by George Wier
“Yes. That’s right. That’s why the metal detector.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I started putting it together before you disappeared. I remembered you saying that you were looking at Willett’s face when the two of you were kids. Willett was staring at the roof of the tent, but he couldn’t see you. Only you could see him.”
“Uh huh.”
“Convenient, that,” I said. “You give someone confidence that you had a shared experience by agreeing with him, but offer no evidence you were ever there. I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Yeah,” Dane said. “That was pretty easy.”
“I wonder,” I said. “You must have had the clearance at some point to start looking through old files at Fort Bliss. You ran across the one with the missing transport plane and the missing canisters of nerve gas. That’s when all this started for you, didn’t it?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“So what are you planning to do?” I asked. “Shoot me and then try to find the canister, then get off the island? That may take an awfully long time.”
Dane laughed. “I’ve got a bomb in the fuselage of that plane. Before I leave this island, I’m going to set the timer to blow this place to kingdom come.”
“That’s not so smart,” I said. “If you take out the island, you’ll never find the canister.”
“I’ll find it first,” he said. “Then blow up the island later. With your body on it.”
“Oh. But what about after? When they get you. Murder is a capital offense when it’s done during the commission of another crime. That’s the death penalty.”
“I get the feeling,” Dane said, “that you’re just talking. Stalling for time. I tell you what. I think I’m facing the wrong direction. Let’s put your back to the plane wreck. I’d rather put my back to the direction you came from.” He motioned with his gun. “Start moving. Again, slowly.”
I began moving, but as I did I saw a figure dart between two cypress trees in the direction of the plane, his head tilted toward me in silhouette from the lighting as he moved. Willett.
I wanted to call out, to move, to shake my head, anything to warn him off, but the gun pointed at me and the stock-still hand holding it was enough. And I had promised Julie I’d be coming home to her and the kids.
And then Willett moved between the trees and disappeared inside the fuselage.
“You knew all along,” I said. “The story about your abduction when you were a kid, the search for UFOs, all that stuff. All of that was to throw me and Willett off. It was all to help you find the Queen. My God, how I’m sick and tired of your stupid chess game, Mr. Renny.”
Dane laughed. “Wow. You know my real name. That’s not going to help you any. As far as chess is concerned, I never could abide the stupid game. But, from what I know about it, when you capture the queen, the game is pretty much over. And in this case, the King is already dead.”
“What about Holt’s retirement account?” I asked. “I have a feeling you were the one who hired Colby Dunross.”
“Congratulations, Travis. You’ve figured just about everything out. Except, of course, the most important thing.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “It was the money. Holt’s money. You tried to use Pierce Gatlin to get to Holt’s money. I’m assuming it was so that you could get to the Queen.”
“Naw,” Dane stated. His gun remained steadily on me. “The money seemed like a bonus. If you’re going to steal the eggs, you might as well go for an even dozen. But with the money and the nerve gas, I could have built myself a laboratory. Replicated the recipe. Sold it to the highest bidder.”
“Anarchists,” I said. “Terrorists. Whoever would want to kill a large number of people to make a point. Those would have been your partners. But even if you did make it out of here with the prize and the money, what makes you think you would ever be able to do business with those kinds of people? They eat people like you for breakfast. Don’t you people ever learn anything? You can’t help yourself by killing everybody else.”
“Now you’re getting insulting, Travis. I’m not sure it’s wise to talk that way to the person holding the gun on you.”
At that moment a figure stepped from the other side of the closest cypress tree and aimed a gun at Dane’s head, point blank. I had expected it to be Willett. It wasn’t.
“He can talk that way,” she said, “if his daughter has got a gun pointed at your fat head.”
“Why, Little Miss,” Dane said, but he didn’t move. The gun was still raised and carefully aimed.
“Jessica,” I said. “Why are you here?”
“Because,” she said coolly, “mom told me to come back for you. I think she was right. You do bear watching. At least that’s what she said.”
“Where’s Nurse Wilkinson?” I asked.
“She’s waiting on the boat on the other side of the island,” Jessica said.
“How did you find me?” I asked her.
“Uncanny sense of direction. Don’t you remember? It’s my evil power.” she said.
“I forgot. But I’m glad for it at the moment,” I said.
“Should I shoot him, dad?”
Dane laughed. “You won’t kill me,” he said. “You’re just a little girl. You’re not big enough to do it.”
“You’re almost right,” she said. She wouldn’t look at me, and that was a good thing. All of her attention was focused on Dane.
“What do you mean?” Dane asked.
“I won’t kill you. But I can damn sure wound you.” And with that she took a step back, dropped the level of the gun down toward Dane’s lower half, and pulled the trigger.
*****
Willett emerged from the plane wreckage just in time to see Dane topple and begin screaming in pain.
“Well crap,” Willett said.
The rain freshened, began coming down even harder.
Jessica dropped the gun she had shot Dane with as if it were a poisonous snake.
