AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Stay where you are. I'll be there in thirty minutes. I'll get my people to seal the county road. But I'll be the first to you. You'd make an easy target. Be careful.” The phone went dead.

  Baird answered on the first ring. “Charles, this is Bubba. I am at Behane's. There's automatic weapons fire in the woods. Behane's not in camp."

  "Hang tight. We'll be there in a hurry. You stay at Behane's. We'll find him together. You hear me?"

  "I hear you.” He hung up. Automatic weapons fired again. The deeper rifle fired. That had to be the .45-70. What in the hell was Tim shooting at? Had to be the soldiers. Who else had automatic weapons?

  Bubba locked the Bronco. Taking the bigger flashlight, he stuck the Browning's holster on his belt. Behane had to be in the thicket. He had to be, or Bubba would never find him in the dark. He let the flashlight play across the ground in front of him. The trail that he'd followed before was fairly easy to spot at first. But after ten minutes the trail seemed to disappear. He tried to remember how he'd come before, but the woods looked the same in all directions.

  There was another burst of automatic weapons fire. Bubba burst through the scrub oaks and briars, hearing his trousers tear. There was the trail again. When the .45-70 fired again, all of the other weapons cut loose. The sound was deafening. Two or three searchlights webbed through the thicket. He could hear voices. He doused his light and crept closer, until he could finally understand them.

  "We can't cut the fence, stupid. That's the prime directive. The colonel will have us in the stockade if we do."

  "Well, that old fart has killed three of my dogs, and I'll kill him with your help or not."

  "I tell you what we are going to do. You two stay here and keep him busy. The rest of us are leaving the compound. We'll go to his place and then work our way here. We can use your fire to guide us."

  "We better hurry. It'll be getting light soon."

  Bubba began to crawl toward the hole that Tim had shown him. He heard two vehicles crank up and leave. Then there was a burst of fire about six feet above the ground. He lay on his stomach and began to move through the thicket as quietly as he could. The soldiers fired another burst, and Bubba crawled faster. They wouldn't be able to hear him for a few minutes. He reached the hollowed-out space and sat up. He was tempted to turn on the flashlight but knew it would draw fire. Then a light from the other side of the fence swiped across the thicket. Brass flickered on the ground. This was the place.

  Then Bubba felt a cold metal object touch his neck. And a hammer click.

  "It's me, Bubba Simms. It's okay, Tim. I'll help you.” The object wavered and then moved away.

  "Is that really you? They're trying to kill me. Tonight's the night. They had the hounds after me. Even had one at my place this afternoon."

  "That was me and my dog. But those soldiers are after you all right. Let me help you get out of here."

  "I can't walk anymore. Too tired. But I can still shoot."

  "No more, Tim. Let's get out of here. People are coming to help you."

  There was only silence. Bubba could hear the soldiers across the fence, arguing about what to do next.

  "Tim,” Bubba said into the silence. He reached out to where the rifle barrel ought to be and found it. He gripped it and pulled gently. He set it down behind himself and crawled over to where Behane's voice had come from. He found the body as much by smell as by feel. It was as though he were rotting. But he still had a pulse—weak and rapid but still beating.

  He tried to pull Tim by the arms as he backed through the hole in the thicket. The soldiers yelled and fired a burst that blew twigs all over them. He wouldn't be able to crawl any quieter than he had. Another burst came closer. He was going to have to run for it.

  Bubba squatted down and put Behane over his shoulder. He picked up the .45-70 and took a deep breath. He stood and aimed at the searchlight that was moving toward his position. It exploded when the slug hit it. Bubba bulled through the briars and scrub oaks as fast as he could. He let his forearms take as much of the damage as he could, but Behane's back and legs were being torn also. The soldiers recovered from their surprise and fired a burst toward them, but it was to the left. Bubba broke clear of the thicket. Another burst went too far to the right. He pulled the Hi-Power out of its holster and fired eight shots as fast as he could, then ran down the trail with Behane bouncing over his shoulder.

  He had gone about forty yards when his foot hit a palmetto root, and he pitched forward. Behane went flying onto the ground. Bubba knelt there, trying to catch his breath. He could hear the soldiers’ voices, but there was no more firing. A second weapon might have confused them.

