by Brian Gore
He may have been well liked in Columbus, but right then, he was in no mood for sociable doin’s of most any kind. Deep within lived a beast he hadn’t tamed. It had been caged for many years, but never domesticated. The loss of Ellen, the love of his life, threatened to release that raging creature. It had been her all these years, that had kept it under control… She had been the one with the key… and now she was gone… now, his anchor was gone, and he was lost, adrift.
Ben watched out the rear view mirror as he rolled down the highway. He held it at the legal speed limit, yet probably a few faster than that old heap would endure for long. He wasn’t absolutely sure, but he believed the volume of smoke was already reduced… He hoped it would help… If he could just buy a little more time… If he could just catch a break… get a bit of a breather. All he needed was a bit of time to catch up, to catch his balance.
“God Damn it! You Red Headed son-of-a-bitch!" he screamed at the Devil; "Stand me to my face! Always sneakin’ around behind a man's back screwin’ with things! You yellow hearted son-of-a-bitch!”
On occasion, his anger and frustration spilled over and somebody would overhear his howling at the devil. Combined with his drinking, it wasn’t doing any favors for his reputation. With folks in the region fairly familiar with his history, they were juuuust a mite concerned if he went on a binge in town. As long as he contained his self abuse to the wild country surrounding his cabin, they felt it really wasn’t their place to interfere, and after all, wasn’t he due a little consideration? But in town… well, that was a different matter.
Luckily this latest outburst, complete with pounding on the steering wheel as he rolled down the state highway toward his mountain ranch, went unseen by anyone other than a hitch hiking drifter, who lowered his thumb as the screaming, pounding cowboy rolled by in the ancient, smoking, green Ford pickup.
One of the pints of Old Crow never made it back to the ranch. The empty bottle would be found the next spring in the grass along the road by the volunteers from Chesney Funeral Home. They'd pick it up during their annual civic duty clean up of their mile of highway.
The truck managed to make it back to the ranch, carrying its cargo of groceries, booze and Cowboy without further incident. The eggs and meat were dropped into an icebox, along with the ice. It was already partially filled with a few odds and ends of groceries cooled by a couple inches of water and half melted ice. All except, that is, for one steak which found itself in a cast iron frying pan on the wood stove. HOOO Wee!… genuine, fried, Cowboy cuisine.
Ben sat at the small table, taking pulls from the first of the Johnny Walker bottles, waiting for the meat to sear enough to eat. Most times, he could just about eat it raw… And the way he was pullin’ on that bottle, he wasn’t going to be in a shape to be much concerned with the quality of his supper for very long, anyway.
A.H. lay across the room, at the foot of the bunk, homely head resting on his paws, watching the man. The dog knew something had changed in the man. Something was missing. But he was a dog, what did he know? He hadn’t a clue. But, when the man passed out again, like he did, most every night these days, he’d be there to stand guard over him. He’d make sure nothing got to him in the night. It wasn’t much, but it was what he could do.
Ben poked at the meat sizzling in the pan, took a strong pull on the bottle and asked, glancing at the dog; “So, A.H., whad-a-ya-think? Ya big ugly mutt! How do ya suppose we’re gonna scratch up the cash to keep that God Damn Banker off our asses for another year, huh?”
With another pull on the bottle, the Cowboy just looked at the dog for a long, few seconds. “Well? Ya lousy mutt! I’m talkin’ to ya! Ain’t you even got the manners to answer a simple, damn question?”… and another pull. The dog just laid there, head on his paws… eyes fixed on the man… tail wagging.
“You are right A.H. Why should I expect you to know? Hell you’re just like me. Nothing but a big, God damned Ass Hole!”
“Maybe Linus is right A.H. But… damn it… I miss her… I can’t look anywhere on this ranch… ‘thout seein’ her hand... I… “ and a wracking sob exploded from deep within the man…
A.H. rose from his bed and rested his head on Ben’s thigh, brown eyes pleading for some way to help.
“Well Ol’ bud, you’re still hangin’ on with me, ain’t you?” the man said softly to that homely mutt, his hand resting on his great head. His thumb softly stroking one ear. “I still got you.”
“I guess, tomorrow, we better go find some horses… the way the market is, they ain’t worth much, but maybe if I get lucky and can catch up half of ‘em, I might could squeeze a few thousand out of ‘em. Cull out more of what’s left of the cowherd… hit the sale on the right day… maybe I can save this deal… for another year anyway… maybe…”
He raised the bottle to his mouth one last time, and as the glass touched his lips he stopped. The vision of Ellen floated in front of his eyes. Her eyes sad and pleading…her hand reaching out… Ben clamped his eyes shut, squinting with all his strength… the hand holding the bottle sagging to his side.
“No… No more… not tonight… no… more…” and sitting there, in a battered wooden chair, in a raggedy one room cabin, the broken hearted Cowboy passed out, sitting in his chair, his chin sagging down on to his chest... his supper starting to smoke on the stove.
