Love Story: In The Web of Life

by Ken Renshaw

  Wednesday, as instructed, I took the 9:15 Air California flight from Burbank to Sacramento. As I was waiting at the baggage carousel, I heard 'Mr. Willard?' I turned around a saw a very athletic looking cowboy, about five foot two, maybe thirty years old, wearing worn jeans, a well worn Stetson hat, a large silver belt buckle, scuffed cowboy boots worn down at the heel, and a striped shirt with mother of pearl buttons down the front and on the flapped pockets. His face was very tan and weathered looking, with wrinkles that made him look older than he was. He had intense blue eyes.

  "I'm Buster Cabot. I am here to provide you transportation to the ranch," he said, with a Texas cowboy accent.

  He gave me his card that read "Buster Cabot, EB Services, Inc." I observed there was no title.

  "Pleased to meet you," I replied, taken somewhat aback. I was expecting a uniformed Towne Car driver instead of a cowboy.

  As we watched the bags circulate on the carousel, Buster volunteered that the ranch was about an hour and a half from the airport. When my bags came Buster took them saying, follow me and continued out the terminal door. We walked to the first floor of the parking structure, identified as short-term parking. Buster walked over to a large green pickup truck, a GMC from the days when there were two large headlights, only one on each side, probably the 1960s, with rust showing everywhere through the faded green paint, including rust holes at the bottom of the doors and rust on wheels that had long ago lost their hubcaps. He put my bags in the pickup bed alongside a tool compartment and some oily looking agricultural equipment. As I opened the door, it squeaked and them clanked as I closed it. Surprisingly, the interior was well–kept, obviously redone. We drove away on the airport road. Buster was quiet and concentrating on looking out the rear view mirrors. When we came to the Exit-Return interchange, at the entrance to the airport, Buster took the Return branch and we circulated through some of the service and car rental areas.

  After we finally departed the airport, Buster said, without the Texas cowboy accent, "Sorry for the delay, I wanted to make sure no one was following us. I should introduce myself. I will be in charge of your security at the ranch and your personal bodyguard."

  I wondered if EB Services was some kind of low-budget operation.

  Buster continued, "EB Services is sort of my day job. It fills the time between my gigs as a stuntman."

  "Like in the movies?" I asked.

  "Yes, I have done a lot of Westerns, but they are not doing many anymore, so I play bad guys in movies where there are many fight scenes. I am a martial arts expert and even was in a Jackie Chan movie. These days, I do work where I am in a harness supported by wires in acrobatic fight scenes, the kind where you run up walls and jump over buildings. This truck is a movie truck. It didn't get looking like this on its own. It is sometimes rented from me when I am on a movie. Also, it has a special suspension and a good engine."

  He pressed on the accelerator pedal, and it sped up like a sports car.

  "It handles well in chase scenes, real or in the movies. It won't attract much attention in Rocky Butte."

  He reached underneath the center of the dash. Something clicked and a compartment dropped down. In it was a gun, not a western type, more like you see bad guys in modern movies carrying. Next to it was a small red cylinder that looked like a miniature fire extinguisher.

  "Is that real?" I asked

  'Yes, and it is licensed and legal. That cylinder is bear spray. It is a harmless pepper spray that is designed to stop a grizzly bear at thirty feet. It is useful for protecting yourself when it wouldn't be appropriate to shoot somebody, or take the time to break some bones."

  I noticed that he had a particular delight in saying, 'break some bones.'

  "If you know the secret latches to pull, I'll show you later, the back of the seat folds down and there are two shotguns there."

  "Just like in the movies," I observed. "Who are you usually protecting when you are not protecting lawyers in small towns?"

  "We have all kinds of clients. I have another persona where I do the black suit with microphones up the sleeves kind of thing, and drive armored limousines. We do mostly executives and entertainment people, rock stars, and all that. Sometimes, it is some important person from a Middle Eastern country. We have had quite a bit of special training. I don't get to use my truck very often. However, you will not get any less thorough protection than some foreign minister.”

  "Tell me about the ranch and the arrangements."

