Fiction 2, Chapters 9 & 10
Copyright © 1992
Chapter 9
"there is weeping,
there is the heavy breathing
of the insensible traveller."
Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
It's a long way from Corpus Christi to Rockport when the long way around is the way you want to go. By twilight, though, I was back at my trailer camp and commiserating with Stretch.
He said, "If I'd known about this before, I might of been able to go to a Coronation, or something." He sounded truly disconsolate over the good news that had arrived too late to benefit him.
I consoled him anyhow. "Stretch, the last Coronation in England was long before you were born."
He had sent away for his family genealogy, from one of those services that fabricates the same family history for everybody with the same last name. A real search would have required a considerable amount of family information, such as birth dates, places and given names. No third-generation "Stretch" could be expected to have that kind of information.
The circumstances reminded me of the "Cooke Family" scam. That ancient hustle had once held a special appeal for the acrimonious old devil who had somehow spawned a tragic generation of decent children, including my mother.
"But two kings is something really special, Dick, ain't it?" He was looking for comfort. When Stretch gets like this, his voice takes on a real Country-and-Western whine.
"I suppose it is," I told him, "but I wouldn't let it go to my head. After all, it's not like there was any money in it for you. Those Barons and Earls are really stingy when it comes to splitting the loot with American cousins."
"But I might have a claim on the English Throne, it says here. It doesn't cost that much more to find out. The brochure says they work by the hour, and it's not like it's American money." He had already decided not to waste any more of his life as a commoner.
"Maybe you ought to think it over. 'King Stretch' just doesn't have the right ring to it." I didn't bother him with the appellatives that history records for both his putative ancestors: one was Ethelred __"the Unready"__ and the other John __"Lackland"__ two of the sorriest examples to be found in a thousand years of generally undistinguished English monarchs.
* * * * * * * * * *
Later, after dinner and over a drink, -Bushmill's Irish, what else?- I got to thinking about some of my ancestors who had been hunted ofttimes like the foxes they truly were. In the end they triumphed __if they survived at all__ by running to their own killing ground and not being run to ground when and where their hunters chose.
They came from Scythia thousands of years before the birth of Christ, and visited Egypt around the time of Moses. The Celts are also called Gaels because of an illustrious leader of the tribes in those days, called Gaodhal Glas. Legends say that Moses doctored him for a snakebite at one time. Who knows? Don't be confused by the spelling of the first name; it's pronounced "Gael," more or less.
Some generations later the Celts, like the Hebrews, got ticked off at the Egyptians and voted with their feet. There's no record on either side of the Egyptians attempting to change their minds. Either they were too tough to stop or too intractable to miss.
They arrived at Crete and left shortly before the earthquake at Thera, going on to conquer all of northwestern Europe. The Greeks called them Celts __Keltoi__ because they wore "kilts," the Greek word for skirts. That word apparently sounded something like the name they had for themselves, so everyone was happy with it. Of course, the Greeks didn't wear trousers either; nobody except the half-frozen Germanic tribes would be caught dead in them. The Celts found that there was a lot to be learned from the Greeks eventually. The Celtic system of writing in Ogham letters, a runic alphabet, was largely replaced by the Greek language for ordinary use, and that continued until the period of Roman influence __in the person of St. Patrick__ ten to twelve centuries after their Exodus from Egypt.
They were respected allies of Alexander the Great, and feared by the earlier Romans, whose city they had sacked twice almost seven hundred years before the Goths came.
I know, I know! What's the point, besides bragging about the antiquity of my forefathers?
Well, one point is that they used their feet and their horse chariots to carry their nation from central Asia to Egypt, to Crete, to Greece, to Spain __to Ireland__ and warring and commingling with the Tuatha de Danaan and Firbolgs. And then, to America, perhaps the Tir na N'og of Irish legend.
The other point? That they were chased almost every step of the way.
If anyone should know how to survive, they should.
