3rd World Products, Book 17

by Ed Howdershelt

  The truck’s cab sort of hopped a bit and tore past the SUV, but the SUV’s rear twisted left and snagged on something. The SUV then spun completely around in a split-second as the side of the truck crushed and crumpled everything it touched.

  As I banked to descend, I called Athena and had Galatea set a copy of herself as a flashing red roadblock a hundred feet behind the SUV. The truck had slowed, but was still moving forward and wandering into the next lane. A probe showed the driver slumped at the wheel with a bloody gash on his left temple. I had probes steady the steering wheel, move the shifter to neutral, and unlock and open the driver’s door so I could get in.

  Athena appeared and tended the driver as we moved him over and I took his place behind the wheel. Treading the brakes, I eased the truck onto the shoulder to park it as another truck and two cars pulled over ahead of me.

  “Hi, there,” I said to Athena, “How’s the driver?”

  “He was developing a concussion. I’ve prevented that.”

  “Kewl. How’s the other driver?”

  “Broken and bleeding, but not irreparably damaged. Her vehicle, however, will have to be partially disassembled in order to extract her.”

  “Guess I oughta get started on it. Thanks, Athena.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  I got out, stepped onto my board, and flitted back to the SUV, where Marie was just staring into the vehicle.

  She saw me and said flatly, “She just appeared in there. Out of nowhere.”

  Nodding, I replied, “That’s how she usually does it. I’m going to do some cutting, so stand clear.”

  Using a short version of my light saber, I sliced the top and bottom of the door post behind the driver, then pulled it free. The door only swung open about four inches before it jammed near the hinges. Sweeping the saber through the hinges, I pulled again and the door fell away. I caught it and propped it up against the SUV’s fender.

  The amount of traffic seemed to be steadily increasing. I wondered why, since it was only about two-thirty and wasn’t a weekday. Oh, well. I had Galatea make another flashing red roadblock just behind the SUV on general principles.

  A Highway Patrol car arrived first, likely because it had already been on the highway instead of having to contend with city traffic. After parking to make her car a roadblock, Officer Dawn Stein used her radio as she walked over to us with, “Hi, Ed. Sitrep?”

  “Two wounded being treated. Athena says they’re non-critical injuries. The SUV missed the exit, tried to back up, and stuck her butt too far out. The truck couldn’t avoid her.”

  “You saw it happen?”

  “Yup. She literally backed right into him.”

  She spoke on her radio again as a Sheriff’s car arrived. After waving the Deputy ahead to the truck, she grinningly asked, “Does Agent Vicky know you’re running loose?”

  I sighingly drawled, “Agent Vicky done cut me loose, ma’am.” Indicating Marie, I said, “This is Marie. She was the reason for all that fuss and bother. Marie, this is Dawn.”

  The ladies shook hands and Dawn said, “You must be pretty special. He risked some serious prison time for you.”

  As Marie gave me a startled sidelong glance, I faked concern as I said, “Don’t tell her things like that, ma’am. Her ego’s way too big already.”

  Dawn laughed and said she’d better get to work, then told me to drop by the shop. I gave her a little two-finger salute and called up my board.

  Marie seemed startled again. “We’re leaving?!”

  “Yup.”

  “But what about an accident report?”

  “Like she said, I’ll drop by the cop shop.”

  I lifted away from the scene and Marie followed. At a Sheriff’s sub-station, I asked for the case number of the accident and someone to take notes.

  Deputy Rawlings waved and came over with, “I’ll handle it, Deputy Pierce.” Nodding at my mug, he asked, “Need some fresh coffee in that thing?”

  “You bet. I’ll make some room for cop coffee.”

  “Then follow me. Are you still a fugitive?”

  “Nope. You gonna take my word for it?”

  “Nope. But damned if you didn’t get away again.”

  “Not necessary. Really.”

  We arrived at a break room as he said, “Good to know. Who’s your friend?”

  “The reason I was a fugitive. Her name’s Marie. I’d introduce you, but I don’t know your first name.”

