by Erik Carter
Before Dale hit a tree.
Sharp pain in his shoulder. Then his hip. He’d smashed into an oak and dropped to the ground. Dirt and sticks and leaves dug into his fingers, scraped against his cheeks.
There was the sound of vehicle engines on the road behind him.
He lifted his head. It was heavy, felt like it weighed twenty pounds. He saw the Dart taking off in the distance. Nearer to him, headlights appeared. Slowly. Coming to a stop. The truck. There was the squeal of brakes.
Then Dale heard the truck’s door opening.
He planted his hands in the earth. Tried to get up. Fell back to his face.
Footsteps.
Dale rolled over. Moaned.
More footsteps. Closer now. And another sound. An unmistakable, deep, metallic, two-part sound.
Click-THUNK.
A pump-action shotgun being racked.
Chapter Fourteen
Sloane was in the first of the three cars, all with their headlights turned off. It was a cloudy night, and there was very little visibility from the stars and moon. They drove slowly.
In the distance, the Dart turned onto the main road. Its taillights disappeared. He’d killed the lights too, gone stealth.
Ahead, the pickup truck had pulled to the side, parked, the beams of its headlights piercing into the tree trunks. The driver was walking away from the road and into the woods. A shotgun was in his hands.
As Sloane drove past, the man stopped, turned, and looked at Sloane’s vehicle. The man took stock of Sloane’s caravan, then turned back around and continued forward, shotgun at his waist.
Sloane brought his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Anyone know what the hell is going on with the truck?”
A scratchy voice replied. “Negative, Alpha Leader.”
“Leave it,” Sloane said. “Lights on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Sloane switched on his headlights. So did the two cars behind him.
And he punched the gas.
Chapter Fifteen
Dale groaned, face lying on the earth. He tried to get up. The soles of his boots scraped at the wet leaves.
He had heard the footsteps pause for a moment. But they’d started again. Getting louder, drawing nearer. Bringing that Remington 870 he’d met earlier ever closer.
His side hurt like hell. He dragged one hand up to it and felt for broken ribs. Everything was intact.
A deep breath. A surge of energy. He rolled himself right-side up. And at the same time drew his Smith & Wesson.
Lying on the ground. Moisture soaking through his jeans. Gun aimed toward the gravel road, into the bright headlights. The sky was cloudy, almost pitch black, and the truck’s lights cut through the darkness, blinding him. He put a hand over his face, squinted, waved his gun.
“What the hell do you want?” he shouted into the blaze.
Feeling a bit stronger. He planted his feet. Wobbled. And stood up.
He stumbled toward the light, his gun in front of him. He walked into something hard. A tree. He staggered backwards, gathered himself, took a few solid steps, then lost his balance on a small slope. Regained himself momentarily. Slipped on some leaves. And fell back to the ground with an oomph.
He pulled his back against a tree trunk. Listened. Heard no footsteps.
Dale was shaken up. And blinded by the headlights. He was in no position to make a stand. He couldn’t just wave his Model 36 aimlessly into the light yelling threats when there was an unseen shotgun somewhere out there. He needed a new course of action.
He had to get away. As quickly and quietly as possible.
One deep breath to gather his strength then he stood back up and moved away from the headlights, into the dark forest, trying to stealth-ify his big, clompy motorcycle boots as much as possible. The trees grew darker around him. There was just a bit of moonlight, barely enough to light everything past the glow coming from the truck.
There had to be a plan for Dale’s escape, and he couldn’t return to the cabin. He was going to have to abandon Arancia, but he’d go off the assumption that Becker would handle the situation. Dale didn’t need another worry at the moment. Becker would be stranded up there, but he was a smart guy. Dale knew that Becker would come up with some lie—claim to be Arancia’s owner who lost his keys, something like that.
Dale’s goal would be to get back to the main road. From there, he’d have no choice but to hoof it a couple miles back into the city. Or hitchhike.
But he’d have to get back out to the main road before he could even start worrying about walking into town. If Dale’s estimation of his location was at all accurate, getting to the road was going to be quite a hike through the woods in the darkness, bruised and battered.
He turned a corner around a tree trunk, headed in the direction of the main road.
And found something waiting for him.
A shotgun barrel.
A couple feet away.
Behind it was the man he’d seen earlier. The small man with the soft-looking face.
The man Dale had thrown onto a brick patio…
Dale raised his hands into the air.
The man looked at Dale’s Model 36—now pointing into the sky—and back to him.
“Well,” the man said in his thick accent. “We meet again.”
Chapter Sixteen
Becker shuffled slowly with the crowd, out of the cabin and onto the gigantic, brightly-lit front porch. He had figured Hendrix’s followers would typically be abuzz with excitement after one of his speeches. The power of eloquent persuasion. And while Becker could sense some of that excitement in the air, there was also a nervousness in the quiet chatter surrounding him. Tension. Anxiety. Not only had Hendrix announced that this had been their final regular meeting, but the crowd still hadn’t forgotten the abrupt ruckus when Conley and the bearded man had bolted out of the cabin, chasing after one another.
