The Next Cool Place

by Dave Balcom

  I abandoned the draw and started working south toward the Nelsons. With little hope of finding my dog, I felt the need to check. Shirlee loved to feed the pup biscuits, and he had strayed there for a snack before.

  “Seen Punch this morning?” I asked Jack who was in the back yard raking up around his flower garden.

  “No. I heard him raising hell about ten-thirty, and I was just about to go down there and see what was rattling his cage, but then he quieted down.”

  My heart sank a bit. “You see anybody on the road this morning?”

  “Nope. What’s the matter, Jim? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’ve had a break-in. Punch is not in his kennel, and I can’t find him.”

  “They rob you?”

  “Took my computer is all I’ve noticed so far. They were looking for something, but I don’t know what. Sandy’s jewelry, the stuff I’m keeping for Sara and the lady Jeremy picks, that’s all still there.”

  “Call the law?”

  “Not yet. Don’t know what I’d tell them.”

  “They take your guns?”

  “Didn’t notice. I’ll go take an inventory. You see Punch, call me.”

  “We’ll come down and help you clean up in a bit, if that’ll help.”

  I thought about that, and I had to admit, their company would be welcome. Like you always hear, I felt violated in some way. I was also building a pretty good anger, if anything had happened to Punch.

  I started picking up things around the house. My shotguns and rifles were all gone. I couldn’t find anything else that was missing.

  Jack and Shirlee came down about 3, and by 6:30 everything was back in its place, or next to it.

  “Guys want a stir fry?”

  “Nope, we’re going to La Grande for dinner. Want anything?”

  “I just want you to know how much I appreciate your coming to help with this. It means a lot.”

  “Neighbors,” Shirlee said. “I just hope Punch shows up when he gets hungry tonight.”

  “I hope he does, too.”

  25

  I reset all my little alarms, but in different places that night, and finally dozed off to a fitful sleep about 2 a.m. When the sun came up, I gave up, and made coffee.

  By 7 a.m. I had searched the place again, and still found no sign of Punch or any more sign of the intruders. I wondered if they had just pulled into my driveway and started into the house.

  I couldn’t find how they broke in. Finally, after about four looks, I found a basement window that had been jimmied, and then put back in such a way a casual glance wouldn’t notice.

  In the basement, I found where the intruder had stepped down on the work bench that I never used, and had even used a nail from the can there to wedge the window back in place.

  I stayed by the phone all day. I used my cell phone to report the robbery and loss of guns to the Sheriff’s office.

  “Did they take your pistol, Mr. Stanton?” The clerk asked, obviously looking at my file on her monitor.

  “No, I had that in my truck.”

  “Do you have serial numbers on the long guns?”

  I did, and I read them off the index card from my files.

  “We’ll have a report on this by Monday. You can pick it up for the insurance company.”

  I thanked her. That’s the state of rural police protection in most of the country. Thieves strike because there are no patrols. Victims report the crimes, but there’s no budget for investigation, so the police are reduced to functioning as an arm of the insurance industry, filling out forms to ease the claim procedure.

  “If you come up with a lead on the guns, will you tell me?”

  “Sir, if we did, we’d tell you, but the reality is your guns are probably in Mexico or L.A. by now, sold and bought several times over. We’ll put the serials on the network, but don’t expect to see your weapons again.”

  “That’s a shame. The Benelli fits me to a tee. I’ve gotten quite attached to it.”

  “They make more of them. You’ll have another.”

  I thanked her and waited.

  The sun went down, and I waited.

  I finally went to bed as it started to rain, a typical Blue Mountain spring rain. I knew that I might not hear rain on my roof again until fall, so I left the windows open and slept with my Tack Driver at my side.

  The cans went nuts about 11:30. The motion detector lights went on in the front of the house, and I could see the rain streaming down in their halo as I bolted up from a dreamless sleep.

  I grabbed my gun and headed for the back door to the porch. I had thought of this often, and knew that I would react in a counter-intuitive manner if an invasion like this happened. I had complete control of my breathing. I knew right where my center of gravity was, and it was where it belonged.

  I slipped out of French doors to the porch, and then out the porch door to the yard without making a sound. My eyes were completely attuned to the night. Instead of turning right to follow the walkway to the driveway, I melted back into the drenched shrubbery that braced the porch and worked my way counter clockwise back to the front yard.

  I heard a sobbing before I could make out anything in the glare of the lights. There was a sedan in the driveway, but the sobbing was coming from the front door.

  Blinded by the lights that motion had ignited, I had out-smarted myself. I couldn’t see a thing on that porch. If I stood away from the shrubbery, I’d be a perfect target.

  The sobbing was in a way familiar, and then it hit me.

  “Jan?”

  “Jim?”

  “Jan, walk back to me, come off the porch,” I said in as calm a voice as I could muster.

  She came down the walk towards me, and I could see that she was a mess, crying and wet.

  “What the hell?”

