by Chris Pike
“Kate and I could leave and return tomorrow,” Nico suggested.
“No,” Holly said. “It’s getting late and there is no need for you and Kate to wander around looking for your property.”
“Holly,” Dorothy said, “Do you mind if I borrow the truck and head into town?”
“What for?” Holly asked. “It’s getting late, and you and Anna shouldn’t be out at night. You’re not armed, and even if I gave you a gun, I don’t think you’d know how to use it.”
“I was going to ask if Anna could stay here. I really need to get home and get my high blood pressure medicine. I’m not feeling well, and I know my blood pressure must be sky high. I haven’t had this problem for a while, and I’ve got some leftover pills from last year stashed somewhere in the house.”
“Anna can stay here. Let me get my things and I’ll come with you.”
“Oh, no. That’s not necessary,” Dorothy insisted. “I’ll be fine, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I’m sure Nico could escort you.” Holly gauged Nico’s reaction, which indicated he was agreeable.
“Absolutely not,” Dorothy said, shaking her head. “He’s tired and I don’t want to impose more than I already have.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Holly wasn’t convinced why Dorothy couldn’t wait until the morning, and was uneasy about letting her borrow the truck, but if she needed medicine then there wasn’t much choice. High blood pressure was a killer, and they needed to keep everyone alive. “If anyone approaches you, don’t stop, just keep on going.”
“I can do that. I’ll be careful. Promise.” Dorothy smiled pleasantly to reassure Holly.
“Alright. Let me get you the keys.”
Holly went to the kitchen and dug around in a Tupperware container half full of flour where the keys were hidden. Holly took one end of the plastic baggie and pulled it out, careful not to spill any flour. She blew a puff of air on the baggie and wiped it clean. The keys were always hidden in case they were out working the land when an unwanted visitor showed up. Keeping keys on a peg by the front door worked perfectly fine during normal times, but this was anything but normal.
Once Dorothy left, Holly prepared a meal for everyone. They had quite a spread of food leftover from the wedding that was to have taken place the day before. Treats included smoked meat, just about every kind of canned vegetables, or fruit to choose from, including figs. A sleeve of crackers, which was now considered a delicacy, was on the menu. A dish of baklava with walnuts was still in the brown paper bag. Holly considered whoever brought the baklava had forward thinking, especially since the dessert didn’t require refrigeration. Someone else had brought a jar of honey and enough pecans to feed guests at several weddings.
Kate offered the goody bag, but Holly told her to keep it since there was plenty of leftover food.
Holly sat down at the table and placed a napkin on her lap. “Nico, can you do the honors please?”
“Honors?” He raised his hands, palm side up. “I don’t understand.”
“The blessing.”
“I’m not very good at that.”
“It doesn’t matter, just say whatever comes to your mind.”
Nico took a glance around the table and cleared his throat. “Let us bow our heads. Heavenly Father, we thank You for this meal we are about to receive. We thank You for the blessings You have bestowed upon us. Allow Your strength to flow through Dillon, Ryan, and Chandler, who are not at this table. Lift up their spirits, and guide them for what they must endure. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“Thank you,” Holly said. “That was nice.”
Nico’s tone changed from one of spiritual thankfulness to one of military precision. “Tell me exactly what happened yesterday.”
Holly recounted how the Russian helicopter arrived minutes after the last guest had arrived. She told in detail about the number of soldiers who had jumped out of the helicopter, describing their uniforms and the types of weapons they carried. She recalled the bullets hitting the house and how she, Cassie, Amanda, Dorothy, and Anna had ducked and taken cover, except for one.
“What was her name?” Nico asked.
“Sarah Monroe.”
“You mentioned her husband…” Nico snapped his fingers, trying to recall her husband’s name.
“Larry Monroe.”
“That’s right. You mentioned Larry was taken prisoner too.”
“He was.”
“Does he know his wife is dead?”
“No. There’s no way he could know.”