“I just armed Dane’s bomb,” Willett said. “My timing sucks. We’ve got no more than thirty seconds.”
“No!” Dane screamed. “You can’t take it away from me! I worked too hard to get it! All those years!” Dane had dropped his gun when Jessica shot him and was now busily squirming across the soggy earth, grasping at cypress knees with one hand to pull himself along while the other hand clutched at the bleeding hole in his upper thigh. He was pulling himself in the direction of the plane wreck. Willett went past us toward the water in one hell of a hurry.
Jessica stood there looking down at Dane in shock.
“Jessica!” I snapped. “We have to get off this island!” I ran to her and grasped her arm and began pulling her towards the waters edge.
“Dad, I shot him,” she said. She resisted my attempts to pull her away.
“Uh huh,” I said. I grabbed her chin and pivoted it to where she could see me. “Listen to me. Willett has armed the bomb in the plane.”
“I shot him,” she said again.
Willett was yelling at us, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
I shook my daughter and she appeared to come out of her trance.
“You shot him,” I said. “Good. Now let’s go. To the water!”
Jessica got into motion and I went with her. We ran toward Willett.
I looked back to see Dane slithering through the narrow gap between the cypress that had held the plane for over fifty years.
“How long, did you say?” I called to Willett.
“Uh. Now,” he said.
And the world turned into a green ring of flame.
*****
It was the Fourth of July, except it was December.
It rained fire and water, as I knew it would on the day the world ended. In a word, it was beautiful.
And then the darkness came again, and I welcomed it as an old friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The rain still fell.
I rose slowly to one knee, tried to stand.
Jessica was there, helping me. I leaned my weight against her and she kept me from falling.
The soggy island had a hundred small fires going at once―bonfires and little tendrils of dancing flame that guttered and winked out as the rain drops hit them. I had never seen such fire before.
I was still in a state of shock. My hearing was gone. There was a dull thrum going on inside my head, and it took me a moment to discern that it was my own heartbeat.
Through the rain, fire, smoke and steam I detected movement ahead.
I fell back to one knee, winced in pain and nearly went over, but Jessica strained herself to keep me up. I caught a cypress knee at the last instant and held myself steady.
My head swam.
A vision moved before me.
The figure came to me through the rain. A woman.
Was she the Angel of Death? It seemed as though I recognized her. Maybe it was. If so, then it wouldn’t be so bad. I was tired to the core and it took everything I had just to focus my vision.
It was Linda Wilkinson. Nurse Wilkinson.
Her mouth moved. One word. I couldn’t hear her at all, but the look in her eyes told me all I needed to know. She mouthed one word as a question: “Dane?”
I wanted to reply, but I didn’t have to reply. My eyes told her enough for her to know.
She stepped to my other side and together she and Jessica helped me walk. We turned away from the wreckage and walked through the stiff downpour to the waters edge.
The boat was waiting.
Willett was in the boat, unconscious. Linda must have brought him there herself. Tough woman.
*****
My hearing came back by degrees. At first there was no more than an incessant low hum, but this increased ever-so-slowly to become a distant roar. It took several minutes to realize that I was hearing the boat motor as we passed through the bayou.
I checked to make sure Willett was breathing okay. He was.
I looked out across the lake. A lake that I would perhaps one day return to. Possibly I would bring my family and we would eat at the marina. I could see taking Julie and the kids for a tour down Government Ditch, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see any of my girls fishing.
The rain subsided into a thin drizzle.
The first words I heard were Linda Wilkinson’s.
“I hate this lake,” she said. “And I love it, too.” Her voice was distant, as if she spoke from the bottom of well. I was not certain that it was only my temporary impairment that made it so.
“I think everybody here thinks that way,” Jessica said. “I don’t know why. To me it’s just a lake.”
“I really liked Dane,” Linda said. “He made me feel... young. For a very short time.”
She turned her eyes away from us, possibly thinking we couldn’t see her, or maybe not caring one iota. As she looked out over the opening expanse of Caddo Lake in coming light of the cold, dreary morning, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Or maybe it was the rain.
EPILOGUE
Jessica and I left Uncertain and Karnack on a cold and rainy morning at the end of the first week of December. The ditches and creeks were full and the slow-moving runoff encroached on the narrow highway leading south and west such that my old Mercedes had a tendency to hydroplane if I drove too fast. The sky was slate gray and at the same time eternal, as if we traveled the void-edge where one world blurs into another. Traffic was sparse, as it always seems to be in East Texas, which gives a person both space and time in which to look and think.
Jessica was quiet. She didn’t listen to any music, didn’t seem to be interested in video games on her cell phone. I gave her a wondering look after awhile, and she acted as if nothing was amiss.
My adopted daughter had come through for me. She had been there when she had been needed most, and she hadn’t been found wanting. It’s tough going to expect someone not fully grown to live up to making the kind of snap decisions their elders are rarely capable of after even after thoughtful examination. But Jessica, with Julie behind her, had come back for me.
My God, I was proud.