You may not believe that they might whisper in my ear, you might not believe their lessons could be valid for the modern world; yet it would be foolish to disregard reasonable advice just because it arises from an unreasonable source.
I do not fully believe in such Voices myself and yet __on rare and privileged occasions__ I seem to hear them. This is why my family thinks I'm crazy. They think that it's perfectly normal for some of our old women who are Seeresses like my long-dead grandmother, but definitely demented in a middle-aged man like myself.
In the Cant, such women are called Dookerers. They know every con in the book and twice as many that have never been written down. And after all of those cons have been factored out, there is often some unknown at work, an inexplicable power that cannot be defined.
I am not altogether a stupid man though and the natural world holds too many mysteries for me to insist on the existence of supernatural causes for anything. If you are allergic to mysticism, think of that which follows as a programmed routine that allows me to access the database of my memories.
Or just think of me as a man who is as crazy as a loon, cousin.
A quiet night, a quiet mind. The spiral and helical paths of space and time carried me; even as the flowing water beneath propels an idle watcher on the bridge above. A sip of the Irish and a nod of the head.
No music now save the music of the spheres.
There is no triumph in the Living, only a surrender to all of Life. And we are all swept away from here and now, to the center of all patterns and the stillness of all motion. My fingers idly shuffled the seventy-eight cards of the Greater and Lesser Arcana.
The Tarot is not Gaelic, -although some say differently- and only serves as a rhythmic focus for my thoughts.
Perhaps a little too much Irish whiskey; perhaps not.
Still, you would not be surprised were I to shed a tear listening __within as well as without__ to "Londonderry Aire," -Danny Boy- would you? If you may understand how that one man __dead these many centuries__ could be welcomed into my Irish soul to tell his story, there is hope in me that you will not deny the ancient notion that others might come calling as well.
At last, I dreamt of the home within, the home I came from and the same one to which I shall return. A home among the clouds. The Symbols of Erin offered counsel, but not to me. I was the Dreamer; they addressed the Petitioner.
The Firbolgs spoke:
Remember Moytura, when we held the People of Dana to a foolish bargain, and picked our time and weapons for battle. We gave up a meaningless superiority in numbers __and fought our kind of battle__ at our place and time, with a peerless enemy caught off-balance. We fought them to a stand-still, each side so relieved to be quit of the slaughter that peace with honor was possible.
Find your place of battle, Child of Time, but let it not be a cemetery for armies, or the future is lost. Morrigan __the Raven of Battle__ feasts on all, friend as well as foe. Invalidate the leader, as we did to Nuada. Cut down the leader, and remove the head and heart of the army at the same time. Let your enemy fear only your heavy lances, while the unseen casting spear strikes at their rear. Though you attack at a distance, remember that there can be no avoidance of the sword in your hand, no fear of death at close quarters. It has been three thousand years and still we live in you; we know whereof we speak.
I thank you, Warrior, answered the Petitioner.
The Tuatha de Danaan spoke:
We have been patient with the aboriginals and with you. Yes, they fought us and fought us well, acquitting themselves with honor and granting us honor in their manner of battle. We took three of four parts of the land of Erin from the Firbolgs, and the People were truly so tired of blood and illusions that one-fourth of the land was no great price to pay for peace, a peace the Firbolgs and we both hoped would last forever.
Remember the Fomorians? We and the Firbolgs both have pacted and feasted and bred with them. Those sea-pirates from Africa had long colonized the islands off our coast and the chill Hebrides.
'Twas on Tory Island where he made his domain, he who was Balor Evil-Eye, and to that isle fled Breas, usurper-king overthrown, Balor's son by a de Danaan Queen. At Tory, we could only attack and not prevail, but prevail another day we did. At Sligo it was, where our great hero Lugh, Balor's grandson by yet another noblewoman of our race, killed that sea-king with sling and stone.
Demonic Balor left his stronghold __Tory Island__ left the source of his strength __the sea__ and followed his evil-eye to contend with us at Sligo. And __yes__ it was his own seed that provided us with our greatest hero, Lugh. Remember that, Child of Time, it was the fruit of his desire that brought about his downfall.