Down the steps and to the parking lot. The crowd dissipated, heading in different directions to retrieve their vehicles. At this point, Becker wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do, given Conley had driven them to the meeting, but he saw the Pantera still parked where they’d left it, and he headed toward it.
He heard murmurs in the crowd and saw that several people were looking in his direction, back toward the cabin. He turned and saw something at the far side of the property.
It was Conley.
And another man—the gangly young guy who Hendrix had sent to follow Dale and the bearded man after they fled the meeting.
The young guy had his hand on Conley’s back, pushing him toward a corrugated metal barn in the rear corner of the property. By his awkward gait and the way his body drooped slightly to one side, it looked to Becker like the kid was concealing some sort of firearm from the crowd’s view.
Oh, shit!
Conley had been captured. Hendrix’s man had chased him down, and he was now being forced into a foreboding barn in a dark corner of the property.
Becker’s heart skipped a beat.
And an immediate realization struck him: Asa Hendrix’s operation was much more sinister than Becker had ever imagined. Much more. Hendrix had quickly dispatched a possibly armed man to chase down two individuals who left his meeting, and now one of those individuals was being marched into a barn.
Becker didn’t have even a moment to ponder this revelation, though. Conley was in trouble. Becker instantly went into action, headed toward the barn.
But, at that moment, Conley looked toward the parking area, found Becker, and made eye contact. He gave Becker a deadly serious look and shook his head ever so slightly No.
Becker stopped.
Conley didn’t want him to follow … but why not?
And what the hell was Becker supposed to do now?
After a moment’s consideration, Becker went back up the steps onto the porch and walked to the far end, closest to the barn. He sat in one of the oversized rocking chairs, eased back, and, as nonchalantly as possibl
e, acted like he was reflecting, perhaps, upon the meeting he just attended. Deep in thought. He kept a sideways glance at Conley who was headed right toward the barn, pushed along by the gangly kid.
Every bit of Becker wanted to jump up and help, but it was very clear from the look Conley had given him that assistance wasn’t wanted.
Conley had some sort of plan.
Becker kept looking over, and his eyes caught Conley’s again. Conley mouthed some words to Becker, being as inconspicuous as possible, trying not to get caught by the young guy. Conley’s message was urgent—his eyebrows were knitted together, and he stared holes into Becker’s eyes as he tried to clearly enunciate each word he mouthed.
But Becker couldn’t make out what he’d said. Only a couple words. Gave, maybe? And far?
Becker shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, letting Conley know he wasn’t understanding the message.
The kid opened the barn door, gave Conley a shove toward it. Conley looked back at Becker, made eye contact again, and very deliberately mouthed, SAVE MY CAR!
Conley inconspicuously reached into his pocket and tossed something into the grass just as he was pushed through the barn’s door.
The door snapped shut behind them.
And Conley was gone.
Becker realized then how quiet it had gotten. Just the hum of vehicles and the crunching of gravel. He turned. Almost all the cars had left the parking lot, forming a caravan down the side of the hill. Just a few people remained, chatting.
Becker quickly descended the porch steps and slipped into the darkness of the back yard. The grass was a bit wet, soaking through his dress shoes. He went to the corner of the barn, put his ear against the metal siding.
He heard nothing. Absolute silence.
He stood there for a moment, considering what to do. This temporary partner of his who had been thrust upon him that morning had just been abducted, marched into a barn. And yet he’d waived off assistance.
Conley clearly had some sort of strategy in mind, so, as counterintuitive as it felt, Becker needed to obey his wishes.
He walked back into the grass, back to where Conley had dropped something. After a moment of searching, he saw the item glimmering, catching a bit of the parking area’s bright lights. He bent over and picked it up.
It was a set of car keys.
Becker ran over the words again in his head.
SAVE MY CAR!
Conley had been escorted to an unknown doom in a creepy barn, waving off assistance, and all he could think about was that damn car of his.
Becker looked at the keys in his hand.
Then he started back toward the parking lot and the Pantera.
Yes, Conley really was a weird guy.
Chapter Seventeen
A cold, dusty basement.
The soft-faced man had led Dale through a dark barn loaded with lawn equipment to a door in the back then down a set of wooden steps. He’d then turned on an overhead light, went back upstairs, and locked the door behind him.
And for the past several minutes, Dale had stood there alone. The walls were cinderblock. The light fixture hanging from one of the beams above held a single, uncovered bulb and had a pull chain. There was a set of rusted metal shelves against the wall with a few scattered supplies. A bunch of broken, jagged particleboard was piled in the far corner. Everything was covered in dust. And very cold.
Funny. Dale had just been locked in a room by himself that morning at Y-12. This room was a little less inviting, though. It didn’t have vending machines.
Naturally, there was a part of Dale that wanted to panic, that wanted to run up the steps and start kicking at the door. But after years of being in such situations, he had learned how to control his impulses. It was a confidence thing. He knew that he was going to get out of this situation. He just knew. All he needed to do was remain patient. And calm.
Sounds from above, at the door. He heard it unlock and open, and then there were footsteps on the wooden stairs. Two sets. The soft-faced man appeared first, shotgun in his hands. And someone else followed him.
