Times What They Are

by D. L. Barnhart

  He stepped inside. He didn’t see Cheryl right away, then he did. She was at the coffee bar talking with an old man in overalls, a ball cap, and muddy boots. Ray moved closer. Cheryl glanced over, nodded, then turned back to the man she was talking with.

  Ray shrugged and went to the men’s room. When he returned to the store, Cheryl was paying for a couple barbeque sandwiches. She handed him one with a couple napkins.

  “What’s with the old guy?” Ray said as he cleared the door, glad to see the Honda, still with their gear.

  “Alton. His daughter and her family were in Washington. I told him about mine. He’s a nice man, warned me there was a roadblock on the interstate toward Lewisburg. At highway twelve. He said they’re looking at people both directions. We could avoid it on Sixty and save some time.”

  “Did you tell him we weren’t on the interstate?”

  “Didn’t see the need.”

  Ray liked her caution.

  “He also said there was a lot of Army activity around White Sulphur Springs. There’s a government shelter there, built years ago. He thinks they’re using it, again.”

  “The new White House?”

  “Alton didn’t speculate who.”

  No matter, Ray thought. Best to avoid it. “It’s still a good couple hours to Staunton. I don’t know where the camp is, but I suspect we’ll find it easily enough.”

  Cheryl reacted to his tone. “You worried they won’t let you leave?”

  “I’d be pretty sure they won’t, if I step inside the gates.”

  “So you’re going to drop me, not even take a look around?”

  “I’m guessing the camp isn’t open to visitors. I’d say they’ll be real cautious. Staff in hazard suits. First thing, they’ll test you. Positive one way, negative another.”

  “They’d have to. So they’d know who to treat,” Cheryl said.

  Ray studied the map then swung his leg over the Honda. “Let’s go find out.”

  Cheryl hopped on and held tight as he accelerated onto the highway. They stayed on US 60, and Ray rode with more caution, scanning ahead. They crossed the interstate twice, then he rounded a corner, and stopped. He climbed off the bike and stared into the thick woods separating them from the interstate.

  “I want to take a look at the roadblock.” He spoke quietly, not quite a whisper.

  “Why?”

  “I want to see their procedures. I’ll have to go through one of those, eventually.”

  Cheryl helped him push the Honda thirty feet up into the woods. Clear of the road, he laid the bike down and chained it to a tree.

  “It should be right over there, if what Alton told you is correct.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  Ray didn’t answer. “I’ll probably be ten or fifteen minutes. You can come along or wait here.” Cheryl followed as he figured she would.

  They walked in silence, Ray leading, listening for any sound of activity. They’d gone half a mile, south and east, when he found the view he wanted. He dropped to his knees and motioned for Cheryl to do the same. He crept through trees to the edge of a hill and tucked in behind a solid oak.

  He looked out on a field a hundred and fifty yards across. On the other side, a dirt path cut through the trees from what had to be the highway and led to a large pit. Two men stood above it in white hazmat suits. Ray couldn’t see the bottom. Behind the men was the bulldozer that had no doubt cleared the path and dug the hole.

  Ray pulled back from the tree line.

  “What is it?” Cheryl asked.

  “Where they bury contaminated cars.”

  “Will that work?”

  “Better if they had concrete. Maybe that comes later.”

  “I thought you wanted to see the roadblock.”

  “That too, but this is more important right now.” He crawled to the tree, took another look and returned to Cheryl.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “To see how they handle the vehicles.”

  “How long do we sit here?”

  Ray was willing to wait for however long it took. But he could see Cheryl wasn’t. She needed to learn patience. “I don’t know. If nothing happens in an hour, we can go.”

  Ray and Cheryl lay in leaves just back from the edge. They shifted forward as the faint sound of an engine drifted across the field. Two men with rifles appeared at the highway end of the dirt path and directed a car toward the pit. They looked like army, but Ray wasn’t sure. As the car moved slowly down the path, one of the white suited men climbed onto the bulldozer and maneuvered it onto the path, behind the car.

