Skin in the Game

by D P Lyle

  She discarded the now wet and heavy blanket and ran. Swerving through another shallow ravine, scattered with limestone rocks that excoriated her feet. The pain excruciating. She pressed onward.

  Don’t look back. Just run.

  But she did glance back.

  He followed, now in the ravine. Not really running. More a lazy lope. As if he knew she had no way to escape and running her down was simply a matter of time. He held something in one hand but at this distance she couldn’t tell what? A gun?

  She scurried out of the ravine, weaving, slipping past and beneath pine and cedar boughs, stretching out the distance between them. The forest rose and fell, the trees thick here, less so there, and always masses of limestone to deal with. Her feet screamed, her chest burned as if the cold air had frozen something inside. She kept moving. Pine branches slapped and clutched at her, raising welts on her arms and face. Her legs heavy, her feet on fire.

  She rounded a twenty-foot high ledge of limestone, and descended to where a stream cut through the forest, tumbling downhill to her right. She stopped, bending at the waist, sucking air.

  What now? Keep running? To where? Could her feet hold up much longer?

  She straightened and looked around. Nothing but trees and more trees. Then she saw a crevice in the limestone that seemed to give birth to the stream. It appeared just wide enough for her to slip inside. Hiding seemed a better tactic than running in circles.

  She stepped into the stream. The shock of the cold water initially soothed the fire in her ripped soles but that relief quickly became a deep ache, as if her feet were literally freezing. She eased into the crevice.

  This better work, or she was trapped.

  The scraping of his feet came from above. On the ledge.

  She stood in the frigid water, plastering herself against the cold rocks of the crevice wall, her shivers now shaking her entire body. She clamped the web of her good hand between her teeth to soften their chattering.

  The silence suddenly felt heavy. What was he doing?

  Then footsteps, growing fainter, moving away.

  It had worked. Tears welled in her eyes. Her mangled hand throbbed, her feet ached, she was lost and might even freeze to death, but she had beaten him.

  She waited ten agonizing minutes before slipping from the crevice and climbing out of the stream. She moved to where a slant of moonlight slid through the trees and lifted one foot and then the other, examining the soles. Ripped flesh and fresh blood.

  Following the stream downhill seemed the best bet. But after only a few steps, something slammed into her left side. Hard. Sharp. She staggered. A spasm of coughing produced sprays of blood. She collapsed to her knees, confused. Then she heard his footsteps. Close. Right behind her. She swiveled toward him and looked up into his eyes,

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “Please.”

  “You were to be my first masterpiece. But now? You’re nothing. A wasted canvas.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MAY

  “Will not.”

  “Will, too.”

  Billy Clowers shook his head. “You don’t know nothing.”

  “I know that if you leave those there it’ll jump the tracks,” Benjie Crane said.

  “And we’ll be in big trouble,” Misty added.

  “So you’re on his side now?” Billy asked.

  Misty jammed her fists against her hips. “When he’s right, I am.”

  “You’re so lame.” Billy squatted beside the metal rail. “Both of you are.”

  Misty stepped up on the rail, balancing on her frayed tennis shoes, faded gray with new pink laces, and looked down at her brother. “Well, since we’re twins, if I’m lame so are you.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “I’m smarter anyway.”

  “You wish.”

  “Want to compare report cards?”

  Billy rolled his eyes. “Like that means anything.”

  “It means I’m smarter.”

  “Whatever.” Billy settled two more quarters on the rail.

  “You better take some of those off there,” Benjie said.

  “It will not jump the track.”

  “My cousin said if you used more than five pennies it would definitely cause a wreck,” Benjie said. “And you got six pennies, two nickels, and three quarters.”

  Billy spun on his haunches. “Is this your cousin from up in Ohio?”

  “Yeah,” Benjie said.

  “He’s lame, too.”

  “Is not. He’s five years older and in high school already. He knows stuff.”

  “That only means he’s had five more years of lameness.” Billy returned to adjusting coins. “You just have to make sure they’re lined up down the middle. If they hang over the edge then they could derail it.”

  “See, I told you,” Misty said.

  Billy stood. “Do something useful. Take a listen.”

  Misty dropped to her knees on the gravel rail bed and pressed one ear against the metal. Her brow wrinkled.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t hear nothing.”

  “Cause you don’t know what to listen for.” Billy dropped to his knees and pressed an ear against the other rail. “I hear it. It’s coming.”

  “Is not. If it was I’d of heard it.”

  He stood. “Get Mom to clean your ears.”

  “It ain’t coming.”

  Billy pointed down the tracks to where they curved right and disappeared into a stand of pines some two hundred yards away. “It’ll come around that bend in about five minutes. If you want your coins flattened, you better get them lined up.”

  Misty and Benjie hesitated, looking at each other, and then began digging through their pockets. Soon a total of fifteen pennies, four nickels, and three quarters lined the rail.

  “I feel it now,” Benjie said, his hand resting on the track.

  “Here it comes,” Billy said, pointing.

  The train chugged around the bend. Its horn sounded three short blasts.

  “Let’s go,” Billy said.

  They ran down the graveled slope and settled among thick wads of Johnson grass and shrubs.

