A Touch to Die For

by Brian D. Meeks

  "Anything else you need me to do?"

  "Nah, we're pretty well set."

  Mitch grabbed the tripod and said to S., "Want to try to get some good shots before we are killed by that looming wall of death?"

  "I love a pre-death photo shoot!"

  S. took a bunch of shots of the camp while Mitch grabbed some long exposures of the cloud bank. The mountains and valley were bathed in a gray twilight until a break in the clouds to the west let the sun cut through and dapple the land with a warm orange hue.

  Mitch and S. each took a few more shots. They let the cameras fall silent as he put his arm around her waist and gave a squeeze. "Mother nature sure knows how to pose for a shot."

  "Yes, she does," S. said. There was a loud crack, and the wind came up. She added quickly, "But it looks like the diva is done."

  Mitch grabbed the gear as they ran back to the tent. The clouds were upon them in minutes. Wind buffeted the tent, and lightning flashes lit up the walls. The thunder crashed down upon them, but Mitch only noticed that S. was calmly scrolling through a song list on her phone.

  "Found it," she said as she hit play.

  Mitch laughed, "Nice one. Garth Brooks, The Thunder Rolls."

  They both laid on their bedrolls and listened. Mitch pulled out his phone and said, "I've got the next song."

  "What is it?"

  "You'll have to wait."

  As Garth Brooks faded he hit play. It was hard to hear at first, but the snapping of fingers grew louder and finally thunder. S. said, "'Africa,' originally by Toto, but this is the Perpetuum Jazzile version." She rolled onto her side and gave Mitch a kiss. "Who knew that listening to a Slovenian vocal group in an Alaskan thunder storm could be so romantic?"

  #

  The eleven hundred mile drive to his Wyoming retreat had been enjoyable and relaxing. Paul couldn't imagine driving back to San Francisco. His days were far from relaxing. The routine involved shooting practice, lunch, more shooting, some XBox, and a fair amount of pacing.

  He hadn't been sleeping. The emails from the office were pissing him off. An early morning bird of some sort had sung a song that Paul was sure was titled, "Go Buy a Shotgun."

  When he paced, he thought about killing the birds, the people important to Mitch, and especially Mitch. Everything annoyed him. He couldn't focus. There hadn't been a time since the day he first booted up a computer that Paul hadn't been able to lose himself in the code. That was, until now.

  He had built a spider that scoured the Internet for anything relating to the five people on his list. The mountains of data didn't fill him with the joy he expected; instead, it was drudgery to turn it into something meaningful. He had done so, but the work had left him in a worse mood than before.

  Late afternoon came, and he headed to his makeshift shooting range with a full box of rounds. Paul put the ear protection on but didn't fire. He wasn't in the mood. He started walking. During the few days he had been on his new property, he had barely seen any of it.

  For an hour he walked along. The path wound through the woods, uphill for a ways, then down into the meadow the realtor had mentioned. A bright blue tent sat in the middle of the field.

  Paul slid the gun into the waist of his jeans behind his back. As he walked towards the tent, the unmistakable smell of weed caught his nostrils. Two twenty-something guys climbed out of the tent.

  "Excuse me, may I help you?"

  "Dude, we're just getting back to nature."

  "You're on my property. I'd appreciate it if you 'got back to nature' elsewhere."

  "Your property...that is just capitalistic bullshit. You can't own mother nature."

  His friend said, "You're just a fascist, money grubbing pig who suppresses the little guy. Why don't you go fuck yourself...dude."

  Paul smiled. It was the first time he had been happy in days. "First of all, I was listening to the Grateful Dead before you punks were born."

  "Whoa, an old hippie sellout. Big man."

  "Second of all, I've recently discovered that my negative opinion about the Second Amendment was terribly misguided."

  The two dudes passed their joint. One said, "Which one is the Second Amendment?"

  Paul drew his gun and said, "The right to bear arms, dudes."

