No Man's Land

by G. M. Ford

  Corso was grim. “We’ve got to be sure.”

  “They’d have to have a backhoe,” Kenny said as they rocketed across a gravel turnout and bounced out onto the highway.

  “Road Department bulldozed up a quarter mile of pavement and just left the pile in the way. It ain’t all that easy to get my ATV in there.” He shifted into third and floored it. “Besides . . . they’re all grown over. You got to be careful you don’t break your damn neck. No way you’re getting any kind of big rig into either of them.”

  They’d decided to start at the bottom on the west side and work their way to the top. First two they’d tried had been open. Kenny thought they were still open from last winter, but they had little choice but to have a look anyway. First one ran maybe a quarter mile into the bush before the entire roadbed disappeared down a steep embankment. From where they sat, they could see more of the road about a hundred feet in front of the truck, but short of wings there was no way to get over there. The second stretch of old 180 they’d tried had been in a lot better condition. They’d covered the better part of four miles before they found the road blocked by a landslide. Tire tracks in the dirt showed where people had squeezed motorcycles and ATVs around the edge of the slide, but, once again, nothing the size of an RV was progressing beyond that point. It had taken them twenty minutes in reverse to back their way down to the highway.

  “What’s next?” Corso asked as they roared upward.

  “Burnt Meadow,” Kenny answered. “That one’ll be open for sure.”

  48

  Bob Temple opened his eyes. Blinked. His nose was completely stopped up. His mouth felt as if was full of soup. He hawked once and spit. The metallic taste on his tongue told him it was blood. The tooth sticking through his upper lip told him it was his. Reason he could see the tooth in his lip was that the lip was swollen up the size and color of an eggplant. He tried to look from side to side but couldn’t move his head.

  “Paralyzed?” he wondered. “Am I paralyzed?”

  He reached . . . or tried to. His hands wouldn’t move. He moved his eyes down to his hands. They were on the steering wheel. He rolled his eyes around in his head. He was in his truck. His hands . . . his hands . . . his hands were gray and shiny. He was like the lizard man or something. And then it came to him. Duct tape. His hands were duct-taped to the steering wheel. As a matter of fact, nearly every part of him was duct-taped to something, His ankles were duct-taped to each other, then to something under the seat. Same thing with his head. Taped to something behind the seat. And his torso. And his waist. No matter where he sought room to wiggle, he found himself taped in place. He spit again and tried to remember. The RV. He remembered G.M. Ford the woman and the look of terror on her face. The fear in her eyes. Recalled the sound of a twig breaking and how he’d turned his head just in time to take a blow to the face. After that it was fuzzy. He tried to lean forward. Gave it everything he had with the biggest muscles in his body. His bonds gave a metallic twang, relented slightly, then pulled him right back into place. The noise told him somebody had slit the seats and attached him to the springs inside the padding. His head throbbed. Felt like somebody was pounding nails in his forehead. He sobbed twice but forced himself to stop.

  He tried to yell. To call for help, but his ruined mouth could form no syllables, only long, drawn-out O sounds like a wolf or a howling dog.

  Bob Temple howled for all he was worth.

  Ray Lofton leaned on the compactor handle. The old truck moaned and groaned with the effort. He stopped, peeked inside and still didn’t like what he saw. The Lodge at White Lake had severely underestimated the amount of trash they needed hauled. By the time he got all of the crap in the truck he’d be lucky to have room for the rest of the stops on the way back home. If he’d had any idea they had this much trash he’d have brought one of the newer trucks, something he didn’t have to baby up the hill. Hell, he’d have been done by now. Sitting on the couch in front of a football game, working on about his third beer. As it was, he might have to unload, then come back for the bottom half of the run. He leaned on the handle until the truck began to shake. Coupla wedding parties, they said. What a bunch of shit. How could a pair of nuptials generate this much trash? It was unbelievable. And the bottles. He hadn’t even started on the bottle bins. Must be hundreds . . . maybe thousands of bottles of every color and shape imaginable. Beer bottle, booze bottles, enough Cristal to float a canoe. Must have been a hell of party. Some kind of celebrities or something. Maybe a movie star . . . or a rock star. Hell, they get married the way other people change their socks. He wheeled the empty Dumpster over to the army of bottle bins and began, one by one, to empty the smaller containers into the Dumpster. Must have been twenty of them, filled to the brim and heavy as hell. His back ached by the time he finished. He changed the setting on the hydraulics and lifted the Dumpster from the ground. The glass bin was forward, over the passenger compartment. He feathered the handle carefully, just in case there wasn’t enough room left in the bin. Didn’t matter though. Despite his best efforts, the glass came out in a rush, crashing down into the bin with a clamorous crash. He held his breath. The way things had been going today, he figured it would spill over and he’d have to spend the next hour picking up broken bottles.