  "The Rocky Butte Adventure Ranch is about ten miles south of town, off on a dirt road two miles from the highway. It has a main lodge where you will stay, and six rather plush hunting lodges–type cabins where visitors will stay. We will all eat family style in the main lodge. My wife, Sofia, will cook and serve as a bodyguard. She is also highly trained in martial arts and works as a stunt person in the movies."

  I added, "I'll be careful not to complain about the cooking."

  Buster didn't flinch or laugh as he continued, "Your witnesses have been instructed to make their travel arrangements through us. They will fly to Sacramento as you did and then will be met by our representative. Don't worry, they will be wearing limo driver clothes and have town cars. They will be taken to another small airport where they will board a small twin-engine chartered plane that will fly them to the dirt strip on the ranch. I understand you will be having a guest."

  "Yes, Tina Quail," I replied. “She will come Saturday and stay for the length of our time here. My legal assistant, a young attorney, Elizabeth McKenzie, will be joining us also and staying in one of the cabins. I guess she can ride with me when I drive to court.”

  "We must insist on Tina staying on the ranch and out of Rocky Butte until the trial is over. We do not want to risk any sort of hostage situation. Sofia will be her companion when she goes for a swim, hike, or ride."

  "Will I have a car, or is this my transportation?"

  Buster laughed and then said, "No, we have prepared a lawyer-proper car for you. Nothing fancy, a Chevy Camaro about two years old."

  "Prepared? Secret compartments with guns?"

  "No, we have added a few security features that I'll show you later.

  "We have some information, photographs etc., on the guy who has been stalking you. Our intelligence from a reliable source says he is working alone. He is code named 'Mr. S.' He doesn't appear to be very smart."

  "Reliable intelligence source?" I asked.

  Buster didn't respond, but went on, "We have also rented an old farmhouse on the way to the ranch, off the same dirt road. You will let it be known around town that you are staying there. One of our guys, call him your stunt double, Cody Stevens, will stay there and provide a nice welcome for Mr. S if he shows up.

  "We will also have two of my guys in town staying at the Riverside Motel. You will probably never meet them. They will be doing things for me and might provide transportation as needed. Also, Dore has a person with a San Jose Times press pass who will be attending the court sessions. She will keep Dore informed on what transpires in court. You will get a copy of her dispatches."

  I was quiet for a while. I thought about the other Mr. S in Candice and Tom's back yard.

  "Buster, I compliment you on your planning. It seems very thorough. I won't have to worry about anything but the trial."

  "That's our job," he replied.

  "By the way, what does the 'EB' in EB Services stand for?"

  "Executive babysitting, or so I have been told."

  The rest of the way to Rocky Butte was spent talking about movies he had been on and some of the interesting cases I had worked. When I mentioned the Norton Simon museum, Buster knew all about it and discussed his favorite picture there, The Rag Picker by Manet. Apparently there was more to Buster than this cowboy persona.

  After we turned off the highway onto the dirt road, we drove for about a half mile through the pine forest and then turned onto a driveway that led to a clearing with a boxy two-story farmhouse, apparently dating from
the early 1900s. It was well maintained, painted grey, with white shutters, a new roof, and short eaves like the houses in New England. Four sycamore trees, very green with their late spring foliage, surrounded it.

  "You should look around inside so you can talk as though you are familiar with the place. Inspect the kitchen in case you have to describe it to someone. It looks as if it has been recently redone."

  Inside, the house was attractively furnished. I surmised that it was a vacation rental property by how the kitchen was equipped with dishes and cooking utensils.

  We got back in the truck and drove the mile and a half to the ranch through the pine forest.

  The gateway to the ranch had two posts and a lintel made of logs. The lintel across the driveway mounted several sets of long steer horns. A wrought iron sculpture on the top of the lentil pictured bucking horses ridden by cowboys in Stetson hats twirling lariats. In the center was a large letter R with a bar underneath it, apparently the ranch brand.

  The road from the gate wound downhill past a meadow filled with spring wildflowers to a slight rise where the ranch house sat, a factory-made log house, with logs turned to uniform size and machine-made notches in the corners where the walls connected to the front. It was two stories high with two dormer windows protruding from the roof that extended over a large covered porch. Four rocking chairs sat on the porch.

