by Frank Klus
He reached for his phone and dialed the number on the screen. It took several minutes to reach a live voice. He mentioned the dialog box and gave his name and account number. The person at the other end told him his account was being frozen on orders from the Justice Department. It seemed they wanted to question him first.
Horace looked frightened. “Well they’re officially after me now. I have about a thousand dollars in cash and my car.”
“Getting cash for your car adds to the risk. We need the money—hush money, bribery, and incidentals. Anything less adds to the risk.”
Both sat staring at each other. Then, Phillips spoke up. “I have an idea, but I need to make some calls first. I’ll drive you to your car. Hopefully it’s still parked where you left it. Go back to your room and wait for me to call you.”
The next day Phillips called Hayfield, and he drove out to the office. “Okay, Horace, I’ve got some good news. I think we can get you to freedom. Have you ever heard of a senator named Everson Moore?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“He’s more familiarly known as Ev Moore. Anyway, he used to work closely with another person you may have heard of—Pamela Piper.”
Horace just shrugged.
“She’s the sister of Redmond Piper. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Of course. Everyone knows who he is.”
“Well, Pamela had been working with Senator Moore in helping people escape Old America. She is currently leading a number of people out of the country and is currently in Idaho. Mr. Moore just talked to her. They can provide the money we need to get everyone across the border.”
“Great! What’s the plan?”
“I’ll tell you when the others come. Do you have enough money to stay where you are for about another week?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“A week is all we need. It may not even take that long. Look, Horace, I’m not going to kid you. This is going to be risky. There’s a chance we’ll all be killed.”
Chapter 24:
The One Hundred Thousand Dollar Gamble
“Everybody up,” yelled Pamela Piper to the pilgrims. “Assemble in the front room.”
Tired bodies, shaking off forgotten dreams, rubbed their eyes, looked for the coffee, and began to waken.
Ray and Cassandra were out on the porch standing guard. They, too, were called in.
Everyone gathered there, grumbling. “What’s wrong?” Eugene asked.
“I’ve got coffee brewing, but I need to tell you something important first.”
“Does this have something to do with Hogs or the Squad?” Armstrong asked.
“No, this is different. It’s good. It’s the opportunity to escape that we’ve been looking for.”
“Oh, tell us,” Sandy said. It’s some of the few words Sandy has uttered since the roadside incident.
“The man I had in government—the man who made it possible for me to escort all of you out of the country had disappeared. He had an exit visa and a plane was ready to take him and his wife to New America. What I only learned a few minutes ago was that he was shot and presumed killed. He was taken to a local hospital and pronounced dead. The government was, or feigned, shock; and a private funeral was held by the family.”
“Oh, my God,” Sandy said. “What is supposed to be the good news?”
“He isn’t dead,” Pamela said. “His wounds were only superficial. The story of his death was concocted to throw his pursuers off the scent. He’s being escorted to Martinville, Idaho. It’s near the border. That’s where we’re going to go. We’ll be meeting with another man who is being persecuted. There’s an attorney who has a plan to get us all out of the country, but it’s going to be expensive.”
“Of course it’s going to be expensive,” Eugene said, sounding frustrated. The rest of the group expressed cynicism.
“We need a hundred thousand dollars.”
There was wide-spread derision from the group. Most were broke. Pamela still had most of the 100,000 given to her, and Chad Armstrong could come up with about ten grand. Foote and Wrenn together could come up with another ten grand, but they were still about ten thousand short counting money for food and gas to get there.
“I have some money,” Jeanne said. “I’ll have to go to the bank.” So did the others. They managed to scrape up the money and had a nice brunch.
Pamela told them some more information. “Most of my money is actually in the New World. It was where I always intended to live. When the government enacted its trade barrier there could be no banking transactions with New America anymore. The money I get from people I escort over the border is mostly used to fund the operation. The little money I have left for myself isn’t much. I’m pretty much going to be out of money after we turn this money over to the lawyer who’s running this little operation.”
“Have you ever had difficulties like this with your other clients?” Ray asked.
“Nothing like this. The task is still difficult, and it’s my friends on both sides of the border that have allowed people to escape persecution here, but now security has been stepped up to the point where it is very difficult to get across. I only agreed to this hundred grand deal because I’m very afraid I can’t get you out. If we’re successful, however, I’ll reimburse you all the money you’ve given me. I have millions in the New World.”
“Well, what is the plan this lawyer has?” Eugene said.
“I don’t know. All I know is that we are to drive to Martinville, and everything will be explained when we get there.”
“When are we supposed to leave?” Armstrong said.
“Now.”
The trip to Martinville was uneventful and only took a few hours, as much of the journey was through neutral territory. Everyone assembled in the Lazy Tourist Inn and began getting to know one another. Problems began, however, when Horace Hayfield introduced himself to Eugene Sulke.
Everyone responded to a fight that broke out by the pool. A table was overturned, a glass was broken, a plant crushed, and two people had to be treated for cuts and bruises. Eugene was still livid. “That man can’t go with us.” He kept shouting while pointing his finger at Horace Hayfield.