  He got lucky. It all fit. Two more stops and he was home free. He could taste that first cool one already.

  49

  “Up or down? Whatta you think?” Kenny asked.

  “What’s down?”

  “Blue Creek Road takes you all the way down to the bottom of the canyon. It’s where the Forest Service does water samples. They got a shack down there. It’s where they test the water table for ground pollution, so they keep the road open.”

  “And up?”

  “Up is the Angel’s Mountain Lookout. You know . . . keeping an eye out for fires in the summertime. Up they also maintain in the summertime.”

  “Let’s try up,” Corso said.

  Kenny threw the truck into gear and nosed out onto the highway. “Gotta be careful here,” he said, “from the top the curve is blind.” He inched another yard forward, then gave it the gas. On the far side of the road, three giant piles of gravel filled the turnout. “What’s with the piles,” Corso asked as they darted across the highway.

  “Road Department,” Kenny explained. “Right here’s about halfway up, so they leave it here, spread it on the roads when they need it.”

  They bounced across the pavement and looped around the back of the gravel piles. A pair of concrete posts marked the opening. “Wide open . . . ,” Kenny said, “. . . which it usually ain’t. Looks like we ain’t the first one’s been up here lately neither.”

  Corso felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They rolled across an open meadow and entered the forest. Unlike the previous forest tracks they’d been down, this one had obviously seen a brush cutter from time to time. They circled the mountain in silence for ten minutes, until Kenny broke the spell.

  “Coupla corners now,” he said.

  The air seemed lighter and less oppressive. Kenny rolled down his side window. Corso followed suit. The air was damp and smelled of loam. The bank was covered with thick green moss. Small yellow flowers poked their heads from between the rocks. On Kenny’s side, the mountain sloped away to oblivion. The trees were thinner here and you could see that the mountainside was mostly shards of rock and any illusion of greenery was to be credited to hardy lichens and mosses that had managed to find purchase in the irregular nooks and crannies of the rocks. The truck skidded to a stop. Kenny pushed in the clutch and stuck the top half of himself out the side window. The rig began to roll backward, around the last corner, to a long straightaway, where Kenny could wedge the rear tire up against the bank. Kenny turned off the engine.

  “What?” Corso asked.

  “It’s up there,” Kenny whispered. “I seen the front of it. Big old brown-and-white thing.”

  Corso nodde
d, grabbed the door handle and clamored down to the ground. Kenny’s cowboy boots clicked on the pavement as they moved uphill. Corso worked on his breathing, keeping it steady and even as he contemplated the fact that his planning had run out. That he didn’t have any idea what he was going to do if and when they found the RV. He reached out and grabbed Kenny by the shirt.

  “You got a gun anywhere in that truck?”

  Kenny looked at him like he was crazy. “It’s outta season, man,” he said.

  “Let’s be real careful here,” Corso whispered. “This is a real dangerous dude. He sees us, we’re dead.”

  Corso took the lead now, covering the last fifty yards in a series of carefully placed footsteps. At the corner, he leaned his back against the bank and peeked around the blind bend in the road. Kenny was right. The RV stood in the middle of the clear-cut. The fire station rose above the barren ground like a giant waterbird. A dark green pickup truck was parked in the middle of the road about twenty yards short of the RV.

  Kenny’s hand pulled his back around the corner. “That’s Bob Temple’s truck,” he whispered. “He’s our local Ranger Rick. Looks like he’s just sitting there waiting for something.”