  Billy raised up and peered over a hydrangea, pushing one of its bright white flowers aside.

  “Stay down,” Misty said. “If the engineer sees you he’ll stop.”

  “He ain’t going to stop for nothing.”

  “He might,” Benjie said. “My dad said that train engineers are kind of like cops. For trains, that is.”

  “Your dad’s lame, too.”

  “Is not.” Benjie slugged Billy’s arm.

  Billy hooked his arm around Benjie’s neck and spun him to the ground, pinning him there.

  “Stop it,” Benjie said. “You’re going to miss the train.”

  Billy rolled off and stood, brushing grass and dirt from his jeans. “Don’t hit me again.”

  Benjie regained a squat. “Don’t talk about my dad like that.”

  Billy started to say something but the train arrived, rumbling and roaring, vibrating the ground, creating a wind that rustled the grass and shrubs around them. The stench of the diesel fumes filled the air.

  Once it passed, without jumping the rails, they scurried back up the incline. The coins that had been dull and lifeless were now flattened and shiny. Most still lined the track, only two having fallen off onto the gravel bed. They collected them.

  “This is so rad,” Benjie said, holding what had once been a nickel, now a wafer-thin shiny disk, in his palm.

  “And the train didn’t even know those coins were there. Just like I said.” Billy looked at his sister. “Want to tell me I was right?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “More like lucky.”

  “Not luck. Smarts.”

  “Really? You almost failed history.”

  “It was hard.”

  “I made an A. Didn’t seem so hard to me.”

  “Whatever.”

  After they divvi
ed up their booty, they walked the track, toward home.

  “What do you want to do now?” Benjie asked.

  “Don’t know,” Billy said. “Maybe go throw the football around?”

  “Okay.”

  “Look.” Benjie stopped, pointed.

  Misty and Billy followed the angle of Benjie’s arm and extended finger. At least a dozen buzzards circled in the distance.

  “Something’s dead,” Misty said.

  “Let’s go see,” Billy said.

  “Looks like it’s a long way,” Benjie added.

  “No, it ain’t. It’s just beyond those trees.”

  “That’s across the county road. I ain’t supposed to go that far.”

  Billy let out a short snort, shaking his head. “Then why don’t you run on home to your mama and Misty and I’ll check it out.”

  Benjie rolled one foot up on its side, head down.

  “Come on,” Billy said.

  He and Misty crunched down the slope, waded through the Johnson grass, and angled toward the distant woods. Billy glanced back. Benjie skittered down the slope and followed them.

  Ten minutes later, they had crossed the county road, marched between the rows of knee-high cotton plants, wound their way through the trees, and stepped back into the bright mid-day sunlight.

  Billy raised a hand to block the glare from his eyes. “There they are.” He pointed.

  “There’s a bunch of them,” Misty said.

  “What do you think it is?” Benjie asked.

  “Something big. Maybe a dog.” Billy lowered his hand and gazed across the furrowed, rich red dirt. TVA lines sagged between two massive metal towers and soared overhead, their electric hum barely audible.

  “Or a cow,” Misty said.

  “A cow?” Benjie said. “That’d be so cool.”

  “Looks like whatever it is is over near those pine trees.”

  Billy started across the field. “We better step on it if we’re going to see what it is and get back in time for lunch.”

  “We’ll never make it,” Benjie said. “It’s a long way over there.”

  Billy stopped and turned. “We won’t make it at all if you keep whining.” He continued his march between the neat cotton rows.

  Benjie caught up with him. “I’m not whining. But you said they were around this bunch of trees, but they’re way over there. And you know Old Man Wilson don’t want us on his property.”

  Misty looked at him. “I swear, you’re afraid of your shadow.” She marched past them, head down. “Let’s get going.”

  “Watch out for the plants,” Benjie said. “We mess with those and Old Man Wilson’ll be mad for sure.”

  The distance proved deceptive, the pines much farther than they appeared. It took them another ten minutes to cross the undulating field, the red clay soil glomming on their sneakers, making them heavy.

  When they ascended the last wrinkle in the land, Billy suddenly stopped. A half dozen buzzards were clustered on the ground, maybe fifty yards away, the others still circling overhead. The birds now appeared larger, as big as a Thanksgiving turkey, and more menacing than when they were dark silhouettes against the bright, blue sky. A couple of them raised gnarly heads and inspected the trio.

  “Boy those guys are ugly,” Misty said.

  “And big,” Benjie added.

  “What are we going to do?” Misty asked.

  Billy hesitated, looking around. “Let’s go this way. Around them. Through those trees. We can sneak up on them.”

  “Do they bite?” Misty asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? Don’t you know?” Misty glared at her brother. “I thought you were the smart one.”

  “I am. But I don’t know nothing about buzzards.”

  “They look dangerous,” Benjie said.

  “Let’s go.” Billy veered to his right, giving the feeding buzzards a wide berth. Once in the shade of the trees, the pungent odor of pine needles greeted them. They kicked their shoes against tree trunks and used the coarse bark to scrape away most of the red clay. They worked their way through the trees, the bed of brown pine needles cushioning each step.