  "Hey, you are so harshing our buzz. Relax, we'll get off your stupid property."

  "Yeah, I don't think you will."

  They were too stoned to catch his meaning, and it made Paul even more enraged. "You see, what you didn't count on is that I've developed a taste for killing." He shot the one on the right square in the forehead.

  "Fuck, dude, I'm sorry, I'll..."

  Paul said, "Let me see your phone."

  The kid, shaking violently, handed the phone over. Paul said, "Thanks. We're going to make a little public service announcement."

  "A what?"

  "Move over there and sit down. I think the light will be better. Now, I want you to say that you don't respect other people's property. Then, if you will, go ahead and say all that other bullshit you were so proud to spout about capitalism. Oh, and don't worry, I'll make sure that you are in focus so that everyone can see how you are clad head to toe in designer outdoor wear."

  "I don't remember what I said."

  "It'll come to you, I suspect." Paul hit record and held the camera up so that all one could see was the ground and the frightened hippie. He started to talk. When he had run out of stuff to say, Paul paused the camera and said, "Now, I want you to say that you are sorry to all the people of Montana for your disrespect."

  "We're in Wyoming."

  "Just say Montana and our little shoot will be almost over."

  The hippie looked at his dead friend then issued a sincere apology. Paul raised the gun, but not so that it showed on camera, and shot him in the chest. It didn't take long for death. Paul said, "Cut."

  The sudden rush of the kill was replaced with apprehension. Paul looked around, but they were alone. He took down the tent. They had a shovel, so he buried their gear. The length of the grass hid the bodies well enough that he felt it was safe to make the hike home to get the backhoe.

  While he walked, Paul considered what he should do with the video. The phone let him log onto River Jones' Youtube account, so he could post it from beyond the grave. That idea appealed to Paul. He didn't want to be hasty, though. Were there people who knew where they had planned to camp?

  On the walk back he noticed a stretch of path that was far too narrow for the backhoe. He showered when he got home. It was a good habit to get rid of the gunshot residue. While he scrubbed, he made a mental list of tasks. The bodies needed to be at least six feet down, to prevent their odor from attracting animals. Also, he would need to find an alternate route back to the meadow. He should clean the gun and bury it someplace else. Paul wondered if there were any seeds or anything he might use to help Mother Nature repair the scar he was about to give the field.

  As he toweled off, he said, "Sergeant Pepsi, I gave our test run plan a go." He paused to allow Pepsi to comment then continued, "Yes, I still need to take care of the bodies. It won't take long with the backhoe."

  Another moment of silence followed. He said, "I know, but I'm sure I can find a way back to the meadow using Google Maps."

  Paul had already spent a good deal of time looking at his new property, and he thought he remembered an area along the river that would take him to the meadow without problems. It was a long way around but probably still quicker than walking.

  He made a sandwich and ate it as he went out to look around the building with all the implements that were included. The backhoe looked old. The keys were on a hook by the door. The realization that he would need to walk back with a shovel if he couldn't figure this beast out filled him with a momentary dread. The engine fired on the first try.

  Paul climbed down but left it running. The main doors still needed to be opened. He pulled them apart. He jogged quickly back to the house, grabbed a soldier from the refrigerator,
and asked the Sergeant if he wanted to come along and supervise. He didn't.

  It was dark now, so Paul grabbed his iPhone and one extra flashlight. He returned to the backhoe, which had a cup holder, and set the Pepsi in for the ride. He grabbed a shovel and headed out.

  It was slow going because he wasn't very familiar with the controls or the landscape. He was glad he had brought someone to talk to because it took a while to get back to the meadow. As they rolled along, he retold the story to private Pepsi. Paul was willing to concede that he had been a little hypocritical since he had probably said something similar at one point or another in his youth, but he reasoned it was okay to be a hypocrite if nobody knew. Plus, they were making fun of him, and that was unacceptable.