Other men have different desires; other men find different deaths.
The Petitioner bowed, I thank you also, Magician.
The Milesians spoke:
Who are you to call on us? They say you are none of our blood. They say you are Firbolg.
Part of me may be, Son of Ollam Fodla; that I do not deny, though it suits me not to claim full half blood from them. Yet I will claim blood-right from either or both halves of my heritage. Tell me what I must know, Brehon; that one who may be your Child need not die a captive in flames, without battle-honor.
There was a murmur of intense discussion in the background of my mind. Disdainful calls of "upstart" and "mongrel" by some of the judges __or Brehons__ were hushed by other respondents who had been gratified by the reference to the greatest of their race, their most renowned Ard-Ollam, or Wisest of the Wise. Ollam Fodla almost seemed a god to them, so far had he exceeded the merit of all other men, and it would please them no end that his name and theirs had outlived their nation.
The Brehons grant you blood-right, Traveller, freely given to a Child of Time who remembers with respect the Doctor of Wisdom.
We commend to you the example of our clever poet, Amergin. It was left to him to divide the soil of Erin between the Danaan and our race and __in fairness__ the Tuatha de Danaan won his decision, while losing. For their gain in Irish soil was undeniable: They won the possession of all of Erin that lay beneath the ground in his decision, while the entire surface that sustains the life we know came to us.
Make a bargain of your own choosing, Child of Time, and find the focus of strange attraction that will draw your enemies around the pattern you weave __to their downfall__ to your salvation.
I thank the learned Judges, the noble Brehons, and yourself, Father of Time. The Petitioner turned to leave.
Grandson!
Yes, Gentleman Jim. It was the Dreamer who responded, not the Petitioner.
Not Grandfather?
I remember you, sir, and now I know much more than I remember. If I had truly known all about you as a child, I might have found a way to kill you even then. Both "Gentleman Jim" and "Grandfather" are mockeries, but I am too desperate to mock even you.
Nonetheless, Grandson, you are of my blood. I am bound to you in death as I would have been in life.
Then, God save me from the loving attention you showed your family in your lifetime. You have much in common with my enemy.
You have taken my name, your mother's name for your travels. Hear me out! I may only think of you now, you know. You are me now, the most like me. Listen, if you would survive your trial. Money is the key. Remove the money and you remove the problem. They all want money; so you must invite them to a conference and then betray them, like Elizabeth __the Whore__ did to the chieftains of Ulster so long and so short a time ago. Remember the "Spanish Prisoner." I taught you well; use it.
I will never be like you, Gentleman Jim. You were a terrible man in your rages, like a Norse berserker, striking all in your path with equal disdain. It must have been Aunt Winnie who named you so.
Yes, grandson, it was she __your great-aunt and my sister-in-law__ the very same bitch. Her tongue it was that could sour wine and curdle milk with her naming ways. Don't be so superior, Son of my daughter! There is time left to you, time enough to surpass me in bad as well as good.
Remember your heritage, Traveller.
The Petitioner turned to me....
I didn't recall going to sleep until I woke later that night. The cards had fallen from my hands, the Knave of Swords under the Knight of Swords and the Wheel of Judgement, if you care about such things. The King of Pentacles and the Hanged Man were not visible.
The whole of it was as clear to me as you see it before you now. I knew everything had to be written down then, exactly as it appears. And in the light of the following morning, while I read my twilight scribblings, the content of the message was as new to me as though the words had been written by a stranger.
Dreams? Racial memory? The personification of studied history? Or, had I finally slipped over the edge? You might say it was the Bushmill's talking, but that's impossible. Bushmill's was first distilled in 1608, and is far too young to have carried on that kind of conversation.
My whiskey consumption had been light anyway, with my damaged kidney in mind.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Thaspers thorried tu myjielle inculla, soonyin tu karab, nejaish tu thasp-
The dead spoke to me in my sleep, showing me how to kill without being killed.