  As we pulled up in front, I saw a woman sitting in one of the rocking chairs. She got up and came out to greet us, kissing Buster, and then turning with a hand out to introduce herself.

  "Hi, I'm Sofia, you must be Dave Willard. We are here to make sure you have a safe and enjoyable stay."

  I was surprised at the strength in her handshake, more like a man's than a woman's. Sofia was dressed in a plain blue denim dress, and a heavy silver and jade necklace about her neck, and a variety of matching bracelets, and belt. Long black braided hair fell down the length of her back. A dark complexion and brown eyes gave me the impression that she must be Native American.

  Buster laughed. "I haven't seen you in that getup since we left Taos! It looks good." He turned to me and volunteered, "We were out there on a western shoot. Although Sofia is of Portuguese descent, she gets cast for some Indian roles. That was her reservation–diva costume. Wrong tribe for Rocky Butte, though."

  "I think it’s cute," replied Sofia.

  "Here, Dave, I'll show you around. This is the main lodge, and there are six cabins nestled in the woods, three on the other side of the meadow and three in the woods behind the house. Down below there, in the back, are caretakers, maids, and hands quarters plus a barn and five horses in the corral. Two maids, who don't speak much English, and a wrangler, Ben, are there. We gave everyone else a vacation–security convenience to make sure nobody would be going into town telling about our operation. If you or your guests would like to go riding, they can see Ben. He also has a Jeep for rides to and from the airstrip or over to the lake where there is a swimming beach, and a few rowboats and picnic spots. People don't need to be escorted, unless they want to be, anywhere on the ranch.

  We then went over to a dilapidated–looking pickup, with a camper shell on the back parked near the lodge. Buster walked around back and then opened the camper shell door. There was no roof on the camper, and the shell was filled with a satellite dish.

  Buster volunteered, "This provides secure high speed internet service. We are too far out in the boonies for cable or DSL. The rig also has a miniature cell site so you and your guests can use their phones. The lodge has its own satellite TV."

  We went into the lodge. The walls were varnished logs, the furniture, deep–brown leather with the wooden parts made from whitish branches, something like birch. On the walls and the floor were rugs woven in an Indian style. A large river rock fireplace filled one end of the room.

  'Very Western,' I thought. 'Tina will like the fact that there are no mounted animal head trophies on the walls.'

  Buster showed me a bedroom off the kitchen. "This is where we will sleep, handy to respond to anything."

  Then, he went to a heavy wood plank door and opened it. "This goes to the wine cellar. We can use it as a safe room. It has a heavy lock on the inside so nobody can get in. If anyone needs to take refuge, this is a good place.

  "You and your guest will stay in the suite upstairs. There is an office area up there with a small conference table. We put your boxes that the courier picked up at your office up there. The satellite rig in the camper provides Wi-Fi so you and your guests can have Internet access anywhere in the house."

  Sofia invited us to follow her out onto the porch for lunch, carrying a platter of sandwiches. "I have iced tea," she said. "But there is beer in the fridge if you want it. Feel free to go into the kitchen and get anything you want at any time day or night. This is your house."

  "Thanks," I said. "By the way, where is the car I will drive?"

  "Cody is bringing it up tomorrow."

  After lunch, I excused myself to rest and get settled in.

  Sofia said, "Dinner at six, happy hour at five."

  ****

  Unknown to Dave, somebody was using this night to visit CrystalAire airport and tamper with Dave's sailplane.

  Mr. S drove his white van with the lights off, in the light of the quarter moon, down the dirt road to where the enemy kept his sailplane trailer, thinking to himself, ‘I will destroy this agent of the forces of evil, those who would move the world back into superstition and fear by promulgating false beliefs in the name of a false science. The attorney will die a deserved, terrible death.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘The Skeptimos Order will honor me for this feat.’ He visualized the ceremony. The members in their hooded white robes, emblazoned with the flame red crosses, would chant and place a wreathe of laurels on his head.