I had done it. I had gotten Holt to make out his will. In the end he was leaving it all to charity. Holt’s charity of choice was the Caddo Lake Preservation Society. It made me feel like I had done something important.
The Queen was in our trunk, protected between several pillows wrapped securely with duct tape. Willett had wrapped the package itself. I knew where to get rid of it. There was a Sheriff in Brazos County who owed me a favor. We both knew of a dark cavern beneath the earth where the canister could be buried for all time. That was our last stop before home.
I'd never gotten the chance to use my new gun. It was back beneath my spare tire. Beside it was the French-Apache gun Dane had given me. I would figure out what to do with it later.
Rutger Todd, USA, Retired, was no doubt still collecting bone fragments from the island. He would be bringing his people home at last.
As dense pine forests gave way to sodden, rolling hills, voices and the images made for a dance of sound and emotion in my head. Willett Mahoney, and his quiet, sober demeanor put in an appearance. Quiet, that is, except when he was telling a story, and then the real Willett came out. Dane Fitzbrough, an enigmatic fellow far larger than life showed me his gun collection of his kitchen table. The man who had come to Caddo Lake looking for something lost all those years ago had master-minded something incredible in that time and had come up with a way to glean what he had wanted. How long had he waited? Had he given up and settled down, only to have the demon of his greed awakened again when Holt Gatlin came back to town? And then there was Linda Wilkinson, a career nurse and a rather sad woman, hiding behind cold eyes and a face seemingly chiseled from stone. I nearly laughed out loud thinking about Nurse Babette, and her simple, innocent ways. And then there was Holt Gatlin, the haunted man, and now the free man. I was going to miss him. When I got back home I would be moving his retirement account over to his several savings accounts. There would really be no need to see him again. At least, as a client. And then there was Jessica. I didn't have to imagine her. I could reach out and touch her. And I was taking her home.
With Caddo Lake perhaps a hundred miles behind us, we passed a sign that sported a cryptic message in one-foot tall plastic letters:
CONSECRATION MAKES NO PROVISION FOR LAPSES
EVERLASTING CHURCH OF THE HOLY WORD
It took little more than a few seconds to pass the place on by, but in that moment I absorbed everything I saw: a dingy-white, one-room church house in the country with rye grass growing in clumps and a rusted, faded-yellow wheelbarrow tipped over beside a short row of flowers.
Good luck with the garden, I thought toward the absent congregation.
The church sported a lone stained-glass window―a white dove on a dark-blue field, nothing more than a small circle underneath long eaves.
How can I ever redeem myself? Holt had asked me at our last meeting. He still harbored guilt for not doing something to save the ill-fated crew of the plane crash. I had no answer for him.
Except―
There was an answer. The only answer. The only one I knew. The answer to all questions: Live. Breathe. Drink deep. This is the life. What comes, comes, and when it does, drink even more deeply of that.
I found myself hoping that someday, somewhere in my travels I would come to a church at a crossroads. A quaint place with a short row of flowers and a stained-glass window. Out front, as if growing from the consecrated land itself amid the green rye would be a sign that held those words: “Drink Deep.” I made a vow then and there that if I ever came across it, I would stop, no matter the press of time or worries of life. I would pull my car up in the row with other cars, walk inside and make my way down the narrow aisle. I would sit in the front row and share a hymnal with whoever happened to be next to me, be it a young woman, or perhaps an old black man, and join them
in song. I would drink deep, in confirmation of every unspoken admonition by every well-intentioned soul I had met in my travels. For that, I have found, is the most true praise.
There was a lump in my throat, the place where I’ve always worn my loss.
I dismissed the image of stained glass and mouths rounded in song the way we all dismiss errant snapshots of a perfect world and a perfect life.
“Hmm,” I said to myself. “Consecration makes no provision for lapses.”
“What, dad?” Jessica asked.
I rolled my window down, reached a hand out into the wind and felt the rain.
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind. Do you want to drive for awhile?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Home lay somewhere far ahead, across a warp of miles and elusive hours.
Finis
AUTHOR’S NOTE
No work of fiction that is based on an actual locality can adequately depict what actually exists there. The same is decidedly true for the two areas that I describe in this book, namely: Caddo Lake and the Lost Pines region.
While I very briefly touched upon the Lost Pines in this book, I intend to amend that in the future. Sadly, the Lost Pines was devastated by a wildfire in early September 2011. The fire destroyed all but a mere one hundred acres of the lush and majestic six thousand acre park. The text here regarding the Lost Pines was written years prior to the fire. I have left it here for personal reasons. For this author, losing the Lost Pines was very much like losing a very dear friend. Consequently―and very likely, painfully―I intend to revisit this catastrophic event in the forthcoming Bill Travis book, After The Fire.
Caddo Lake is very real. It was named for the Caddo tribe of natives who once made a vast stretch of East Texas their home. The Caddo were mound-builders, possibly relative to the Mississippi basin mound-builders who were responsible for so many great feats of architecture along the great valley that divides our continent.