  Corso peeked again. Kenny was right. Somebody was in the driver’s seat.

  “We better call the cavalry,” Corso said, pulling out Marty’s cell phone. He flipped it open. The words “No Service” blinked in front of his eyes. He tried dialing Rosen’s number anyway . . . nothing.

  He handed Rosen’s business card and Marty’s cell phone to Kenny. “Take the truck,” he said. “Get down somewhere to where you can get some phone service. Call that number. Tell him we found it. You can’t get him, call nine-one-one.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hurry now.”

  “Gonna take forever to back down.”

  “Go.”

  And then the noise began. Like the bellowing of a moose or maybe a cow or something. The breeze seemed to swirl the sound around them, like it was coming from all directions at once.

  “Hurry up,” Corso said.

  Kenny started for the truck, when the noise came again. The sound spoke of fear and agony. Kenny stopped. Corso pointed at him. “Go,” Corso mouthed. Kenny went.

  50

  First thing he heard was a hoarse voice. Then the sound of the door banging against the side of the RV. The sounds sent Corso skittering downhill in search of cover among the rocks. He moved on all fours, fighting for traction on the steep incline, working at moving laterally, not down, so as to maintain his view of the road and the vehicles.

  He’d just settled into a mossy crevice between a pair of angular boulders when Marty Wells came into view. He was naked except for his shoes, limping along with a TV camera strapped to his chest. Some kind of head wound had painted a trail of blood down the right side of his face. The sight of Marty Wells naked in the forest was testimony to how far mankind had come since their days as hunter-gatherers. The exact evolutionary direction, Corso decided, was purely a matter of interpretation. Driver and Melanie came out from behind the RV together. She was naked. Not even shoes. Driver had the carbine strapped across his shoulders, military style. His right hand was entwined in Melanie’s hair, dragging her along as she squealed like a stubborn puppy. She tried to dig in her heels, but Driver was far too strong.

  Thirty yards in front of the pickup truck, he threw her against the bank. She slipped and landed on her behind in the dirt. Driver pointed at her. “You stay right there,” he said. “You move I’ll take it out on him,” he said, inclining his head toward Marty. “I get through with him, I’ll find you and kill you. You understand?”

  Driver didn’t wait for an answer. He used the flat of his hand to prod Marty down the road another thirty feet. “You ready?”

  “I need to refocus,” Marty said in the voice of a child. Corso watched as Driver pulled the radio microphone from his pants pocket and used his thumb to switch it on. He waited an impatient thirty seconds.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Marty fiddled with a couple dials, then looked up. “I don’t have a specific frequency,” he said.

  “Pick a midrange band. Something a lot of stations are going to pick up.”

  Marty made a couple of adjustments. “Try the mike,” he said.

  “Testing, testing,” Driver said.

  Marty nodded that he was ready to go.

  Driver walked to the front fender of the truck and lifted the microphone to his lips. “This is Captain Timothy Driver, U.S. Navy.” A smile crossed his lips. “Retired,” he added. “As ABC affiliate KYOK in Los Angeles had seen fit to ignore my ultimatum regarding airtime on its affiliates, they have left me no choice but to follow through with my threat.” Driver reached over and plucked something from the hood. It was a wallet. Driver flipped it open and began to read. “This is Robert Hayes Temple of . . .”

  Driver read his address and zip code. “Mr. Temple had the great misfortune to interfere in the natural workings of things. This failure to be in rhythm with the order—” He looked up at the camera. “As is always the case, nature is unforgiving of even the slightest mistake.”

  Driver switched the mike off and walked to the back of the trunk. Marty kept shooting as Driver lowered the tailgate, groped around for something, then started back his way. He held the microphone in one hand and a gas can in the other.