  Mr. S parked his van near the sailplane trailer, went into the back and, pulled the black curtains over the windows. By a dim light, he assembled his bombs. The first was a flare that made a poisonous smoke, one that was intended for killing gophers and varmints in their tunnels or dens. The second, a half stick of dynamite, was rigged to detonate two minutes after the smoke bomb. He laughed to himself as he set the smoke bomb altitude detonator to go off after the sailplane had gained two thousand feet above the airport. He used a marking pen to draw the Skeptemos symbol on the duct tape holding the bombs together.

  After turning off the light, he left the van for the sailplane trailer. Fortunately, an outside night-light on a nearby hangar provided him with enough illumination to do his work. He put on surgical gloves to prevent fingerprints, and used the key he had made from a wax impression to unlock the trailer. He slowly opened the trailer, reached in and removed the cockpit canopy. Watching pilots rig their sailplanes in Ogden had carefully planned his procedure. He gingerly placed the bombs behind and under the pilot's seat, in a place that wouldn't be discovered in assembling the airplane.

  He removed the parachute and turned it over and, placed a locking pin in the ripcord to prevent it from being pulled to open the parachute. The parachute was carefully replaced in the cockpit and the canopy was restored. He closed and locked the trailer and returned to his van.

  Mr. S was jubilant as he drove away, laughing to himself about the cleverness of his plan. When the attorney took his next flight, being towed to altitude, the smoke bomb would go off filling the cockpit with black, poisonous smoke. If the pilot could open the canopy in time to not be overcome, he might try to fly the sailplane back to the field. The second bomb would kill the pilot if he tried that. If he managed to bail out, the parachute wouldn't open and the attorney would fall in terror to his death. He wanted to be there to observe his creation.

  The next morning was a beautiful Sierra morning in Rocky Butte. I woke up at six and went down stairs in my running suit. Sofia was alone in the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee and sitting in a chair with her legs pulled up under her bathrobe.

  "It's cold," she said. "Pour yourself some coffee while I make
breakfast."

  I poured a cup of coffee and then said, "Don't bother with breakfast now, I am going for a run. How far is the lake?"

  "About a mile. Go past the stables and turn right at the fork in the road." She went to the cupboard and took out a canister of bear spray tucked in a little hoister on a belt. "Here, take this with you, it's good for lots of things."

  "Is there a bear problem here?"

  "No, but you may never know what you might run into around here. Had some rumors about Sasquatch."

  "I know about him. Remember, I was raised in a logging town in Northern California. I understand he can be a really bad one."

  I didn't think she had Sasquatch in mind, so I didn't protest.

  I had a pleasant run to the lake, taking it easy to get used to the thin air at this altitude. It was refreshing to be among the tall trees, hear the wind in the branches, smell the pines, and run on a carpet of dry needles. It is very different from running in LA. I decided to rest and enjoy the view of the sparkling lake and the surrounding pine forest. I sat down on a soft bed of pine needles underneath a tree, shifted my weight to remove a small pinecone underneath me, leaned back on the tree, and relaxed. I closed my eyes and was enjoying the sun on my face when I heard an airplane. I looked up and saw a single engine airplane a couple of thousand feet up, flying off to the East. I closed my eyes again and listened to the fading engine noise and relaxed, thinking I could easily nap. My mind drifted.

  Then, I started to see pictures, in my minds eye, of biplanes circling, as if dog fighting, with the sounds of machine-guns and engines revving and slowing as the planes climbed, turned, and dove. I felt a sense of fear and intense concentration. I sensed I was flying a biplane and pursuing another airplane laboring along, an observation plane, one with a pilot and a machine gunner. It didn't seem to maneuver to evade me.

  I made one pass with my machine guns blaring, saw the pilot and gunner slump down, and saw the smoke begin to pour from the engine. I circled to make sure it went down and then saw the machine gunner emerge and start turning his gun in my direction. His gun apparently jammed, and he was pounding on it. As I closed in I saw that the gunner was a mere boy, with a look of terror in his eyes. I couldn't fire my gun. As I passed by the plane, I could see the pilot's head slumped over the side of the cockpit. He also was a mere boy, and judging by his displayed aeronautical skills, someone who had only been trained to take off and land before being sent out on a reconnaissance mission. I was fighting against children!