* * * * * * * * * *
Once, a wizened old man took me on a tour of a rather advanced machine shop, with hundreds of machines and dozens of workers.
He asked me at the end of the tour if I could guess what was his single most important product, the one whose perfection was most critical to his business. Reviewing once more the turret lathes, drill presses, milling machines and the rest, I saw nothing surprising or dramatic, nothing remarkable or impressive by way of finished product. And so I replied, "No."
The correct answer, of course, was "chips."
It is an ancient tradition __among both sculptors and woodcarvers__ that the envisioned image lies within the outer shape in hand, waiting for the master craftsman to clear away the superfluous material in order to find it.
From time immemorial, witches, warlocks and shamans of all kinds have claimed the power to foretell the future directly, with visions. I do not believe that such a power exists.
For example, my race has always had the reputation for the "Sight" among the ignorant and the superstitious. It is called "Dookering" in our language; although I don't believe that anyone ever foresaw the future. At best, they foretold the past, so to speak. And the past may be an accurate guide to the future if you believe in Determinism. Einstein did and he was no slouch.
So! No visions, then. No crystal ball to see the future. No conscious control. But what of Dreams?
Ah, Dreams!
* * * * * * * * * *
-Nijaish geg-
Don't ask.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Chairman always hated his older sister, who had been taller and seemingly untroubled by the atmosphere that clouded their upbringing. His bitterness and envy had been rationalized as contempt for the "betrayals" of the elder girl, her obvious preference for her friends instead of family.
She'd died a few years ago, of natural causes, but there had been a son named Russell. He couldn't see it then __even though it was obvious now__ Russell had just played up to him and taken advantage of his good nature. The novelty of his sibling's child actually preferring his uncle's company to his mother's had worn off quickly though, leaving only a residue of distaste and a strange feeling of obligation to provide for the nephew's support.
That feeling surprised the Chairman no less than the few other people aware of their relationship.
Chapter 10
"Let mine own judgement pattern out my death,
and nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die."
Measure for Measure, William Shakespeare.
It took a while but, one night, somebody came.
I was stalking the woods, hoping to detect the competition, when I heard a noise behind me and whirled. Too late! There was an iron arm, a left arm and hand at my throat pushing me back against a tree____ And a deadly threat at my crotch.
"There's a .357 here that'll blow it right off, Jack"; in a whisper. I don't really have to describe it as menacing, do I?
-Thanks pal- .357 handguns are virtually all revolvers and this one wouldn't be cocked, except for the pun. -All right! It's a only a hundred to one that it's a revolver. Sue me!-
"Where's the stuff?"; with a painful prod for quiet emphasis.
"Look! Don't hurt me, Ok.?" I moaned with a slight quaver. "It's right____" -Over there!- I turned a bit to the right____ -See!- where "the stuff" was____ -Now you see it-
My left hand grabbed the cylinder of his revolver. -Now you don't- The index finger curled around the back of the uncocked hammer while my body turned back and I clobbered him with my own S&W.
I held on to his handgun while he fell to the ground in a stupor. One nice thing about a revolver: It can't fire until the hammer is in the correct position, and the hammer won't move back to that position unless the cylinder is free to turn.
Nobody in his right mind would have walked through the dark woods with a cocked gun and I would have been warned by the sound if it had been done at the last minute. Even if the gun had actually been cocked, there was a good chance that my left index finger would have gotten there in time to get in the hammer's path, with a revolver. The access to the hammer on an automatic is more limited.
I had been expecting something quick but not this quick from the money man, who had to be impatient. It was a painful thought, but if this had been a different enemy, one with yellow teeth, he would have taken me.
I had been careless.
Yours truly was in no hurry to meet "Jaws" again. He could wait until I had a sight-picture of his back at three hundred meters when he wasn't expecting me. Back shooting him with a sniper's weapon would be a brave and noble exercise in summary justice, just as long as it was successful and I didn't get caught.
First things first.