  “I’m so sorry I just barged in here. I was going to surprise you, and then the planes were late, and I had no place to stay, so I thought I’d just come up here, and find you and then it was raining, and then the lights went on but you didn’t answer the door and there were things I tripped on, and you didn’t answer the door, and I thought maybe you were gone, or worse, you were home with somebody…”

  I took her in my arms and held her, making “shushing” noises while she let the emotion drain off of her.

  We went back to her car, and I retrieved her suitcase. I guided her around to the porch door, and ushered her inside.

  “I feel like a real fool,” she started to apologize. “I never dreamed you’d be sound asleep, and I had no imagination for burglar alarms.”

  “Welcome to the real West. I’m just happy you’re here.”

  That gave her pause. She surveyed what she could see of the house and then I came to. “Hey, let me show you the guest room. You need to change into dry clothes.” I led her upstairs “The bathroom’s between this room and the other room where I work. I’ll put on some tea, herbal okay with you?”

  “Sure.” She hesitated, glanced a question at me, but then smiled, “I’ll be down in just a minute.”

  When she came down she had on sweat pants and a tee shirt. She was barefoot and her face had a scrubbed look.

  “You’re another one of those beautiful women who think they have to have makeup on to face the world?”

  “Another?”

  “My Sandy was like that. Claimed she had to be fully made up to buy a jug of milk at the corner store, said otherwise she’d scare people. It couldn’t have been farther from the truth.”

  “If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it. But, you’re right; I do need the protective cover of makeup.”

  “Need it, you don’t.” I put a cup to steep in front of her, and shoved the milk and sugar her way. I take my hot liquids plain, but most of my guests, when I had them, were looking for other flavors. She didn’t touch the condiments, just bobbed her tea bag a bit.

  We sat without speaking for a few minutes, and I was happy to note I had no compulsion to fill the quiet. F
inally, I started to ask, “So, what brin…” just as she started, “Well, you probably…”

  We laughed a little. I went first. “Why here? Why tonight?”

  “You invited me, in a way, and, frankly, I just wanted to see you, see where you live, and see what you are like at home. I guess I’m just still shamelessly throwing myself at you.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  “You once told me that the River Road reminded you of Emigrant Springs Road, where you lived. Rand McNally is making a fortune putting these travel guides together. You should read up on them. They’re called maps, and if you know where you are and you…”

  I held up my hands in surrender, “and a reporter who knows where she wants to go can look at these map things and find her way?”

  “Close enough. The nice people at the end of the road told me I had driven right past your house, and there are only two on the road…”

  “I’m happy you applied your ingenuity to find me, and I’m flattered that you wanted to in the first place, but you could have called me.”

  “I’ve called and called. I called from the airport, too, and you don’t pick up, your machine, nada.”

  I went to the phone station in the kitchen. My machine was gone. I hadn’t noticed it before. The phone was disconnected from the wall as well.

  I plugged in the phone, checked and heard the dial tone. I then told her about the break-in. When I came to the part about Punch being missing, I had to stall a bit to overcome the frog in my throat.

  “You know how you always hear victims of burglaries talk about their feelings of invasion and helplessness? I always thought they sounded like rape victims, and I never had that much compassion for them…”

  She reached out and put her hand atop mine. “I’ve lived a sheltered life, I’ve never been robbed. What did they take, other than your dog?”

  “My guns, my computer, my answering machine, that’s about it. There is some jewelry here that I’ve been saving for my kids when it’s appropriate, and they found it, but they didn’t take it. Mostly they just tossed everything upside down and inside out.”

  “They were looking for something, and they figured they might have to come back, so they took away your defenses?”

  That sat me back in my stool. After a minute, I started pacing around the kitchen. “I hadn’t thought about that. What could they have been looking for?”

  “Who are they?”

  I told her about my meeting that morning with Crocker, and I told her what he’d said about having her paper back off from any future reporting.

  “Fat chance. What they really did was offer to buy a year’s worth of full page, full color advertising if they were certain that we’d be more interested in the future of Mineral Valley than the past. I thanked them, but rejected their offer.”

  “Do you think he knows you rejected it?”

  “Gee, you think he misinterpreted ‘no fucking way’? Or ‘out of my office’?”

  I laughed out loud as much at the use of the words as at her tone. “Seems pretty direct.”

  “I would have thought so. The slimy bastard was so condescending and oily; acting all superior as if he was going to set the little girl straight... I just forgot all about my veneer of cosmopolitan behavior and reverted to the language of my youth; a poise breakdown, no doubt.”

  I was laughing pretty hard by then, and I realized that it was a sensation I had lived without for a long time – somebody to take me outside myself. “It’s called companionship, dummy,” I thought.

  We talked for another hour, and then I realized it might be 1 a.m. here, but it was 4 a.m. in her body clock, and I knew she had been up for close to 24 hours.

  I made sure she was safely in bed, and I went out and re-set my alarm systems, putting a little touch to them that I figured would be fun if not effective.

  26

  The phone woke me up at 8, and I staggered to the kitchen still half asleep.

  “Mr. Stanton? This is Rhonda Robertson in Mineral Valley, I’m sorry to call so early, but, well, is Jan there?”

  “She is, and, to quell the local gossips, she’s sleeping by herself in a guest room. I’ll try to wake her up.”