  “Jim.”

  “Well, okay, then… Marie, this is Jim.”

  With that, I picked up the coffee pot, poured a cup for Marie, and topped up my mug as they shook hands. A few minutes later we’d both filed reports and I headed for the restroom. When I returned, Marie sat alone at the desk.

  I asked, “Did you scare him off, ma’am?”

  “Something came up. He’s helping another deputy with a prisoner.”

  “Ready to get out of here?”

  She set her cup down and stood up. “Sure. Where to next?”

  “No idea. Guess we could just fly around a while. Maybe something else will come up.”

  Marie gave me a sharp, sidelong glance, but said nothing. After checking to see if Rawlings needed any more info, we went outside and lifted away on our boards at a leisurely speed. We were four miles north of town over Tooke Lake before she spoke again.

  From a few feet to my left, she asked, “What did you mean when you said, ‘Maybe something will come up’?”

  With a glance at her, I replied, “I meant I don’t have any plans. Don’t really even have any thoughts on further training, either, unless you want to take a look at a shallow wreck just to see how boards work underwater.”

  Marie silently faced forward and changed her position slightly on her board. Hm. My answer hadn’t seemed to satisfy her at all.

  “Marie,” I said, and when she looked at me, I said, “You didn’t seem altogether happy with my answer just now. I don’t do innuendo. I don’t do sly little hints, either. You already know I think you’re gorgeous and I’ll remind you occasionally ‘cuz that’s how I am, but the reminders won’t be subtle.”

  She just looked at me for a moment, then gave me a grinning little nod of understanding before she banked hard and soared downward. I followed and stopped beside her a few feet from the top of a pine tree, watching a bear bumble along a path below.

  Marie silently sent, ‘You risked prison for me.’

  With a shrug, I replied, ‘I didn’t think so. Still don’t.’

  ‘That State Trooper — Dawn? — thinks so.’

  ‘She prob’ly doesn’t have all the facts.’

  ‘I know all the facts and I think so, too.’

  ‘Well, that’s your privilege, ma’am. Where are you going with all this?’

  Shaking her head slightly, she said, ‘I’m just letting you know I know, Ed. There’s no way in hell I can ever pay you back. Living like that… You can’t imagine how many times I wished it would all just end. I hated being that way and the idea that someone would have to take care of me forever.’

  The bear must have heard or smelled something. It looked around sharply, then quickly turned completely around. I watched it study its surroundings for a few moments, then looked at Marie.

  ‘Marie, you remember Dania Mueller?’

  Her eyes flared slightly, then narrowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She found out which of us saved her kids that night. Cornered you in the border office and said things like what you just said to me. No way to repay. Undying gratitude. Remember how you felt?’

  Marie’s eyes met mine in silence for a time, then she nodded. ‘Yeah, I remember. I wanted to be anywhere but there.’

  With a small grin, I said, ‘And I saved your ass that night, too, when I asked if we shouldn’t get going soon. You had us out of there in less than two minutes.’ Looking down at the bear with a small, fakey sigh, I added, ‘But it’s never too late to say thanks, y’know.’

  Th
e bear’s head came up. Seeing us, it turned and hurried away into the woods.

  Marie chuckled, “Yeah, okay. Thanks. She was really going on and on. Don’t worry, I won’t do that. Hint taken.”

  Nodding slightly, I replied, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marie seemed content to study the forest for a time, so I sipped coffee and watched her watch the woods. A few deer wandered a westward trail some distance from us; she pointed at them and glanced to see if I’d seen them. I nodded.

  Another few minutes passed. Still watching the woods, she stated, “Maybe Linda was right about us being so much alike.”

  “Maybe, but lots of people hate messy emotional displays.”

  With a little moue-shrug, she agreed, “That, too, but we both do the things we do for our own reasons, not for the… well… adulation.”

  Anyone else would have looked at me for agreement. Marie didn’t. Come to think of it, I doubt she ever had, even when we’d been discussing mission plans. She was one of those ‘Here’s what we’re gonna do’-types, and unless someone had a serious objection, that’s what usually got done.