The front office was about to call the police, but Chad Armstrong was able to calm the manager down and gave him money to pay for any broken items. The poolside was cleaned up and management was satisfied. Ray and Cassandra escorted Eugene away from the scene of the fracas and demanded an explanation.
Eugene explained who Horace Hayfield was and how he recognized him from the TV commercial that almost caused him to wreck his room so many weeks ago. Cassandra just laughed and Ray made a face.
“Look, Gene,” Ray said, “I understand how you feel.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“Please, Gene, listen to Ray,” Cassandra said.
It took Eugene about fifteen minutes to calm down. “Just keep me away from that son of a bitch.”
“Sure. Count on it,” Ray said as Chad came over.
“Look,” Armstrong said, “I felt the same about those two doctors as well, but we can’t fuck this up. We have to get over the border and we can’t afford for anything to go wrong. Now get a grip, Gene. We’ll keep you two apart the best we can, but when we can’t, just let it go. Okay?”
Gene pouted, but agreed.
Later that day, Nate Phillips came to the motel. He escorted all of them to his office, where they could talk in private. Everyone sat in the large conference room.
“I’m going to fill you in on the plan I have for getting you across the border. We are about eight miles from it right now, and we’ll be walking in difficult conditions for up to two hours, but let me back up and start from the beginning. Let me go through it entirely before asking me any questions. It’s easier this way. When I’m finished, I’ll be happy to take your questions and go over anything you don’t understand.”
Everyone was fine with that, eager to hear the plan.
“About a week or so
ago, I met a man named Horace Hayfield. He was trying to find a way across the border when he met a man named Milo Hoopenmiller, who showed him a way to reach it. He charged Hayfield a thousand dollars, then drove with him to the spot where he’d have to get out and walk through a forest until he reached an unmanned fence—a border fence. On the other side was the New World. He was only a foot away when he began to climb the fence. What he didn’t know was that Milo was only setting him up. He was working with authorities who arrested Horace. I got him out.
“Now, I want to introduce another man to you. He is U.S. Senator Everson Moore. Pamela knows him as the insider helping her escort her clients across the border. He disappeared, allegedly dead, but his death was faked. This is him,” pointing to the man at the other end of the table from Phillips. “His wife successfully made it to New America. He’s looking forward to joining her. All of you will shortly be going over that fence to freedom. Now I’ll take your questions.”
“I still don’t know the details of our escape,” Armstrong said.
“Let me just say that we can use Milo to provide assistance, as well as Horace Hayfield, who has already made the attempt. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Can we trust Milo? My plan is to offer him more than he was getting, but staying with him so he can’t tip anyone off.”
Armstrong interrupted. “Why do we even need him? Hayfield knows the way.”
“I can’t remember the way,” Hayfield said. “Milo had me making a lot of turns, and it was dark.”
“Besides, Milo may get wind of another attempt and tip off the authorities,” Phillips said. “We can’t take chances. We need him.”
Armstrong just shook his head and looked frustrated. He looked at his friends, Wrenn and Foote, who expressed similar unease about the plan. Armstrong spoke up. “I don’t like it. It’s been my experience that untrustworthy people stay that way.” He paused and then continued. “Nevertheless, I think it was Machiavelli who said keep your friends close and your enemies closer. We may have no choice but to use Milo, but I can tell you I’ll have my eye on him all the time. That means he escorts us, not to just the jumping off point, but through the trees and right up to that damn fence. I want to keep my eye on him the whole way, and ready to slit that bastard’s throat if the police show up.”
The rest of the group applauded, and Phillips knew this scenario had to be included in his plans.
Three nights later, they were set to go. Armstrong drove in the lead vehicle with Milo handcuffed to the passenger door. It was midnight. Milo gave directions. He took them through twelve turns. The rest of the crew were keeping track of distance, turns, and roadways they took, just in case they would ever need to know. A few had a suspicion that this would not be a good idea.
They reached their destination an hour later. They decided to park their cars and trucks on different streets so any nosey late night neighbor wouldn’t get suspicious. Then they all gathered at the edge of the woods and left on the next part of their odyssey.
No one was used to it. It taxed even the Blues. Pamela had an especially difficult time of it. She never envisioned getting to the border this way. Ray and Cassandra began cursing the woods. Foote and Wrenn told jokes to each other. Moore stoically tramped on and Hayfield mumbled to himself. Milo kept whining that he’d gone far enough, but he was handcuffed to Armstrong, and he led on.
“No breaks. We’re not taking any chances of a delay that might cost us our liberty. We walk until we reach that damn fence.” No one protested.
About 1:45 a.m. they reached the small clearing. They could see the fence. Then they saw two men, one with a gun. “Been waitin’ for yah,” the guy with the gun said. The ragtag group froze in disbelief.
“Milo,” the man with a Scottish accent said, motioning for him to come over. Armstrong let him go. Milo ran over to them. Armstrong didn’t feel surprised.
“Okay, laddies—oh, and a couple lassies—this way.”
Armstrong motioned for them to come.
“Just a wee walk and then you get to sit down”, the Scotsman said. “I know you must be tired from such a long walk.”