“And you’re pretty sure one of the guests was a snitch for the Russians?”
“What else could explain the timing of their arrival?” Holly asked. She placed her fork on the plate and sat back in her chair. “It couldn’t have been dumb luck. The Russians must have been planning the attack on the US for months. Years probably, including the one on my ranch.”
“I don’t understand,” Nico said. “They didn’t want your land, they tried to burn down your house, but they didn’t harm any of the able-bodied men. Correct?”
“They shot the elderly couple.”
“Who did?”
“I’m not sure. We couldn’t see what was happening at the time. We were hiding in the closet.”
“Then a soldier found you, right?”
“Yes. He motioned for us to be quiet.”
While Nico was forming his next question, Anna butted into the conversation. “He looked straight at me, like he recognized me.”
“Had you met him before?” Nico asked.
Anna shook her head to indicate she had not.
“Curious. I wonder if he has a daughter your age. It would explain why he took pity on you. No father would do that to their child.”
“I don’t have a father.” Anna dipped her chin to her chest, her hands fidgeting with the napkin in her lap. The corners of her mouth drooped in sadness.
Nico wasn’t sure how to respond to the child’s declaration. Needing to stay on track, he asked, “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I think we would all recognize him,” Holly said. “He spared our lives.”
“Then we have at least one American sympathizer on our side, and one traitor among us. The two don’t cancel each other out.”
Conversation at the table quieted at the mention of a traitor. Nico thought about possible reasons, and he suspected everyone at the table was deep in thought as well. Who could it be? And why would a citizen of the United States betray such a great country? Had the Russians waved dollars around? Or had a family member been threatened with harm?
Conversation during the next hour covered more mundane subjects and local gossip. Holly prepared hot tea for everyone, explaining, “We are almost out of coffee. I’m saving what’s left for a special occasion. Who wants another serving of baklava?”
The front door burst open. Nico swiveled around, drew his pistol, and leveled it at the door.
Reload sat up, eyes alert and his muscles tensed, readied for action.
Dorothy entered. She wiped her shoes on the rug then shut the door. She took a step into the room and froze. Six pairs of eyes were fixed directly on her, and she gasped at the muzzles of several guns leveled in her direction. Frozen, her heart pounded at breakneck speed, and myriad thoughts bounced around in her head. Her mouth hung open in the shape of an O.
“Dorothy?” Holly said in a scolding tone.
As Nico and Holly holstered their guns, Dorothy let out an audible breath. “Y’all look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Holly said. “We were so absorbed in the conversation that we didn’t hear you drive up. You startled us. That’s all.”
“Oh,” Dorothy put a hand over her heart, patting it. “You gave me a terrible fright.”
“Did you find what you needed?”
“Hmm? Find what?”
“Your medicine? Did you find it?”
“I did. Sorry, my heart i
s still in my throat.” Dorothy patted her chest again. “I went blank there for a moment. I’m okay now.”
“Come sit down at the table. I’ll get you tea and dessert.”
“Before you do,” Dorothy said, “I have some information for you. I know why the Russians are here.”
Chapter 21
Darkness had fallen on the East Texas land of piney woods and towering hardwoods. Nocturnal animals stirred, waiting for the sun to set, and for darkness to cover the land. Emerging from their hidden dens, the animals sniffed the air, checking for adversaries competing for territory or breeding rights.
Deep in the woods, a screech owl twilled its eerie call, silencing the forest. More joined in from nearby trees until the night air was heavy with owl songs. Long shadows danced in the moonlight.
Buster lay shivering in the barn where he had taken shelter. His eyes were big and he tentatively looked around, his mind retreating to memories causing him distress.
Earlier, explosive dings of rapid gunfire had assaulted his ears, confusing him, the noise an intolerable pox on his senses.
Frightened, he had bolted.
He ran until his lungs burned from exertion, until his legs gobbling mile after mile of rugged terrain became as wobbly as spaghetti, and when he had run himself to the point of exhaustion, he collapsed.