Asa Hendrix.
The two of them stopped at the base of the stairs. They stared at Dale.
The small man spoke. “He had no ID. No wallet.”
Dale had thought it better not to bring his badge or identification with him into the meeting—another strategy of his that had come from years of hard-earned experience.
“And he was armed,” the man continued. He pulled Dale’s Model 36 from his pocket.
Hendrix looked at the gun and then back to Dale.
Dale shrugged. “It’s Tennessee, man. Everybody’s armed.”
Hendrix walked right up to him, stopped about three feet away.
“Who are you?”
He said the words with the same melodic rhythm that Dale had noted during the speech. His tone wasn’t outwardly aggressive, as one might expect in a situation like this. But it wasn’t pleasant either. It was neutral. Calculating.
Dale needed a quick alias. And he’d thought of one while he’d been locked in the room alone. It had been one thing he could do to keep his mind off his predicament. He’d chosen a semi-obscure, semi-forgotten historical figure.
“Tommy,” Dale said. “Tommy Watson.”
Thomas Watson. Assistant to Alexander Graham Bell and the man whose name was the first set of words spoken on the telephone. Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you, Bell had famously said, though there was some debate about the precise wording.
Dale had chosen “Tommy Watson” over “Tom Watson” because the latter of the two names belonged, of course, to the renowned golfer.
Hendrix put his hands in his pockets.
“A pleasure, Tommy. I’m Asa Hendrix, and this is my esteemed colleague, Cody Ellis. It’s a real shame you had to run out of my meeting,” he said, putting a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the word run. “Not feeling enlightened, were you?”
Dale was in a very tight spot, and he’d already lied with his name. But Dale had always found that sticking as close to the truth as possible was the best solution in most scenarios, so he said, “The guy I was chasing had been staring at me. Very suspicious. I caught him doing the same thing last night in Knoxville. I wanted a word with him.”
“And who is this man?”
“No idea.”
Hendrix nodded slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Dale’s, and then he turned around and stepped back to Cody Ellis. He took Dale’s gun from Cody and weighed it in his palm, looked it over.
“Well, you know, it’s funny, Tommy. We’ve also been watching that guy with the red beard. He’s been coming to our meetings for the last two weeks, and something about him struck me as being off.”
Most interesting. So the same man who had been following Dale around since he got to Tennessee—trying to ambush him with a team of armed men the first night—had been attending the Asa Hendrix meetings for weeks. If there had been any doubt in Dale’s mind that the Asa Hendrix connection was the reason Dale had been summoned to the area, it was completely erased now.
As to how this all connected, Dale hadn’t the slightest clue. And as to who sent the note that brought him there in the first place … that was still a complete mystery.
Hendrix looked at Dale’s gun again, turning it over in his hands. “What’s your story, Tommy? Why are you here?”
It was time for Dale to ditch his strategy of sticking as close to the truth as possible. Now he needed to boldface lie.
“I’m an amateur historian and someone who cares deeply about the environment. I wanted to hear what you have to say and, if possible, join up with you. I figure you gotta have some sort of command structure, people like Cody and the guy with the ponytail. I want to be a part of what you’re doing here.”
Dale knew he was getting himself even deeper into the goo of a sticky situation. But they had him unarmed, covered by a shotgun, and locked in a basement. The best way to explain his erratic behavior would be to imply
that he was trying to help.
“An amateur historian?” Hendrix said. “You’re a man after my own heart. I’m a bit of a history buff myself. Who would you say had a bigger impact on global culture in their time, Alexander the Great or Napoleon?”
There was a slight grin on Hendrix’s face now. He was appraising Dale, and he was enjoying it. The question he’d posed was broad and rather arbitrary. Its purpose wasn’t to see if Dale had the “right” answer but rather to see if Dale had the basic historical knowledge that he claimed he did.
Dale took in a deep breath. And then started.
“If you consider the fact that, during the time of Alexander the Great, global culture wasn’t truly global in the sense that we think of it now, then one might lean toward him. After all, the Mediterranean was more or less the known world to Westerners at that point, and when Alexander captured most of it, his cultural expansion of the Greek way of life throughout the Mediterranean region was so great that it earned its own term: Hellenistic culture. That said, there had been connections to the East for some time via the great Silk Road network. But, even then, the East was a far-off, exotic land. In The Hellenistic world that Alexander created, there was—”
“Okay, okay. Your story checks out,” Hendrix said with a laugh. “Now I got one more question for you.”
“Shoot.”
Hendrix gave a little chuckle-ish sigh and shook his head. “Very poor choice of words, Tommy.” He raised the Model 36 and put it to Dale’s forehead. “My question is this: why shouldn’t I blow your brains out right here, right now?”
Dale sucked in a breath. He could hear his pulse thumping in his ears.
He’d never had his own gun pointed at him before…
Hendrix continued. “See, when a guy darts out of my meeting, chasing another fella who’s been acting suspicious for weeks, and then we find that he’s packing a gun … why, that just gets me real nervous. Jumpy. It makes me wonder why the guy’s really here.”