  He thought about how he would do the video. He could edit it on the phone, add a title page, and finish with something about respecting other people's stuff before the shot of River dying. He knew it would go viral and was a little sad to not be able to get credit, but it was just one of the many sacrifices he would have to make for the greater good.

  Paul reasoned that he would hold onto the video for a week or so. He could watch the news to see if anyone missed River and his friend. He made a mental note to check for their wallets. He hoped they weren't in their backpacks since he had already buried them.

  When he got to the meadow, the moon was bright enough to see the general landscape but not at all bright enough to see the bodies. He drove to the spot where he guessed they were but was disappointed when they weren't there. He tried to remember where he had been standing in relation to the rest of the field but couldn't get a good image.

  The only option was to start walking in an outward spiral until he found them. He didn't want to wait until morning. After forty-five minutes he started to panic. What if someone had come along and found them?

  That idea was ridiculous, though, because there would be cops all over the place. It wasn't like someone would drag the bodies off with him. He was about to go back and start over when his nose caught a whiff of something foul.

  He made for the odor, and a murder of crows flew up and scared the shit out of him. Post-killing stuff sucks, he thought as he trudged across the field back to the backhoe. He couldn't believe he had misjudged where the bodies were by so much.

  He climbed aboard, started the engine, and said, "In the future, always check your surroundings before leaving the bodies. Remember that private; it's a good lesson." He took a long pull from private Pepsi.

  Digging a suitable hole took very little time once he figured out how to work the bucket. Paul checked their pockets and found both wallets. He rolled the bodies into the pit he had dug and did his best to dig up the chunks of land that had blood spatter. He dropped that dirt on them first and used the bucket to push the pile of dirt back into the hole. He was glad he had the shovel; he used it to tidy up as best he could.

  Paul cursed himself because he had planned on checking for seeds but had forgotten. Still, the job was done, and he savored his triumph as he drove back to the house. It really was a beautiful evening. All the stress of the day seemed like it was ancient history.

  He spent the next two hours editing the video of River's apology and playing some XBox. It turned out to be a pretty good day, hypocrisy aside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Paul finished editing the video. He was pleased with the results. He watched it three times and then a question occurred to him, how did they get to the field?

  It was an important question. They must have driven and parked their car before hiking onto his property. Someone would miss them and eventually the car would be found. He pulled up Google maps and traced all the roads that went anywhere near his property. He could only see three roads. Only one of the three seemed plausible. It was a little after 1 am, but he was wide awake.

  The drive took about thirty minutes. He found a Honda Accord sitting in a spot off the side of the road. It was an old version; he guessed something from the nineties. Paul sat in his BMW for a while considering his next move. He was sure he could hot wire it after doing a quick Google search on the subject. His first idea was to drive it back to the ranch and bury it. It would take a while, but he was sure he could dig a big enough hole.

  His gut said it was a bad idea. A car drove past. It made him jump. He waited for the car to turn around, but it didn't. It was time to move.

  Paul turned off the BMW and went to the Honda. He got in the driver's seat and was about to reach under the dash to find the ignition wires when he noticed the keys were still in it. "Fucking kids."

  He turned the engine over and pulled away. The car stunk of old cigarettes. Paul cracked the window and headed north. He hadn't figured out his entire plan, but it seemed like a good idea to leave the car in Montana since that was where they said they were in the video. If he chose a city like Billings, he could put it in a parking garage. It might not get found for months.

  The voice in his head, which sounded strangely similar to Sergeant Pepsi, said parking garages probably had cameras and that it was a bad idea. It also said he was thirsty.

  At 3:20 am he drove through a town whose gas station wasn't open. If he ran out of gas, he would have to walk. That would be a problem because he could be miles from a town. What if a state trooper stopped to help?

  Paul started to sweat. He tried to think of excuses. The first was a fight with a girlfriend. Obviously, "I've had car problems" wouldn't work. He said, "I'm a billionaire and was kidnapped but escaped."

  The voice in his head said, Are you kidding?