  The stock on the .45-70 was broken, so Bubba propped it against a tree where they might find it come daylight. He picked Behane up in his arms. He had practically no flesh on his bones. He gurgled and gasped with every breath. Bubba started walking back toward the trailer and the Bronco. He had to walk slowly and carefully. The flashlight had been left behind somewhere. He couldn't afford to fall again. He'd crush Behane. After a few minutes, he locked his right hand over his left wrist. Behane was beginning to gain weight. Bubba's biceps were close to spasms when he reached the clearing. There were two Humvees parked to the left of the Bronco. Six men stood in a semicircle at the edge of the headlights’ glare. A flashlight hit Bubba's face.

  "Keep on coming in. Nice and easy."

  "That ain't the old coot,” another voice said.

  Bubba walked to the picnic table.

  "Hold up there!"

  Bubba laid Behane down and unfastened his grip. Behane was barely breathing. Bubba reached for the folded blanket on the bench.

  "Put your hands up!"

  He spread the blanket over his friend. A rifle barrel jabbed him in the back.

  Bubba spun around. “Back off, soldier boy."

  There were two soldiers standing there. The other four men were spread out. Two of them were in civilian work clothes. The shortest one stepped forward and said, “That old coot's under arrest. He's going back with us."

  "The hell he is. He's going to the hospital,” Bubba said.

  "He shot my dogs."

  "He's probably a terrorist. He attacked a DOD compound."

  "He's going back with us. We have the guns."

  The voices were blending in the dark around Bubba. He knew that he had no chance if gunfire started. All he wanted to do was get Behane to a hospital before he died. The gurgling seemed even more shallow than during the carry-in.

  A voice that sounded weary said, “Come on, big guy. Step aside. He's going with us. We've got the guns."

  "Not all the guns.” Charles Baird, on the back of a tall dark horse, moved into the edge of the light. A double-barreled shotgun rested across the saddle horn. “Hi, Bubba. You okay?"

  "I'm fine. Behane needs a hospital bad."

  "We'll get him there. He may be a damn horse-eating Yankee, but he's my neighbor now."

  "One more opinion doesn't make a difference. He's going with us.” The civilian whose dogs had been shot stepped forward with a scoped rifle in his hands.

  "How about six more then? Hank.” Baird eased the horse a step to the left with his knees. Another rider on the far right of the oaks moved into the light. “That's Hank. He's like me, old and losing his eyesight. We like these twelve-gauge double barrels with double-ought buck, so we can do our shooting up close. We can see what we kill that way. But the other fellows are young and technological minded. So they're out there in the dark with them fancy B&L scoped rifles. Are y'all wearing Kevlar?"

  "We sure are."

  "Between your eyes?"

  There was no answer to that. Everyone stood where they were. Bubba was racking his brain for an answer when the first strobe of blue, blue, blue moved down the dirt road toward them. The Polk County Sheriff's Department car stopped behind the Humvees. The door opened and Marx, in full dress uniform, including DI hat, stepped out. His tailored uniform, with its twelve-inch drop f
rom chest to waist, was crisp with starch. The soldiers unconsciously straightened up.

  "What's going on here? Deer season doesn't open for another three days,” Marx said, his voice penetrating the darkness.

  "I've got a sick man here, Corporal Marx. Needs an ambulance,” Bubba said.

  Marx nodded and spoke into his shoulder mike, then he said, “EMT's on the way."

  "Officer, we are arresting this old coot for shooting my dogs."

  Marx turned sharply toward the civilian. “And who are you, sir?"

  "I'm Dennis Jonson with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service."

  "Nice to meet you, sir. But I don't think a game violation takes precedence over my invoking the Baker Act so Mr. Behane can be observed for seventy-two hours to see if he is a danger to himself."

  "He's going back to the base with us. The FBI will handle him,” one of the soldiers said.

  "I think we have a posse comitatus here, Corporal Marx,” Charles Baird said.

  "I believe you are correct. Soldiers are not allowed to arrest civilians outside of military areas. I believe this is Mr. Behane's property.” Marx walked toward the picnic table.