I had some loose bootlaces in my pocket. Our friend was already face down. Holstering my pistol, I pulled his arms back and tied his wrists together back to back, then his thumbs and ankles.
It was time to take a tour of the latest menace and his belongings. I had a penlight now in my left hand, which was formed in a tube almost completely masking the light down to a soft red glow. I started to search the gunman's pockets. We were deep in the scrub that came almost up to the side of my trailer, so it was unlikely that anyone would be in a position to interrupt if they hadn't already.
I quit when I got to the CIA card.
His name __if it was his name__ was Ralph Cary. At that point, I thought it would be a good idea to take a look at his face and check it against the photo ID. He didn't appear familiar when I rolled him over, even with his unseeing eyes wide-open.
Just what I needed.
I've got to admit my hands were shaking a little, and I had to cut the laces twice to get them off. Wiping the revolver with his handkerchief, I smudged it with his right palm and left it on the ground. The same with the wallet and ID, except that they were returned to his pocket.
That ought to take care of it, I thought. Then it was time to scurry for my bolt-hole before the scatology hit the fan.
Only a few feet away, I remembered the pistol that was now back in my right hand. Some grass served to scour the left side of the gun, getting rid of any hairs or skin that might have caught in the action. I could strip and wash it -yes, wash it- when I got back to the trailer. The water has to be boiling hot; then it evaporates too quickly to cause rust. And clean the inside of the holster, too.
I knew even a hitch in the military had come in handy for a know-it-all.
"Damn!" I mumbled it softly, of course.
It was essential for me to go back and scrape the fingernails on the left hand, or better yet, both. I did that, and then used the penlight a little more to make sure there were none of my footprints around the body, especially over his footprints. There had been a lot of wet weather in the previous week, but fortunately the ground was grassy.
I gave some reasoned thought -read panic- to finding a rock to blame for his condition, but even in my agitation -again read panic- I didn't have any confidence in that idea. -Forget it; fall back on basics. Don't get cocky. Don't get elaborate-
There was no way to be completely sure, but I hoped that I'd be all right, if my bolt-hole was still unnoticed. It was a given that the sidewalk side of the trailer had been and would be under observation, probably with a night scope.
I carefully picked my way to the edge of the woods nearest to my trailer, and squirmed through the shadows until I reached the hatch of one of its outside compartments on the street side. Opening the hatch, I crawled in and stood up in my bedroom, then hunkered down and turned the latch from the inside. The plywood support and mattress were lowered back down after I stepped over the bedside.
Not exactly a secret tunnel, but not immediately obvious either.
There was a great deal of clean-up to do before dawn. It seemed to me that daytime should be relatively safe, except for lawmen attempting to hang me.
In late April, South Texas is not your fashionable spa, and lots of my fellow Winter Texans had left for the north, which was a help. I wasn't likely to be hemmed in by transients. There was just the right combination: room to maneuver, and yet enough potential witnesses were left to discourage a shooting war by the bad guys __or even the good guys__ at least by day.
The only problem was privacy.
That part of Texas has lots of Live Oak trees, an evergreen oak that often takes on Bonsai characteristics in the coastal wind. There were plenty of them around to hide any watchers, yet the large clearing of the trailer campground afforded a clear view of my trailer from dozens of vantage points. Just like a fishbowl. Fortunately, they didn't want to kill me outright; that would have been easy.
What's the CIA doing around here?
"What's a corpse doing around here, Lieutenant?" I demanded with fractional politeness, "I want police protection and I want it now!"
It hadn't taken the "Beaner" long to get a search warrant after the body was found the next day, but so far, I hadn't been charged.
"All you want!" he agreed. "I've already got your room ready. You made a big mistake! That's all it takes, one mistake!"
"I'm entitled to protection without being confined to a jail cell, McNally, and I want my pistol back before I leave here. You had no right to search either me or my trailer." I was being deliberately dense with him.