He had slept fitfully, memories flooding his dreams. Gunpowder burned his sensitive nose. The reverberations of gunfire assaulted his hearing. He trembled at the tap, tap, tap of bullets on wood.
Glass shattering.
Screams.
Blinding flashes.
As he slept, he panted and yipped, his paws twitched, legs in motion, escaping from some perceived enemy.
Overwhelmed by memories, he rose from his makeshift bed of hay, and ventured out of the barn and into the darkness. He stood there for a while, hesitation gripping him into inaction.
A sudden noise startled him, and instinctively he bolted away from the barn, dashed into the woods, weaving his way through the brush where he stumbled upon a hollow log.
He lifted his snout, testing the air. Somewhere nearby was water. Letting his nose guide him, he crouched down and belly crawled into the log. A puddle of rainwater had formed in a depression in the log. Buster nosed it, tasting the wood, the moss, the sandy soils and moist carpet of leaves and pine needles. He lapped greedily until no water remained and his tongue grazed the soft bark.
For a moment Buster quelled his shivering body, cocked his ears to the pattering feet of an animal trotting along a hidden trail tamped down by countless trips of four-legged creatures. The animal slowed its walk, stopped, then scurried to other foraging grounds.
A bullfrog croaked and crickets chirped. An owl hooted long and lonely.
Time meant nothing.
The stars moved in the heavens.
The moon brightened then paled by passing clouds.
Buster lowered his head and put his head on his paws, fatigued from the dangers of the woods. His eyelids became heavy, and no longer able to keep them open, he fell into a deep slumber. Voices and laughter came to him. A warm home with a soft bed.
The gentle hand upon his fur.
A scent of perfume tickling his nose.
The aroma of sizzling meat on a grill, and smoke filling the air.
That was the essence of his home, where Dillon and Holly lived. Where Cassie and Ryan would live with their own family. Finally, Buster drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Morning came, soft and slow, the sun’s rays threading through the canopy, bringing light and warming the land.
Buster opened his eyes a slit to unfamiliar territory and sounds. He stretched, and let his eyes absorb the low morning light.
A twig snapped and suddenly Buster was wide awake.
He remained motionless as footsteps approached. He sniffed the air and listened with eagerness at the sound of a baritone voice talking in soothing tones. Buster sniffed again and caught the unmistakable scent of another dog. The man was communicating with the dog and it was tracking Buster!
He searched for an escape route, but the opposite end of the log was blocked. Panic set in when he realized he was trapped.
He shivered and waited.
The man spoke in a calming tone, and this time Buster saw boots. They were work boots, scarred and stained from use and shaped to the contours of the man’s foot. One sniff indicated he was a man who worked the land, who got dirty, slogging through manure and hay. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, only one Buster had smelled at Holly’s ranch as he accompanied Dillon or Ryan on ranch chores.
Buster hesitantly thumped his tail.
A black nose appeared at the end of the hollow low. It was attached to a brown and white muzzle, the nose moist and interesting, twitching to gather information about Buster. It was a dog’s nose, and Buster inched closer. This was a friendly dog, leashed and collared with a well-worn leather collar, female to be exact, and that bit of information excited Buster.
His tail thumped the sides of the log.
The female dog whimpered.
The man tugged his dog back. “Stay.” Unsure what was in the log, the man knelt and cautiously peeked into the log. A pair of kind eyes and the weathered face of a man who had worked the land all his life peered back at him. “How long you been there?” the man asked. “Are you lost?”
The rising intonation of the man’s voice alerted Buster to the fact the man was communicating with him, but the words were only garbled sounds similar to the words his owner made.
The man reached into his pocket and retrieved a crinkly package. Untwisting it, he pulled a cracker out and placed it at the edge of the log.
Buster lifted his snout and tasted the air. His mouth watered, and hunger overcame fear. He belly-crawled to the edge, spied the cracker on the ground, and licked it into his mouth. He gobbled it greedily.