  "Wait a minute, Corporal. We have more people coming here from the compound. The colonel, he can straighten this out."

  "Actually, no. There is a safety-and-sobriety checkpoint setup just east of Mr. Behane's road. I doubt if any vehicles will be moving this way anytime soon.” Marx reached down and checked Behane's neck pulse.

  "Gentlemen, this man is in bad shape. There is an ambulance headed this way. And the sheriff himself, with at least one photographer, maybe a film crew, if he can find one this early in the morning. Your colonel will eventually arrive and will be very upset with all the commotion.” There was a murmur of agreement. Baird's horse started returning the morning drink of water to the acquifer. Someone laughed.

  "I see that we have two choices: One, you selfless soldiers and civilian employees of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service have aided the Polk County Sheriff's Department and concerned neighbors with the rescue at night of a lost and disoriented elderly man. Your colonel gets his picture taken with the sheriff, and we all eat a fine breakfast. How does that sound?"

  There was no answer. Marx shook his head.

  "Quickly, gentlemen. I hear a motor coming. Two, I arrest all of you for criminal trespass and dangerous display of deadly weapons. Maybe it won't stick, but I know the county judges and you don't. Either way, your colonel will have his picture on the front of the papers. Do you want him smiling or frowning?"

  "Smiling,” a weary voice said. The soldiers headed for their Humvees and stacked the rifles inside. Baird got off his stallion. Hank rode in and dismounted. He was the same cowboy that had fetched the mare.

  "Call the rest of your boys in,” Bubba said.

  "There's only Hank and me. All the rest of them are too young. They can't get up before sunrise. Hank was drinking coffee with me when you called. Wasn't this something?"

  Two more Polk County marked cars arrived, along with an unmarked dark blue Lincoln. The EMT truck followed them. The attendants were at Behane in a moment. They had him on the gurney and loaded before the film crew from Channel 7 News could even get unpacked from their van. They were gone by the time Marx, standing at attention with his DI hat under his arm, had finished reporting to the sheriff.

  "I don't need my picture on TV, do you?” Baird asked Bubba.

  "I'm blocked in."

  "One more reason to ride horses. Call me again when you want to have fun.” He nodded toward Hank. They mounted and eased on out into the early morning mist. No one seemed to notice them vanish; everyone was too focused on the white light of the TV camera.

  Bubba went for a walk while everyone milled around. He found the .45-70 but not the flashlight. Some raccoon would be doing hand puppets for the children tonight. By the time he returned, the Humvees were gone and he could leave. The colonel and the sheriff were being interviewed together by the talking head.

  * * * *

  He'd been asleep for about two hours when the phone rang. He ignored it and rolled over. It rang again. He answered it.

  "This is Robert Turner at Environmental Technologies. Cousin Charles said to call you with the results of my analysis. He said you sleep late and to keep ringing."

  "Yeah, thanks. What was it?"

  "Dichloro-diphenyl-trichloroethane."

  "Food additive, right? Keeps corn flakes crispy in milk."

  "Oh, that's a good one. I'll have to tell the techs. No, it is plain old DDT. World's premier insecticide. Only thing is, it has been banned for use in the United States since 1972. You might want to call the EPA and let them know where you found it."

  "Yeah, I'll do just that. Thanks a lot."

  "My pleasure. Food additive!"

  Bubba fell back asleep easily but awoke about two. He showered, once again with Elvis's flea shampoo, and started a pot of coffee. He called the Bartow County Hospital where Behane had been taken. The nurses’ station said he was in serious condition but stable. Bubba fed Elvis, ate lunch, and tried to call Colonel Hughes. He was unavailable. He called Mickey Behane's house and told the wife that Tim was in the hospital. He'd probably be there for a few days at least. She said that Mickey would be there the day after tomorrow and to give Timmy her best. And that he had good insurance with his state retirement. The card ought to be in his wallet.

  Bubba arrived at Bartow County just before three. Behane was in a private room. Bubba sat and watched him for a time. He was asleep with a tube in his nose. He looked awful but smelled much better. The RN at the desk told Bubba that they were running tests to find out what was wrong. They hadn't seen anything like this before: fever, dehydrated, infected insect bites, disoriented, delusional. But he was on an IV for fluids and glucose, which were helping him.