"That's funny, the judge must have missed that lecture in law school then. The pistol's in a plastic bag on the way to Corpus. That's where it's going. But you: You're going nowhere until it's run through Forensics, along with our little bag of housecleaning. Then you're going to prison." His voice even smelled like scrod, Boston's favorite pseudonymous fish.
Time for a little more disingenuity. "What for? From what you say, it was the corpse that was loitering. I live there."
I didn't try for outraged innocence because I was getting nervous shooting pains in my lower back, and they were threatening me with relief, but only for my bowels. It was probably because I had been drinking too much coffee at the campground office with Stretch. We had been throwing the bull for about an hour, before the cops arrived in force to pick me up again. Considering that the nearby stiff had been a law officer of sorts, it had seemed a wise idea to have a friendly local around as a witness when McNally's minions came to call.
Hopefully, the current state of my kidneys wasn't permanent, but it was my intention that the inevitable police pick-up would be as easy on those abused organs as the law allows. There had been no local alarm, so the corpse was probably found by someone who was missing him.
It had gone like this:
"What's this, Stretch?"
"It's a petition I'm getting up, to save that woods behind us."
"What woods?"
"Come on! Dick. The ones behind the campground there. There's an awful lot of endangered species around here, and they want to tear down those woods between here and Church Street."
I should have said it a little less ironically, but I muttered, "You're right about the endangered, friend." Then, a little louder, I asked him, "What are they going to put up there?"
"I mean, there's lots of birds in those woods. Where would they go, Dick?"
Now I knew, from some experience with Stretch, that his only classifications for birds were "Tasty, right tasty" and "I don't know."
"What are 'they' going to put up there, Stretch? Come on, what?"
"Dick, what do you think we least need in this neck of the woods? I mean, half the places in town are going broke now."
"Oh, just off the cuff, don't hold me to this____ I'll take a guess. Could it be a campground!!?" Just like, "Could it be Satan!!?"
"I wonder what these guys want now?"
"What are you talking about, Stretch?"
"The guys behind you __with the guns__ Dick."
There was nothing special about them, except that they weren't wearing uniforms and they were pointing a variety of weapons at me. I'm happy to say that the guy in front had a wallet dangling from his non-threatening hand and a shield prominently pinned to it. -The wallet, that is-
"Would you come with us, sir?"
"Why, officer?" I innocently asked.
"To aid us in our inquiries, sir." That particular Bobby must have been a regular fan of those British mysteries on public television.
McNally still hadn't told me anything about the corpse. Just a few omissions: how he died, his name or occupation, that he was armed, just what the hell he had to do with me.
If I wanted answers, I thought, I could watch "Jeopardy." The trouble was, the first intelligent question that I asked would start the hounds down my trail. "The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Inedible," to quote Wilde. Of course, if I had thought of myself as inedible to begin with, I wouldn't be in the middle of this mess.
Did you ever have one of those days?
All that fussing and fretting, and all I'd accomplished was to dig a hole for myself that I might never get out of. If they were really sure I was dirty, there would be no shortage of evidence. This was, in effect, a cop-killing. Of course, it was his own fault. And he had to have been dirty, given our all-too-brief dialogue. The trouble is, I hear that sometimes CIA people think that it's their duty to be dirty. Like Danny Kaye's "The chalice from the palace holds the brew that is true."
God! How my wife used to laugh at that. I can't tell you how much I miss her.
The "Beaner" and I compromised; I stayed in jail until he let me out. Fortunately, it was only overnight, and my gun accompanied me when I left. Small-town Texas is a victim of its own cowboy propaganda when it comes to the right to bear arms.
The short jail stay hadn't been a complete waste of time. My ass had been tossed into the holding cell with a car thief, a crooked yuppie lawyer and some bruiser who looked like a motorcycle outlaw. Turns out the last guy was selling nose candy to school-kids, and sexually abusing them too. The lawyer was one of his clients for both the coke and the kids.
By the way, there's no sense here bothering with the word "alleged" in connection with any of the cell's inhabitants, myself included.