Chapter 2
Her eyes scanned up and down the hall, furtively, fearfully. A small boy was held in her left arm, head on her shoulder, as she picked up a medium sized, blue gym bag from the floor, pulled at the straps of the large purse hanging from her other shoulder, and pulled the door closed. The door lock clicked, sounding like a sonic boom to her in the empty hallway. On bare feet, shoes in her hand, she hurried down the hall toward the elevator, cringing when its bell seemed to crash down the hall when the car arrived at her floor.
As the doors slid apart, she rushed to get in, before they had fully opened, and with almost panicked haste, repeatedly punched the button for the lobby.
While the doors were closing, her hand was already reaching for the cell phone in her purse and punching the speed dial number she'd programmed.
“Yellow Cab” the man at the other end answered.
“Please, I need a car, immediately, at the Heartwood Terrace Condos.”
“OK Ma’am… uhhh… it should only be a few minutes… been a pretty slow night.”
“Yes… OK… fine… just ask the driver to hurry… Please!”
“Yes Ma’am, he’s on the way, bye now.” And the line went dead as the door opened into the lobby of the building… at 2 a.m.
As she started to put the phone back in her shoulder bag, she froze for a second with the cell in her hand. The image of her phone charger flashed in her head. The image of her charger, plugged into the wall socket beside her nightstand. "Damn!" she thought. She raised the phone back up and pushed the power button to turn it off. "I have to try and remember to get a new one soon. I'm sure I'll need the phone for something... at least until I get a new one."
The girl, carrying the heavy load of a small boy, an apparently fairly full, blue gym bag, and a large shoulder bag, hurried across the lobby to the front door of the building unseen by the doorman. He'd sat down on one of the couches, to 'rest his eyes for a minute' and had promptly fallen, soundly asleep.
As promised, the wait for the cab was, though still agonizing, less than five minutes. When asked by the Bosnian driver, where she wanted to go so early in the morning, she responded, with her voice very nearly a shriek; “Just Go! Right now, just GO!”
“Yes Ma’am” replied the driver as he faced back forward and rolled his eyes… Thinking to himself; “These Americans… They all must be crazy! Always shrieking and upset!”
In a couple of blocks he again asked; “Lady? I need to know where to take you!”
“To the Greyhound Station… just take me to the Bus Station! And Please, hurry, we’re late… The bus we’re on leaves in fifteen minutes!”
Less than ten minutes later the cabby slid his car up to the curb in front of the sign with the illuminated greyhound. He hurried around to open the door for the crazy blond American woman who’d pleaded for the last five minutes to; “Hurry or I’m going to miss our bus!”
She pushed a small wad of bills into his hand and started to go, but stopped and turned back to him; a pleading look in her eyes.
“When they ask you, where you took me, please… Please! Tell them somewhere else… tell them the airport, the train station… Please! Anywhere but here!” and she pushed another small wad of bills into his hand.
The fear in her eyes shook the cabby. That was saying a lot. The man had survived the massacres back in the ‘old’ country.
“Don’t you worry lady… I’m a good liar… I’ll tell a good story.”
Something about the look in her eyes, and the tears as she hugged that little boy, before she turned and ran inside made him repeat to himself as he watched her run off; “Don’t you worry one little bit… I’ll tell a God Damn good story!”
The bus doors closed just as she ran up to it.
“No!” she screamed at the driver; “Wait!” her small fist pounding on the metal.
The door swung back open and the driver spoke to her; “Sorry lady, I didn’t see you coming. Get on and we’ll go!”
As she climbed the steps into the warmth of the bus cabin, on that cool, late summer morning the driver asked; “That little bag all you have?”
She looked from it and back to the driver; “It's all I have… It’ll do.” And then she proceeded back into the rear of the almost empty bus.
Finding a seat several rows back from the driver, with no other riders adjacent, she slid in and laid the boy in the window seat, while she took the aisle. The blue duffle she placed between them. Sliding the zipper pulls apart and partially spreading the sides, she looked in at the bundles of bills that filled the bag. “It’ll do” she repeated, closing the bag again and kissing her small son on his sleeping forehead. Reclining her seat back, she slowly exhaled, and some of the tension seemed to leave her frame… Her left hand on her son’s hip, her arm through the handle straps of the blue duffle… she slowly relaxed into the seat, with one… tiny… almost imperceptible shudder.
She’d been working this night out, for the past two years. It was her last chance, her son’s only chance. If they didn’t make it this time… if she didn’t escape this time… he’d kill her. Her son would be without his only protection and he’d become one of them. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to get him away. They had to … disappear.
Where she’d failed before, this time she couldn’t. Failure this time would mean her death and a life of misery for her son. Tyrone had promised that, at least the part about her death. Though he did say, even that wouldn’t be quick. The man was an animal, a beast. To call him a man was to insult the worst of men.
The bus, an express, rolled out of Chicago and continued west on through the early morning hours. It crossed the state line into Iowa, arriving in Des Moines at quarter to ten in the morning, after several quick stops at small towns along the way.
“This is where we get off Timmy. Take Momma’s hand and don’t you let go!”
“I won’t Momma… Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s… working… he had to work… Don’t you worry about him…just hang on tight and run with me… OK!”
“OK Momma… I’ll beat you!” the little boy laughed… tugging at the hand, tightly gripping his.