  Bubba called Colonel Hughes again. He was still unavailable. He told the orderly that the colonel had until six o'clock to come visit Mr. Behane in the hospital, or else. Bubba found a comfortable chair in the doctors’ lounge and carried it to Tim's room. He sat and watched silent TV, listening to the shallow breathing.

  Colonel Hughes, a tall redhead with a crewcut, arrived at a quarter to six, with a civilian in tow who carried a briefcase and had a pale complexion.

  "What was so important, Mr. Simms?” Colonel Hughes said after taking a quick look at Behane. He stood erect with his hands behind his back. The civilian found an uncomfortable chair to sit in.

  "Behane's life. No one seems to know what is wrong with him."

  "What am I, the answer man?"

  "Maybe. Do you know what dichloro-diphenyl-trichloroethane is?"

  "Certainly."

  "Well, I thought it was a food additive until I found out it was plain old DDT."

  "Hooray for you."

  "Then I asked myself why the DOD was spraying something that had been banned in the U.S. since 1972."

  "Not banned in research facilities. We were perfectly within our rights. As our property attorney, Mr. Bangston here, can assure you. He also has a suit we are going to be serving on Mr. Behane for the destruction of government property. Those were valuable, highly trained dogs. We are looking into criminal charges."

  "Behane probably has a good excuse. He's sick. With something that no one seems to be able to identify. But I can't help but wonder what he will say, or his heirs will say if he doesn't recover, about the contamination of his property by the DOD."

  "We never went on his property."

  "Have you ever actually left your office and gone with your spray crews? They sprayed everything in sight. Including Mr. Behane."

  "That was unfortunate. An accident, I'm sure."

  "Eight miles of fence. Eight miles of DDT with instructions to spray thoroughly. You've met Mr. Baird, at least on the phone. He's one of the nicest men around, but he keeps a pack of lawyers who do nothing but annoy regulatory agencies in the cattle and citrus business. I can only imagine the glee they would ha
ve in going after the DOD for groundwater contamination or such. Of course, farther down the fence is Elroy Gibbens. He hates government like an anarchist. Wait until he finds out about the DDT."

  "Enough. What do you want?"

  "What's wrong with Behane?"

  "I'm not a medical doctor, though I do have a PhD in microbiology. I have a feeling that if Mr. Behane were to start a course of intravenous penicillin or ceftriaxone, providing his insurance covers the cost, he'd be feeling better in a matter of days."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "Might be Lyme disease, from deer ticks."

  "Florida doesn't have Lyme disease. Those ticks don't live down here. Everyone knows that."

  "Perhaps Mr. Behane contracted it playing paintball with his friends back in Massachusetts. Mr. Behane's brother seems to think that Timothy would be better off back home with family. The government has made a generous offer for the forty acres. As a gesture of goodwill."

  "It's Tim's land."

  "Of course, but with the Baker Act and all, things get complicated."

  "Tim may not want to sell his land."

  "Of course not. But then a quiet, happy neighbor is always welcome next door to any DOD facility. There might well be some such remuneration for all his unhappiness, even his family's worry. And I am sure that a good friend, a true friend such as yourself, would be most interested in his full recovery to happy and active life, wouldn't you? The alternative being courts, doctors, hospitals, confinements."

  "Okay, Behane's a quiet neighbor, but what about the research facility?"

  "We have finished our work. Seems that there are no ill-effects from sonic booms on deer gestation periods. Everyone will be gone in a few more days. If poor Mr. Behane had not moved in, we would've been up and gone. No one would have even known we were there. But things happen, now we're off to new research, where it is needed."

  "So the Lyme ticks can live in Florida?"

  "Oh no. Much too humid. But it is always possible that a native species could adapt to carry the bacteria. But it seems very unlikely to us."

  "I hope so too."

  "Bathing in a good medicated pet shampoo is an excellent way to prevent any tick problems. Feel free to call me again, if Mr. Behane does not respond. I am sure that there are specialists, who might be visiting in this area, who would be happy to consult.