Four of us filled that cell for a while and there were only two bunks. So the shyster and the short-eyed candy man __two natural parasites__ then decided to take over the cell, just like "The Big House."
Naturally, I let them. They didn't stay long in the cell, though; had to be separated for fighting. Brutal fighting, actually. It was a wonder that they were able to exchange such terrible punishment without faltering.
There had been a falling out over something __it might have been cocaine__ that I found under the bottom bunk. Funny what a little extra sugar can accomplish when you're willing to drink your coffee without. Along with a pound or two of rock-hard soap in a calf-length sock.
For a car-thief, the fourth guy was a handy man to have around at a blanket party. He was a little black guy, with an infectious grin and a well developed sense of moral outrage. It just goes to show you, we can all pull together when it counts. The town cops even called up their deputy counterparts across the street to come over for a look-see and a chuckle.
And they were a lot friendlier on my way out too. Too bad that McNally had that day off. For a change, I was feeling good about myself.
Back at the trailer, the pistol underwent a complete check-up again. It had been cleaned, probably after firing a round for ballistics comparison. Most likely, the Corpus Christi lab would keep the bullet on file, so any other shots fired from it in the future had better be justifiable, at least in this neighborhood.
There was no service for Roxanne: no wake, no church, no priest, no friends, no family. Just a grieving sky above and me below, standing at the foot of the open grave. God help me, it looked comfortable. A mortician's apprentice with acne and six pallbearers, just up from the cellar in "Arsenic and Old Lace," were taking shelter from the drizzle in their hearse and car, respectively.
"No gravestone!" I was actually talking aloud to myself or possibly Roxanne. "I'm sorry. I don't know your last name or when you were born or whatever."
When her body had been released by the county coroner's office, I had signed for it -her-. "Roxanne?, Roxanne, who?" So, what could you put on a stone, Roxanne Doe or Roe?
"Roxanne! If we were barbarians, you'd have a servant now for the afterlife, and there's likely to be a few more before it's over. Or else, you'll be seeing me soon instead."
-As if I wasn't a barbarian!-
I had thought of cremation, but as long as David was alive, I decided not to. Besides, I was developing an unreasonable prejudice against it lately.
If the CIA agent had been tied in with the killers __either in an undercover capacity or as a partner__ they had probably not caught David. Otherwise, they wouldn't still be hunting for the "stuff." Even if they had, they might have held back from killing a little kid. -Well, Ok, probably not the man with the matches- I shivered in the damp chill.
"I think your boy's all right. He's a good kid, Roxanne, and he'll do fine as long as he's smart enough to stay away from me. I don't think I'm going to be visiting much. I've already got more graves than I can handle. But, I won't forget you and I know David won't."
The romantic in me wanted to cry and the poet in me wanted to versify, but this was no time to let them take over. Just a couple of lines of Whittier, I think.
all sad words of tongue and pen,
the saddest of these are 'what might have been'."
"I would've come if I could."
"I know, Stretch. It's all right. She didn't know you, so she couldn't miss you being there," I said gently, perched on the most uncomfortable barstool in the Northwestern semi-hemisphere.
I was back at the campground and seated in his office. I didn't think it would be bugged. "By the way, what's this doing on your counter, here?" I asked.
"It's something I got by U.P.S., from this course I've been taking. You know; you watch TV late at night. Where you send away for this course on credit, 'How to Get Credit, How to Reestablish Credit. Be an Certified Credit Consultant!' You must have seen it," he insisted.
"Yeah, I did," I confirmed. "But I sent for the Ginsu knives instead. So what did you do?"
"Well, Dick, I called up the 800 number because it didn't cost anything, you know. Then, they sent me this kit that explains how people can save their credit __or maybe get it back__ and how the coming thing in America is being a credit consultant." There was an over-abundance of enthusiasm in his voice.
"That secret of saving your credit," I inquired. "It wouldn't happen to have something to do with paying your bills, would it?"
"No, that's the best part. You never have to pay them back and you can still do it." He nodded his head to affirm that statement emphatically.