  I turned to go upstairs only to find her standing in the kitchen grinning ear to ear. “You’re a prude,” she whispered mockingly. I handed her the phone and stepped out of ear shot.

  I came back a few minutes later, and started putting coffee together. She was still deep in conversation of which I could only hear half.

  “Well, that is something. Rhonda, there are people in our corner on this, you can bet. Your dad for one. Who have you told about this?” She asked. She waited on the answer and stared in my direction, but I wasn’t sure she was seeing me. She seemed really focused.

  “Good, just keep it in house. I don’t want staff getting spooked so tell Julie what happened, and then call everyone together and run through it with them. They’ll have questions. If you don’t have answers, that’s all right; just make sure you take good notes.

  “What’s that? No, hell no. I’ve never even considered this kind of stunt, but I’m sure somebody out there in publisher land has had to deal with it. I’ll find them, research, and we’ll build a plan today.

  “No, I’m not coming home right now. You guys can handle this. I have great confidence in you all, and I’m only a phone call away. Besides, this is one of those ‘you can’t get there from here’ places.” She paused. “Yes, I’ll recharge it right now and I’ll keep it handy.” Then she urged Rhonda, “Be tough now, these sonovabitches cannot win this; we can’t let them.”

  I abandoned the kitchen as the tone of her voice changed. I knew they were now talking about personal things, like me.

  When I came out of the shower, the coffee was done, but there was no sign of Jan. Her cell phone was plugged in on the kitchen counter. I moved it to another outlet on the other side of the room as I heard the shower come on in the guest bathroom. She had waited for me to finish, guessing correctly that the water pressure wouldn’t support two showers at a time.

  The phone rang again, and it was Skip Petersen, my insurance agent. “You home for the morning? I thought I’d drive up and take some photos; finish my report. Losing your computer cannot be a good thing in your line of work.”

  “All my work is backed up. I didn’t lose anything substantial, but, yes, I’ll be here this morning. This afternoon I’ll be in Walla Walla buying a new computer.”

  “Fair enough, I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  “I’m just starting to make breakfast. Come quick, and I’ll feed you, too.”

  “Too?”

  “I have company. You’ll like her.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Petersen had started out as just a vendor, but we had developed one of those friendships that didn’t require constant attention.

  We hunted birds together once a year or so; played golf once or twice a year, and had coffee or lunch together a couple of times as chance would have it. He was just 30, working hard at his business and building a solid reputation for integrity and customer service. I liked him.

  He liked a traditional breakfast, too, and drove into the driveway just as I was ready to put eggs into the pan.

  After I’d introduced him to Jan, he spied the stove. “Oh, boy! One-pan?” Jan, he really wants to impress you; making one-pan and we’re not camped on some God forsaken butte down near Nevada.

  “Is that a specialty of this house?” Jan laughed. “By the way, Mr. Petersen…”

  “Skip, please. Mr. Petersen died a few years ago.”

  “… Skip, anyway, do you gossip?”

  I wanted to put an end to this line of inquiry, but couldn’t come up with anything to say. While Skip wore a look of puzzlement, Jan was wearing this devilish grin. “You know any prudes, Skip?”

  Skip was standing next to me with his plate and I started dishing up the combination of hash browns with onion, pepper, mush
rooms, eggs and melted cheddar cheese. “Don’t answer with your mouth full, partner. She’s just using you to wreak revenge on me.”

  After breakfast it was all business and Skip took information on the missing stuff, and took pictures of the writing room where the computer was obvious by its absence.

  “This is pretty routine; probably meth heads looking for stuff to turn into cash,” he said.

  I signed the claim, and he said, “I’ll pick up the police report on Monday and file all this. You’ll have a check by Wednesday.”

  I thanked him, and after he left I went inside to find the kitchen cleaned up.

  I told her I thought we’d go to Walla Walla “the back way” and stay for dinner at the Whitman Hotel. “We’ll be back before dark, and you’ll be in cell coverage for all but about fifteen minutes going there and back.”

  I then called the Nelsons, told them where I was headed, and asked if they needed anything.

  “That’s a nice gesture,” Jan said after I had hung up and put their list in my shirt pocket.

  “It’s common practice,” I said. “If one of us is going to town, we always check. I haven’t been in a grocery store in Pendleton in years but what I shopped for two lists. If you go to the big mall in the Tri-Cities, you may have to buy anything from clothes to medicine. But then we don’t have to all run separately. I have not been to Kennewick to my favorite sushi restaurant in two years, but I eat sushi every time the Nelsons go.”

  We drove the Summit Road at the 4-5,000-foot level, north to the Tollgate road, then down to U.S. 11 and into Walla Walla, the land of Costco and an Apple store.

  On the way, Jan explained the newest happenings in Mineral Valley. It seemed after she told Crocker where to get off, he or somebody working for him, went to the community and incited an advertiser boycott.

  “You know there are a lot of business people who think only about the customers a development like Penny Point might bring. They don’t think the project’s own commercial development will hurt them. They just see increased traffic to their stores.”