet; not for a few years. “There’s nothing to see.”
Dad says, “We can talk about it later.”
The couch potato gives Dad a look, but says nothing. He goes upstairs. They’ve already talked about it, but he’s not ready to face me with it. He and I haven’t talked about much of anything since the two of us scoured the house for listening devices; the exchange in the kitchen being downright gabby. Generally, he’s been avoiding me, spending his energy in placating Christi, massaging her, bringing her back into the world after the death of our mother not even a month ago. Well, what about me? I’m the one who should be massaged. I’m the one who was right in the middle of it. I’m the one who watched her blow herself to pieces. I should probably be talking to a head doctor.
I drop into a chair and stare at the music video playing, some group I know nothing about. Sure, it might be good for Christi to go see where Mom died, but she’ll ask more questions and we aren’t ready to give the answers, or at least I’m not. And there are a lot more questions than there are answers.
The TV goes off and Christi goes up to her room. She doesn’t like to be around me for very long. In three weeks she has hardly said a word to me. Between her and Dad, I’ve been living in a vacuum. They blame me. Not surprising. I’m fully to blame. No wonder I didn’t go to the aquarium with them.
I pick up my computer and go upstairs.
“Becky.”
I barely hear Dad call me as I pass his bedroom. I consider ignoring him because he seems to refuse to recognize that I want to be called Reba. Instead, I look in. He’s not lying on the bed. He’s sitting in Mom’s rocking chair. I’m jealous. I’ve been wanting that chair in my room, had thought about just taking it; may still.
I step in and wait for him to continue. After a few seconds I sit on the bed. It’s high enough that my feet dangle. “What?”
“You realize that you’re the woman of the house now?”
I start to roll my eyes, catch myself and look directly at him. “Yes.”
“I need you to start playing the part.”
“Playing the part? What do you think I’ve been doing? I cook meals, pick up after you and Christi; I’ve even cleaned the toilets. You all don’t even notice me.”
“Christi needs . . .”
“Needs what, Dad? I can’t be her mother. I’m her sister.”
“Spend time with her,” he says after a long, empty-look silence.
“She won’t spend time with me. She doesn’t want to be in the same room with me. She blames me.”
“She . . .”
“Don’t say she doesn’t. Face it, Dad; you both do. I blame me, too. But there’s no way to go back and undo it.”
“I’ve never blamed you.”
“Then why haven’t you been talking to me?”
“You’ve been hiding.”
“No I haven’t.”
The silence ticks on until I think I’m going to go crazy. Finally he says, “What have you been writing?” More silence, this time on my part. “You’ve lived with that computer for three weeks now; you take it with you everywhere. What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to sort out everything that has happened since the graduation trip to Cancun. I’m trying to understand, get everything in perspective.”
“There is no perspective.”
“Maybe not, but it’s what I have to do. It’s what you used to do when things went crazy. You’d write and turn it into a story; your way of journalizing.”
“Your mother’s death isn’t something to be turned into a story. It’s not a movie-of-the-week.”
“It’s not meant to be. It’s my therapy.”
“Therapy.” He looks toward the window as though daydreaming. “I guess I can understand that. But I have never blamed you.”
I blow out a lungful. “No. I guess you haven’t, but I feel it anyway, especially from Christi.”
“She’ll get over it with time.”
“But will she ever forgive me?”
“It’s not your . . .”
“We can go over and over it. You and Mom would not have run after me if I hadn’t run away. That’s basically it. Sure, I can try to blame Vandermill, or Sam, or Mom for that matter, but none of it would have happened if it wasn’t for my actions. Mom is dead. Sam is dead. Matt’s dad is dead.” Shit all to hell I’m gonna cry. I don’t want to cry. I tense my muscles and push it down. “I’ll have to live with all of that the rest of my life. You certainly don’t want me to be Christi’s mother cause if I was I wouldn’t let her do anything, afraid she’d make the same stupid mistakes I made. I’d chain her to the house.”
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