  Marie set her board in motion and we began weaving among the tree tops above a southerly trail at about twenty miles per hour . She didn’t say anything, but occasionally leaned to look at things of interest below. I followed along sipping coffee and enjoying the scenery until I spotted something odd in one of the trees.

  I sent, ‘Hold one,’ to Marie and looped around a pine tree to get to another one about five trees away. Hanging from a branch a bit more than halfway up the tree was a long fabric bag. As I got closer, I saw it was the kind of bag that usually contains a set of skis and poles. Its original bright red showed through faded patches of green and black paint.

  The bag had been secured to the tree by a couple of small nails through the long shoulder strap. The bottom connection had come loose and the bag now hung a bit sideways in relation to the tree’s trunk, probably the only reason it had become noticeable at a distance.

  When I was within reach of the bag, I saw just how faded the paint was and how rusty the nails holding it were. A sharp yank broke the remaining head off the upper nail and freed the bag. I brought it aboard my board, laid it flat, and checked it for bugs. A few spiders escaped when I shook the bag, and when I opened it, more appeared. They mostly hopped back to the tree and I sent tendrils to sweep off those that didn’t.

  Marie arrived and stood close by as she watched me unzip the bag. More spiders emerged and disembarked as I fully opened the bag. Inside it was what looked like a full archery kit; a dark green recurve bow hanging from a tab in the top of the bag, a dozen graphite arrows in a leather quiver, and a leather finger tab looped around the nock on one of the arrows. I noted the bow had been strung backward, undoubtedly for indefinite storage. When I pinched and pulled the string slightly, three of its strands separated.

  Even a sturdy piece of luggage like that ski bag isn’t totally impervious to weather; the interior of the bag stunk of mold and the leather tab almost crumbled when I pulled it up the arrow shaft. The leather quiver split several inches when I lifted it.

  Arrows rattled loosely, but the rest of the bag held together until I tried to lift the quiver completely free. The bottom of the quiver disintegrated and a cluster of rusty arrowheads dropped a few inches with a clatter and a thump.

  Marie asked, “How long do you think it’s been out here?”

  “Years. Some of the arrowheads are rusted half away. And check out the bow.”

  Picking up the bow, I read the info on the forward side of it. Gold letters said, ‘Shakespeare Wonderbow. Laminated fiber glass.‘ On the rear in similar gold print there was a picture of a deer’s head and the words, ‘The CASCADE Model X-29 #45’

  My core chewed that info and said the bow had been made in the sixties. I asked it to try to figure out how long the bag had been in the tree. Its answer was approximately ten years based on the condition of the bag and its contents. I asked my core to check surrounding trees for any other unnatural items. It found nothing.

  I said, “It’s been hanging here for about ten years. Now it’s going home with me.”

  “Do you think it’s still safe to shoot?”

  “Probably. It was strung backward to keep the limbs straight and it was hanging on that tab inside the bag. No weight on the lower limb. It just needs cleaning and a new string, I think.”

  There were spider egg-balls in the quiver. I took the arrows out of it, checked the quiver’s tiny side pocket and found it empty, and hung the quiver upside down on a broken tree branch. Tossing the finger tab into the woods to rot in peace, I turned my board south again.

  Marie resumed the lead, cruising among the trees at a slightly faster pace than before. I followed as I used fields to clean the arrows. The fletchings were loose on some of them. A few peeled off, but left faint lines on the shafts. I could easily re-glue them properly.

  All the arrowheads were broadheads except three, which were steel target tips. Good. I could take one to a shop and match it up. The string would be no problem; I had a roll of phone company-issue waxed cord used for fishing phone lines through walls. Six or eight strands of that would be stronger than any typical commercial bowstrings.

  Detouring toward a big-box store on SR-50, I set the bow and arrows on the roof, took one of the target tips off an arrow, and went to the store’s sporting goods department. A few minutes later I had two dozen similar tips and some fletching glue and we continued to the house.