“You do that little guy… You just try!” his Momma laughed back.
Once they were off the bus and away from the terminal, the young, blonde, mother seemed to relax a bit more. Though, if you watched her, her eyes never seemed to really stop their constant movement… their apparent, constant vigilance.
“What if he knew? What if he’d found out, and was just toying with me, letting me think we’d gotten away… so he can just roll up and crush us… one more time? It’s the kind of sick torment he’d enjoy! Oh God! Please… Help us!” The panic of her thoughts nearly became too heavy to carry and she slumped, back to the wall, against a store front, several blocks away from the bus station. Her heart was pounding as though it would explode in her chest.
“What’s wrong Momma?” little Timmy asked, worry in eyes too old for a four year old boy.
“Nothing Timmy… Nothing… I’m… just hungry I guess… are you? Wanna get some pancakes?” She smiled down at the love of her life… tousling his hair.
“Can we? I love pancakes Momma!”
“Yeah… I know” she grinned at him. “Of course, garbage disposal that you are… You love anything I put on a plate!”
Little Timmy just looked up at her and giggled.
Two more blocks down the street they found an IHOP that filled the bill, and settled into a seat in a booth, way in a back corner of the dining room. When the waitress asked what she could get for them Timmy laughed at her; “Momma said I can have pancakes… and Chocolate milk!”
“When did I say anything about chocolate milk you moocher?” his mother asked.
Little Timmy just looked at her with those big, round, brown, eyes… lips almost quivering…
His mother looked at the waitress, shook her head slightly, smiled, and told her; “Yes, and chocolate milk.”
“Yippeeeeee!” Timmy squealed.
His Momma continued; “I’ll have the same… except swap the milk for hot, black, coffee… please?”
“You bet Hon!” the waitress called back over her shoulder as she scribbled on her pad and hustled off for the kitchen.
Pancakes, in a pancake house, don’t take long to fry, and they arrived in minutes.
“Where we going Momma?” Timmy asked around a mouthful of Maple Syrup soaked pancake.
“Timmy, don’t talk with your mouth full! It’s rude!” the Blonde girl scolded.
“But, where?” he insisted, bits of pancake spilling onto his plate.
“We have a car Timmy, it’s in a garage, just down the street. We’re going to go get it when we’re finished with breakfast, and then we’re going to Montana!”
“What’s mahtahna?”
“It’s Mon - ta - na, and it’s not a what… it’s a place… now hush up and eat!” Her eyes warmed as they looked down at that small, dark haired boy, busily shoveling pancakes beside her.
A short walk down the street was a self storage yard with many individual compartments. The Blonde and her son entered the code in the automatic gate and waited for a few seconds as it rolled open before slipping in. They passed two shed rows of storage rooms before turning down a driveway and walking halfway down to one of the larger, garage doors in the aisle. The girl took a key out of her purse and removed the padlock from the hasp, and with a grunt, lifted the overhead door. A little, red Saturn sedan was revealed, sitting in the otherwise empty storage garage.
She pulled the boy inside, back past the car door on the passenger side before turning back to open the car. A child’s car seat was already secured in the rear seat on the passenger side. Timmy was quickly helped in and strapped in place.
‘Momma’ hurried around to the driver's side. She opened the door and found the keys on the floor, right where she’d paid for them to be placed. Climbing in she put her hands on the wheel… took a deep breath… held it… and, ever so slowly… exhaled.
With a look back at Timmy, in his car seat she asked; “Ready?”
“Yes Momma! Let’s go to Mon – ta – na!”
A turn of the key brought the engine to life… The fuel tank read full, just as she’d instructed. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she jumped out to run to the back of the car to peer at the license plate… "The tags are current… good… he did everything I asked him to… money well spent… so far" she mumbled to herself.
With a squeal of tires on concrete
the little red car peeled out of the storage garage, zipped around the end of the building, stopping only for the few seconds it took for the gate sensor to open the gate for them… and they were off for Mon – ta – na!
The Mother and her son rolled through the Iowa sunshine, laughing and playing games they thought up as they drove. She sang to her son… tried to teach him songs… they laughed… and for the first time, since the boy was born… she knew a few hours when the fear receded to where it was almost gone. Almost, but not quite.
She’d tried to escape before. Before Timmy.
Somehow, they always found her. His ‘bwoys’ always showed up, within a few days, and took her back. How she wasn't sure. She knew from watching television that the FBI could track a cell phone from the cell towers. But she wasn't running from the FBI. Her problem was with a Jamaican Drug Dealer. They had no such power to tap into the telephone company. Not that she was aware of. Luckily for her the phone was off, if only to save the battery. She wanted it charged up should she have a need for the phone. The thought again floated through her mind to remember to replace the forgotten charger when they stopped.
Worldly and streetwise as she might be, she was no geek. She was among the many who couldn't do much with either a computer or a DVR; and she had no knowledge of GPS systems and their applications in cell phones.
She thought it must have been some foolish use of a credit card, a careless word, or some other simple thing, that had left a trail. A trail they had always followed. They never told her how they'd found her. They just, always, found her.