  The silver Lexus stopped short of the pit. The other hazmat man approached and heated words crossed the clearing. The Lexus backed a few feet and was blocked by the bulldozer. The driver, a man, stepped from the car. More sharp words followed. The suited man backed away. The driver followed, shouting and waving his arms. The bulldozer man jumped to the ground and closed on the Lexus man from the side. The driver grabbed the arm of the first suited man. The bulldozer man raised a pistol and fired. The driver collapsed in the dirt.

  Cheryl sucked a quick breath. Ray kept his eyes on the car. The passenger door opened and a woman stepped out—white, maybe platinum hair in a bright yellow dress. She stepped around the front of the car and knelt next to the dead man. The two suited men stood back a few steps, huddled close, talking, probably over what to do. The woman held the dead man’s hand and looked up at his killer. The man from the bulldozer moved closer. Another gunshot, and the woman tumbled onto her man.

  The men opened the trunk of the Lexus. They removed three bags and tossed them in the back seat. They hefted the bodies into the trunk and slammed the lid. Then they pushed the vehicle into the pit with the bulldozer.

  Ray glanced at Cheryl. She looked stricken. He put an arm around her. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never been to Afghanistan. They crawled well away from the field before they stood.

  “They shot them!” Cheryl said.

  “If it matters, I don’t think it is what they planned. The driver got on them and they reacted.

  “But the woman . . . .”

  “I’d say from how they handled it, killing is within the scope of their orders.”

  Chapter 15

  Karla paid for one day access, typed a phone number into the laptop, and anxiously watched the spinning graphic. A screen appeared with a name: Gerald F. Hightower, age: 53, estimated income: $125,000. The screen displayed his address, other phone numbers, relatives, lack of a criminal record, and his previous addresses. And more. Karla typed her whole list and printed each result.

  Most of Roger’s calls seemed to be to clients and potential buyers. There were only three that didn’t make sense that way—Gloria Craddock, Patty Dunn, and Christian Bonner. What Karla didn’t like about the two women was they were young, divorced, and had incomes that would not support a commercial purchase. They could have been someone’s secretary, but then why would they use personal cell phones and talk for extended periods. Christian also didn’t look like a buyer. She couldn’t guess his connection to Roger.

  She debated how to proceed, then decided since they were local, she would visit. She’d learn more from their expressions and mannerisms, and they couldn’t simply hang up. Who knows, Roger’s car might even be parked out front.

  Eight was late for calling on strangers, but Karla bundled up and went out, driving to Christian’s address, ten minutes away on Wendy Lee Lane. Karla cruised past his house and turned around. It was a large ranch in a quiet neighborhood and didn’t fit with Christian’s online profile. Roger’s car wasn’t there, but lights were on. Karla sighed and parked at the curb. Nothing to lose, and she was already there.

  A man in his fifties answered her knock. He was not tall but broad shouldered. He wore jeans and a blue wool sweater. He looked at her through the storm door before opening it slightly.

  “Is Christian Bonner
here, please?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “I’m not selling anything. I’m trying to find my daughter. Christian may be able to help me?”

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Nine. My former husband took her. Christian has done business with him. I’m interviewing everyone who has, hoping for a clue to where they’ve gone.”

  “Why aren’t the police handling this?”

  “They are. But I’m doing what I can, too. I want her back.”

  “So how does Christian fit into this?”

  “I’m not sure. Is he here? May I speak with him?”

  “What does your former husband do for a living?”

  “He sells real estate.”

  “Then I think you are mistaken. Christian lives with us. He is not in the market for a home.” Christian’s father closed the storm door and then the front door behind it.

  Karla walked to the truck, climbed in and called the number she had. She knew the father would be doing the same very quickly.

  “Hello.” Music and voices in the background.

  “Christian Bonner?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Karla Becker. I think you know my former husband, Roger Becker.”

  Quiet for a few seconds. His hand over the phone. “What do you want?”

  “To talk with you. My daughter is missing. I’m trying to locate Roger.”

  “I don’t know where he is?”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Months ago, I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Do you think he might call you again?”

  “No.”

  “If he does, would you let me know?”

  “Not a chance. Look lady, you could be anybody.”