His playful banter didn’t faze Chad Armstrong any. Wrenn still had a grin on his face, while Foote kept looking at Armstrong. Ray understood.
“Come on, come on, folks,” the Scotsman said.
“Anybody up for some T-ball?” Chad said to the others. Moore and Hayfield thought he was crazy. The others knew it was a signal.
“No time for games,” the Scotsman said. “It’s late and we—”
Scotty couldn’t talk anymore. He was more concerned with the stiletto Foote held to his neck; not to mention the left arm wrapped around his head. The Blues flashed their own guns.
“Drop your gun,” Armstrong said to the man with the rifle.
The man hesitated. “No. You, you, drop y’ yer guns,” the rifleman said.
Armstrong walked right in front of him, ignoring the barrel that was pointed at him. “Drop the pop gun. You kill me, and before you can cock that gun you’ll be lying in a pool of blood…your own.”
“Do it, Henry,” Scotty implored.
He did. Foote then let him go. Armstrong took the gun from Henry. He then walked to the fence, pulling Henry along, and peered out. “What’s out there?”
“Nothing. Just wh…what you see.”
“For how long?”
Henry just shrugged. “For miles.”
“About twenty-five miles,” the Scotsman said.
“Tell him, Jack, about the hel…helicopter.”
“Henry,” Jack, the Scotsman, said in a condescending manner.
“Okay, Jack,” Chad said. “Tell me about the helicopter.”
“Most of the people in that neighborhood you parked your vehicles in know about the fence,” Jack said. “Milo lives in the shack behind my house. They think freedom is just over that fence. It isn’t. Never was. Every so often someone goes over the fence. We usually pick him up right away. We got some men over there. Then once every couple of weeks we fly a helicopter out there and load it up with the dead bodies of the—uh, pilgrims—who found that tasting freedom didn’t mean quenching their thirst or putting food in their bellies. Most died of exhaustion and lack of water. Even in winter, when it’s cool and you can eat the snow, you soon got tired. Lack of food saps your energy, the snow’s too cold—you can’t take it anymore.”
“And the few who survive?” Armstrong said. “You just mow them down from the helicopter. Eh?”
“What are you going to do with us?”
“We’re not murderers, but we’re not a bunch of damn fools either. We’re going to tie you up to that fence, that freedom fence. Milo, too. Your relief will untie you.”
After a few minutes, it was time to make their way back through that hated forest. Pamela just stood by the fence, sobbing. Chad walked up to her. “Oh, Chad, are we ever going to make it?”
“Sure!”
Pamela just continued to stare at the scrub, the dirt, and the hills in the distance. “A hundred thousand dollars and we aren’t any better off now than we were.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Armstrong. “It’s an illusion. I’m sick of it. Sick of being misled and lied to. Sick of being hunted down. I’m tired of lawyers picking our pockets and leading us to an illusion. I’m sick of being directed by an idiot who keeps handing people off to the authorities. You know who our biggest enemy is? Ignorance. From now on we’re going to use that lawyer and that senator. We’re going to use them to get some facts—some real information. Then we’re going to use the truth to get across.”
Pamela stood looking up at Chad. He just looked at her with steely eyes. “We’ve come through hell so far only to stare at the face of the devil. Well, I’m going through and I’m taking you and anyone else who wants to come along. Didn’t Odysseus go through hell before he got home?”
Chapter 25:
The Search for Truth
The new pilgrims got back to the Lazy Tourist Inn a
round dawn, and went to their rooms for a long rest. The watch was set. Armstrong was the first to wake up at around nine. He made coffee and then called Phillips.
“Nate, this is Armstrong. I’m back at the motel.”
(Pause). “No. We didn’t get over. We got stopped. Somebody tipped off the authorities. That wasn’t the problem, however. They were amateurs. We overpowered them easily enough. The problem is that there’s nothing on the other side of that fence. Just desert.”
(Pause). “Listen to me!” Foote came in. Chad put the phone down and turned to him. “Phillips said we should just have gone over anyway.”
He picked up the phone again. “Phillips? You there?” There was a pause. “Not only is it just desert, but Old America’s got authorities over there just waiting to bring back any wayfarers. And if any escapees get past them they’re being picked up by U.S. copters—not alive, but dead.”
There was a delay as Armstrong listened to the lawyer. “No, that’s not going to happen.” Then he lowered the phone and talked to Foote. “He wants to get more information from Milo.”
“What?” he yelled.
“Look, Phillips. I’m tired of this nonsense. Grab a legal pad and pen and write this down. First, I want a map of the entire area five miles from the border, to a hundred miles on the other side. Then I want a close-up map of the border—about twenty-five miles north and the same distance south of our present latitude. Are you getting this?”
Phillips indicated he had.
“Now, I want maps from the border area we just discussed, but focused in on every road, side road, alleyway, and horse trail through or either side of the border. Got it?”
(Pause). “Good. I want it this time tomorrow.”
(Pause). “What? No don’t give me shit. You got a hundred grand of our money. You put everything aside and you come to the Lazy Tourist at nine sharp tomorrow morning.”
(Pause). “Huh?”
“Out of the question. You don’t want to make me mad. Do this and bring those maps to me.”