The man placed another cracker on the ground, a few inches away from the previous one. Again, Buster edged closer to get the cracker, and each time he retreated into the log. The scenario transpired over the next twenty minutes until Buster had to completely exit the log.
The man sat down and was eye level with Buster. His female dog, who he called Skippy, sat obediently to the side. The man held out a hand, palm side up, and offered it to Buster, who licked the cracker crumbs from his fingers. Gradually, Buster came to trust the man who showed no violent tendencies, only the offer of food and a gentle pat on the head.
The man reached into his pocket and retrieved a length of cord. He placed it over Buster’s head then gently tightened it.
“Let’s take you back to my house. The missus will get you something to eat.”
Buster followed obediently behind, along with the other dog.
The man glanced at Buster. “You sure are off the beaten path. Not sure who you belong to, seeing I know most of the dogs around here. Did you run away? Someone dump you? Well, you can stay with me. I could use another hound dog. My boy, Gus…” The man became lost in reverie, remembering his favorite dog when he was still alive. As if Buster could understand the man, he said, “I still miss him. He reached to Buster and patted him on the head. “I think you’ll be a good replacement.”
Chapter 22
Dillon’s eyes popped open, and it took him a second to register his location. The room was dark and crowded with warm bodies. Springs creaked on a cot. A heavy sigh and anxious shallow breathing emanating from one of his fellow prisoners alerted Dillon to the fact he wasn’t the only one awake, and he was still imprisoned.
What had stirred him from a deep sleep? A noise? A sixth sense alerting him to imminent danger? Normally a deep sleeper, his current situation wasn’t conducive to a good night’s sleep. What time was it? How long had he been asleep?
While he lay awake, the first rays of the morning sun filtered into the room through the high windows. He surmised it must be early morning, perhaps an hour until sunrise according to the chirping birds, anno
uncing the end of a long night.
Dillon furtively swung his legs off the cot. With his eyes accustomed to the low light, he crept to the teacher’s desk and knelt behind it so his back was to the chalkboard. He slid open a drawer, inch by inch. It squeaked once. He popped his head above the desk to gauge if anyone had awakened. Whoever had been awake earlier had gone back to sleep.
So far, so good.
He peered into the drawer and pushed around its contents for anything useful. He found a box of erasers, a date stamp and an inkpad, dry-erase markers, crayons, a dull Sharpie, Post-it notes, and labels. He reached his hand to the back and felt around.
There! That was what he needed. A number 2 pencil. He touched the tip of it, confirming it had been recently sharpened. Excellent. It could easily put out an eye. Dillon placed the pencil in his waistband and fluffed his shirt so it wouldn’t be seen.
Approaching footsteps echoed in the hallway, and his muscles tensed as the stampeding of soldiers came closer and grew louder. Instinctively, his hand reached for his Glock, only for him to remember he and the other prisoners had been stripped of weapons, including his knife, the same one he had used to kill the mountain lion. He normally kept it clipped to his back pocket for ease of use. If only he could get his hands on a knife then he’d find a way to escape.
Dillon’s preferred knife was the assisted-opening Kershaw Nura with a three and a half inch blade, complemented by his back-up Kershaw Leek. Since his military service, he had developed an appreciation for good knives and valued razor sharpness at an affordable price. Many of his peers would drop big bucks for a big name knife, while Dillon bargain shopped for usable Kershaw knives.
He discovered a good hollow ground knife blade was easy to sharpen. Daily use of any knife made handling it as natural as tying shoelaces, and about as innocuous, while increasing speed and agility of the handler’s full potential as a knife fighter.
The sound of a key unlocking the bolt of the classroom door electrified the already tense atmosphere, and a burst of adrenaline flooded Dillon’s body. He shut the drawer and ran to his cot. Stretching out, he pushed the gray blanket to the floor. If the situation required quick movement, the blanket would encumber his actions.