  At the kitchen table, I gave the bow and arrows a wipe with spray cleanser and started repairing fletchings. Marie watched for a time, then excused herself and headed for the bathroom. A dozen arrows had been repaired and placed with their fletched ends hanging off the table before she returned. She picked one up and seemed to check my work, then set it down and picked up the bow.

  “Ed, there has to be some kind of story behind leaving a bow like this in a tree for ten years.”

  I glanced up from gluing feathers and replied, “Yup. Prob’ly so.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Shoot it, ma’am. That’s what you do with a bow.”

  She held it to rest the lower limb tip on the floor and measured it against her body. “It seems pretty short, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s a bush bow. Maybe four feet long. Doesn’t matter; whoever owned it was about my size.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Draw length. Shorter arms use shorter arrows. These arrows are thirty-two inches. Figure sleeve length plus two.”

  Looking in the store bag and around the table, Marie asked, “You didn’t buy a new string?”

  “Nope. Commercial strings are made to wear out in a season. I have some stuff that’ll last damned near forever.”

  I retrieved the waxed cord from the garage and removed the string from the bow. Leaving a foot or so of cord hanging, I ran the cord from bow-tip to bow-tip eight times, then cut the cord free of the roll. Holding the top end of the cord loop on a fingertip, I made a simple knot with a one-inch loop and fitted it over the bow-tip.

  Straightening and smoothing the lines of cord, I made a similar loop at the other end and strung the bow as if for shooting. The cord pulled tight, then stretched until the bow was almost slack again.

  Marie chuckled and I said, “All part of the process, ma’am.”

  Having taken most of the stretch out of the cord, I unstrung the bow. Wrapping waxed cord a dozen times around four fingers, I cut the roll free, then cut the top and bottom of the loop. That gave me two bundles of straight bits of cord, each about four inches long.

  Unstringing the bow, I selected a point two hand-widths down from the end of the string and made a simple knot. While the knot was still open, I inserted one bundle of the short cords, then pulled the string tight and re-strung the bow.

  Once that adjustment had settled properly, I did the same to the other end of the bowstri
ng. When I restrung it, the bow was arched perfectly and the string had bundles of cord near each end. Marie grinningly reached to flick the top bundle of string bits with a finger.

  “What are these about?”

  “Silencers, ma’am. They kill the ‘twang‘ sound.”

  Lifting an eyebrow at me, she murmured, “Uh, huh.”

  Putting up a screen, I located an archery shop on the net and showed her bowstring silencers. There were rubber balls, plastic disks, and wads of heavy yarn.

  Marie read the descriptions and chuckled, “Okay, I believe you. Now what? Got a hay bale in the back yard?”

  “Nope. I’ll leave the bow strung for a day or so to make sure all the stretch is gone, then string it backward and hang it in a closet until I find a place to shoot it.”

  Noddingly indicating the table, she asked, “What about the arrows? Are you going to carry them loose?”

  “Nope. Back in a minute.”

  Another trip to the garage turned up a chunk of black leather I’d planned to use to make a motorcycle seat cover. I’d opted instead for a woven fabric throw rug that would breathe better and could be washed and dried. Folding the leather once, I penciled a line to cut, used a narrow field to cut it, and then used the field to punch a line of small holes along the edges.

  Marie asked, “Will I be able to do that?”

  “Depends on how well you get to know your PFM.”

  “You’re assuming they’ll really hire me.”

  Looking up from poking holes, I nodded. “Yup. Sure am.”

  One of my spare black bootlaces lashed the edges and bottom together and provided a small loop at the top and bottom. I connected an old guitar strap to the loops, put a few arrows in the quiver, and tried it on. A couple of adjustments later, I was able to pull an arrow over my right shoulder smoothly.

  Taking off the quiver, I said, “All set,” and laid it on the table.

  As I gathered the rusted arrowheads and tossed them in the trash, Marie asked, “Why didn’t you get some of those today?”

  Sipping coffee, I replied, “I don’t hunt animals.”