  Benjie pointed. “There they are. We’re close now.”

  Billy bent low, ducked beneath a couple of branches and moved to the edge of the trees. The musty pine odor was now joined by another smell, richer and sweeter. Billy squatted, Misty and Benjie beside him.

  Two of the buzzards raised their heads, turned their way.

  “What is it?” Misty asked.

  “I don’t know,” Billy said. “I can’t see from here.”

  “What are we going to do?” Benjie asked.

  Billy searched the ground until he found a cluster of pine cones. He snatched up the largest one. Stepping into the sunlight, he wound up and hurled it at the buzzards. They hopped away, but not very far, now all of them looking his way with dark eyes and wrinkled, prehistoric faces.

  “Don’t make them mad,” Misty said.

  “They’re just stupid birds,” Billy said.

  “But big,” Benjie said. “And ugly.”

  “Still stupid birds.”

  Billy rushed toward them, arms waving, shouting. The buzzards scattered, each taking long strides, leaping into the air, and with squeaky grunts and whooshing wings rapidly gained altitude toward their circling mates.

  Billy watched them and then turned. “See. Just stupid birds.”

  They cautiously approached the area where the buzzards had been.

  “Oh my God,” Misty said, one hand flying up to her mouth. “What is that?”

  CHAPTER 3

  It was a beautiful May morning when Bobby Cain left the condo he shared with his sister Harper. The penthouse floor of the trendy St. Germain Place, a twenty-floor complex in downtown Nashville’s SoBro area. Near the Omni Hotel and not far from Printer’s Alley, the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, and the boisterous Lower Broadway. A street where food and alcohol were staples and where established and up-and-coming country music stars could be heard nightly.

  Cain crossed Broadway, quiet now, and continued into the maze of towering office buildings that comprised Nashville’s vibrant financial and business district.

  He had an appointment with attorney Marcus Milner. Which meant that somebody had a problem. Something that needed fixing. He didn’t yet know what, but he was sure of two things: it would be off the radar, way off, and it would pay well. The way it always was.

  The law offices of Milner, Martin, and Rowe were plush and then some. The entire 30th floor of a glossy high-rise. Quiet, spacious, soft colors, expensive furniture, and pricy artwork. Soothing jazz hung in the air like a sweet fragrance.

  Two sharply dressed people sat in the waiting room: a woman, working her laptop, and a man, shuffling through papers in his open briefcase. Both glanced up but quickly returned to their work.

  Receptionist Margaret Porter smiled from behind her spacious, gray marble desk. “Mister Cain? What brings you by?”

  Margaret, forty-ish, straight dark hair, gray suit over a white blouse, glasses hanging from a gold chain, had been with the firm for as long as Cain had worked with senior partner Marcus Milner. Almost four years now. Had it really been that long?

  Cain leaned down, flattening his palms on the marble. “Let me guess. He didn’t tell you I was coming.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He never tells me anything.”

  “He’s a busy man.”

  “No, he’s brain dead.” She laughed. “Been that way forever. Good thing he’s got me to handle the details.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Cain walked down the hallway to Milner’s office. Corner, of course. Window walls that looked down on the city. Expansive desk, and with today being no exception, littered with papers and folders and law books. Ensconced in his high-backed leather throne, phone to his ear, Milner waved Cain into the chair that faced him across the desk. Also
leather, thick, supple, expensive.

  Milner wore his usual three-piece suit, this one dark gray, with a crisp white shirt, yellow tie, and gold cufflinks. He swiped his thinning hair over the top of his head as he listened.

  “Let me get back to you,” Milner said. “I’ve got an important meeting just now.” He waited a beat. “Sounds good. We’ll chat then.” He hung up the phone. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “How’s Harper?”

  “I left her on the stair climber.”

  “Too bad. I’d love to see her. It’s been a couple of months.”

  Cain smiled. “I know better than to interfere with her workouts.”

  Milner laughed.

  “What’s up? You didn’t say much when we talked.”

  Milner shuffled a stack of papers out of his way. “Sorry about the secrecy. But this is a delicate situation.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “This one especially so.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I believe you know General William Kessler?”

  Who didn’t? At least anyone who had ever served in the military or worked in the spook world. Cain had done both.

  William “Wild Bill” Kessler was a legend in the military and spy worlds. His stellar resume included over three decades of military service, six tours in various war zones, four stars, a stint as Assistant Director of the NSA, and a long history of involvement in some of the most secret missions in US history. Things no one could ever talk about. Cain had been involved with half a dozen such special ops deployments. Not that Kessler was often present, rarely shoulder to shoulder or face to face with Cain, but Kessler’s dense shadow had fell across each mission. The rumor was that he could have had the Chairmanship of the Joint Chiefs but turned it down, opting for civilian life instead.

  The other rumor was that nearly fifteen years earlier Kessler had plucked Cain from the thousands of US Army recruits and launched him on the convoluted path his military career had taken. No one talked about that either. Mainly because most, actually all, of Cain’s missions didn’t exist. Anywhere. Never had. No trail left behind. Cain had never looked into the rumor and the few times he had been in the General’s presence had never broached the subject. Some things were never discussed. Not even in private.