  He was so distracted that he almost drove right past a 24-hour convenience store.

  Paul grabbed a twenty ounce Pepsi, handed the clerk three twenties, and said, "Can I have the rest on pump two, please?"

  "Sure, that will be fifty-eight twenty on pump two," said the attendant. He barely looked up from his magazine.

  "Thanks."

  It had been a long day, and Paul was exhausted. When the sun started to come up, Billings was just twenty miles ahead. He decided to drive through town, find the bus stop, and park the car north of town. He didn't want to check into a motel as they would ask for a credit card. If he could find a bus that would get him back to Cheyenne, he could hire a car to get him to the ranch.

  When he got through town he realized the problem. The surrounding area wasn't at all like what he had imagined. It was dry and rugged. In Paul's head he thought it would appear that the two men had parked and gone hiking. Leaving the car in Billings wouldn't work.

  He kept driving, hoping for the landscape to change to the picture in his mind. His inner voice begged him to pull over and take a nap, but, every time he was about to give in, he heard the sound of a flashlight knocking on the window. He couldn't imagine a scenario where he wasn't caught if he stopped.

  He felt trapped. The car had become his nemesis, and he loathed it. He thought about the two dead assholes and replayed the whole thing in his head, from the first moment he saw their tent to the point where he smelled the marijuana. The thought hit him, What if there were drugs in the car?

  His heart started racing. He said, "Fuck, Pepsi, we've got problems. Those two little dirt bags probably have drugs hidden in here. If we get stopped, we're screwed. Damn, I need to get rid of this piece of shit. Fuck."

  He wasn't sure how far he was from Billings, but it was further than he could imagine walking. A trooper up ahead made his heart stop. He looked down and saw he was actually going below the speed limit by two miles per hour. Paul eased his foot down slightly, knowing slow looked as suspicious as fast. He watched his rearview mirror. The car didn't move. Paul exhaled and said, "That was close."

  He kept driving. Interstate 94 rolled along to the northeast and seemed endless. He had used up three quarters of the tank and had no idea when he would find a decent-sized town again. His phone had zero bars.

  It looked like he might just have to abandon the car and hitch hike, but the
n he saw the buildings. He was nearing a reasonable sized town. Miles City seemed like an oasis to Paul. He pulled off I-94. He was relieved to be so close to dumping the car. He turned right on Dike Road and parked the Honda next to some tennis courts.

  Paul had worn gloves the whole time, so he didn't need to worry about prints. He grabbed the Pepsi bottle, left the keys in the ignition, and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Paul was rid of the car and ready to sleep. The obvious move was to hop on a Greyhound. He found the bus station and, despite his sleep-deprived state, had a clever idea. He didn't buy a ticket for Cheyenne but Bozeman, Montana. He had one last piece of the puzzle to place.

  He bought a sandwich and waited. The longer he thought about his idea, the more excited he became. Paul considered the effect the video might have on the general public. He wondered if it might move anyone to be a little kinder, less rude. His addled mind began to see a grander vision, one far greater than himself.

  The bus arrived.

  #

  The second day in the wild had been free of storms and full of amusement. They got to meet a man who made his living panning for gold. Mitch and S. both gave it a try for a couple of hours. She had modest success, and he found more than he let on. Neither found so much as to be bit by gold fever.

  The real treasures had been the photographs. As dinner was being cooked, Mitch said he was going to go up to the top of the hill and get a few more shots.

  S. watched him hike up the hill as Amber-Lee sat down next to her and asked, "Where is he going?"

  "He says he's going to go take a few more shots from on top of the hill. See him?" she said, pointing. "He seems to be making his way over to where the horses are. I'd suspect Mitch is packing Twix bars."

  "He is?"

  "Yes, he started bribing Frankie yesterday. He admitted it to me last night. I think he was feeling guilty about not sharing with the other horses."

  Amber-Lee laughed, "Well, he is certainly going to be popular. Mitch may find that he has more friends than he can handle."