  “Oh God,” Melanie sobbed. “Don’t you dare. You son of a bitch . . .” She was running at him, consumed by fury, coming fulltilt boogie down the hill, her fingernails thrust before her like talons. Driver set the gas can on the hood, stuck the mike back in his pocket and stiff-armed her in the solar plexus. She went down in a heap, gasping for air in a series of hiccuping sounds, rocking back and forth on the ground like a stroke victim as she fought for breath. Driver retrieved the gas can. He walked to the driver’s side and pulled open the door. Marty began to sob and shake. Bob Temple saw it coming. Without a word Driver began to pour gasoline over Temple and the interior of the truck. Satisfied with his work, he lobbed the can into the passenger seat. A low wailing scream came rolling out of Temple’s mouth as Driver reached into his pocket and pulled out a signal flare. Driver brought the radio mike to his face. “You have thirty minutes to arrange my network airtime or else Melanie Harris and . . .” He looked at Marty.

  “Martin Wells,” Marty said.

  Marty’s words were barely audible above the terrified wailing coming from the cab of the truck.

  “Should you decide to ignore me again, Martin Wells and Melanie Harris will be the next to suffer for your foolishness.” He pointed at Marty. “Show our audience the attractive Ms. Harris.”

  Marty was nearly in tears as he lowered the nose of the camera for fifteen seconds.

  Inside the cab of the truck, Temple was throwing himself from side to side. Driver walked over next to him and smiled. Without a word, he snapped the flare in half, watched as the red flame came pouring from the broken ends, then tossed the flare into the truck and kicked the door shut.

  The interior of the truck went up in a whoosh of orange flame, blowing out both side windows and violently rocking the vehicle on its springs. By then Marty was crying. Driver grabbed Melanie by the hair and dragged her all the way up to where he stood.

  Inside the cab, the flames had melted some of the tape; Temple had one hand free and was waving it like a flag on the Fourth of July.

  Corso had to stop himself. It took all of his willpower to stay hidden in the rocks as Temple’s death throes bounced around the hillside. And then . . . the truck began to move. Temple’s thrashing must have moved something. The emergency brake or the shift lever maybe. Either way, the truck began to roll backward, gaining speed until it slammed into the bank and caromed right, slipping over the edge one tire at a time.

  At first the truck rolled down the nearly vertical incline on its wheels. The first boulder sent the truck pinwheeling, ass over teakettle, back over front, down the hill. On the secon
d bounce, the flames in the cab found the truck’s gas tank and the whole thing went off like an artillery shell, scattering flaming pieces of truck all over the hillside.

  The smoking carcass came to rest about sixty yards downhill, back on its wheels again, facing west. Parts of Bob Temple were still and silent in the driver’s seat. The air smelled of burnt plastic.

  51

  “How did you get this number?” Rosen asked.

  He listened, obviously getting more annoyed by the syllable.

  “From whom?” he demanded. “Corso? Frank Corso?” He shook his head in disgust. “I see. You don’t know his first name.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And your name was?” He listened again.

  “Kenneth Grabowski. A message from Mr. Corso you say . . . well . . . Angels Mountain . . . no, no, no. If you don’t mind, I’ve had all the foolishness I can stand for one day. We have far more pressing matters, Mr. Grabowski; lives are at stake here. I hope you don’t mind.” He broke the connection.

  Rosen sounded collected. Truth was, he had a stress headache to drop a rhino. The Kelly affair was a disaster. A public relations nightmare. Kelly’s lawyer was going to be all over the Bureau like a cheap suit. Things were ugly. Not ugly enough to get him transferred to Albuquerque, but ugly. Since Ruby Ridge, the Bureau had become extra sensitive about failures of judgment. Getting the wrong RV was at worst laughable. Shooting out the tires was . . . was . . . perhaps not the best idea he ever had. He was going to end up with a letter in his file over this.

  Worse yet, he didn’t have clue one as to where Timothy Driver was at that moment. He shuddered at the thought. Rosen was lost in his own inner world when the Bureau-issue Ford Taurus skidded to a stop about a foot in front of his trousers. Rosen was just about to get in somebody’s face about their driving when Special Agent Santos bolted out of the car. His arms were full of equipment. “You gotta see this, boss,” he said as he dumped his load of gear on the hood of his car with a bang and began pushing buttons. Looked like he had his satellite phone hooked up to his laptop computer. “This showed up on the Internet six or seven minutes ago.”