"The best of luck to you, Stretch. You certainly picked the right area to open your new business. How much did it cost you?"
-I'd given up on Stretch some time ago-
"Nine hundred and ninety-five dollars," he answered, "and worth every cent."
He was so proud of how much he had spent, all by himself, that I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. -Neither, of course. He's very sensitive-
He prattled on. "You should see the tapes and the loose-leaf manuals and everything. Not only that, I've already got my certificate, even before I send in the tests behind each chapter. They let me sign it myself after I'm finished." He held a cheap piece of cardboard under my nose. The seal was one of those gold stars kids get in grammar school.
"Sounds great. I hope you didn't go over your limit on the card." I knew that Stretch was very proud of his Visa card.
"No, not really," he said. "But I had to get a cash advance so I could buy the money order."
-Say, "Goodnight Stretch"-
"It sounds like you're determined to make it work. But, look! I'm in a bind, Stretch. I thought that I'd be all right here, but that last killing has got me going. Whatever it is the killers want, they think I've got it. And nobody around here is safe as long as I'm around. If I go to a motel, or something, they'll find me and get to me. My truck's too easy to recognize."
You can tell that my young friend was not a co-conspirator from some of that, I trust. After a couple of winters down here, we knew and liked each other well enough. That didn't mean that I was about to make a confession to him.
One good thing: He didn't know that the cops and, undoubtedly, the Treasury agents were watching me. He had been told in no uncertain terms, however, to call McNally if I showed signs of picking up stakes and leaving; not that he cared.
"I need a place to stay that's out of sight. Some wheels, too. If you've got any ideas that'll help, I'd appreciate it, Stretch. Money's no object."
I threw that last little bit of irony out as bait.
Getting away from the killers wasn't really the idea; which was just to find a more advantageous and private killing field for myself. "Mr. Big" had to go. He would be a long-term problem. I'd never be safe as long as he was alive and thinking that I had the software, paper and toner. The muscle __even "Jaws"__ was irrelevant, except in the short run.
Of course, getting through the short run was liable to be a permanent-type problem for me. Although __come to think of it__ the money man needed me alive, to talk; all I needed from him was a sight picture and no witnesses.
They'd have to be allowed to chase me until I caught the beady-eyed bastard.
It shouldn't be hard to spot just who was muscle and who was brains. If I could stay out of the way of "Jaws" and his goons __while I dealt with his boss__ "Jaws" would have no reason not to go away.
For good? Yes! -Good and sure- Give me a month to set it up and there would be a bullet through those yellow teeth too, from an entry wound at the back of his skull. I could never trust him to stay away otherwise, at least not from my dreams.
The initial trick would be to get a couple of days, without interference, to get fortified and then allow the bad guys to find me without dragging the Rockport police, the Department of the Treasury, the Central Intelligence Agency and __for all I knew__ a squadron of ninjas after them. It turned out that Stretch did have a few ideas.
That's how I met Katherine, the artist.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Munya tha buer-
Cherchez la femme.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Quirk is back again, sir. The cops picked him up and then let him go today. He's holed up in that trailer."
"You're lucky, Weller, it's not everybody who gets a second chance like this," stated the Chairman.
"Yes, sir. Let me go get him, sir. He'll talk, you'll see."
"Weller, have you ever noticed that if your victims are free to tell you what they know, they're also free to scream all over the place; let's say, all over that trailer park. And if you snatch him from there, there'll be half a dozen calls to the sheriff's office in no time. Where are you going to get to on the next best thing to an island? That place used to be a nice little spot for a crime wave, Weller; however, I think that you went and spoiled that last week."
"Yes, sir. What do you want me to do." The creature hated to be reminded of failure.
"Just keep your eyes on the bastard, and when he moves out to get my property, that's when we'll get him. Put the pressure on him. Search his trailer if he's gone for a little while, but for God's sake, do it quietly."
You are at Fiction 2, Chapters 9 & 10