  “If you’ll meet with me, I can prove who I am.”

  “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

  “How about tonight or tomorrow?”

  “Take a hike.” Christian ended the call.

  Karla sat watching the house. What possible connection could Roger have with a then twenty-five year old boy? The answer would be obvious if Roger were gay. But he wasn’t. Karla was certain. But the two did know each other. That much was clear. And she doubted it was from golf, either.

  That left what? Drugs, pornography, sex in some fashion? Christian might not be able to help her but she was plenty curious what he and Roger talked about. The outside light on the house came on. Karla started the truck and drove home.

  Chapter 16

  Ray held the Beretta as he led the way through the woods to the Honda. A security team was a possibility, but with hundreds of roadblocks, were enough men available to cover each site? Did they even see a need? Maybe not. But he would have had someone on the perimeter, that’s all he knew.

  They reached the bike and he pulled out the map. “We’re going to have to backtrack fifty miles to get around this.”

  “Alton said Sixty was clear.”

  “Maybe it was, yesterday. It isn’t now.” He paused a couple beats. “Route Sixty is right on the other side of where that path was cut. We have to go right by it. You think they’re not going to check us out?”

  “Are you sure about the road?”

  “Positive.” Ray showed her the map, then possible routes around. “You want to try and get through?”

  Cheryl shook her head. “That could have been us.”

  “I think you’re safe . . . from shooting. Old, sick people are another story.”

  “I want to get out of here. Just knowing they’re down there. . . .”

  Ray unchained the bike, then flattened on the ground as a vehicle approached. A pickup went by. Ray lifted the bike and stepped over. “Which way?”

  Cheryl pointed back the way they had come. Ray started the bike, idled to the blacktop, and accelerated west. The road was clear all the way to Charleston. Or it had been a few hours ago. But at Charleston, all roads west came together in the narrow river corridor. That’s where the roadblock had been. It couldn’t be gotten around, except by knowing it was there and taking a wide swing through back country.

  Late afternoon. They gassed up at Chelyan and bought grilled chicken sandwiches and bottled water. They stopped at Wal-Mart and selected a small tent. Then they crossed the river, took Route 61 north to 94, and followed a county road to Kanawha State Park.

  The sun lay just above the horizon, the temperature steadily falling. They rode a mile on a narrow road through a heavy hardwood forest bare of leaves, then, still on the bike, cut off road between trees and over a low ridge. They stopped behind a slab of rock a quarter mile from the road and parked the Honda. Ray stepped off a hundred yards and circled the rock, assuring himself there was no other road or trail nearby. Safe from prying eyes, they set up the tent at the base of the rock.

  “We’re really like outlaws, now.” Cheryl hugged herself and rubbed her arms furiously.

  Ray untied the sleeping bag from the bike and rolled it into the tent. “Not so glamorous, huh.”

  “No. It’s not.” She slung her pack inside, collapsed in the tent opening, and wrapped herself in the blanket. “Now what do we do?” I mean beyond tonight.”

  Ray shook his head. “I guess Tennessee is still as good a plan as any other.”

  “I don’t believe this can happen. We’re American citizens. We’ve done nothing wrong. We should be able to go anywhere we want without getting killed or thrown in a . . . camp.”

  “They might not be so bad, if you’re young and healthy and you can get to one.”

  “But you’re not interested.”

  “I’m comfortable on my own. I’ll get by or I won’t. Maybe no one will. But I won’t be waiting in line for a moldy, half empty cup of soup and thankin’ god I’m still alive.”

  “You’re really not scared?”

  “Shit yes I am. Not in the panicky way people use the word. Wary, I like that better. I’m not anxious to get myself killed. I’m not shaking at the possibility, either. You just have to handle things as best you can. Dead is game over—too late for regrets or might have beens.”

  “Is that how you faced people trying to kill you . . . over there.”

  “Partly.”

  “Well, I am afraid.”

  “You’ll get over it if you live long enough. That woman, today, she understood. She didn’t run or beg. It was her time and that was that.”

  “I don’t understand how you can be so casual about death.”

  “Do you know anyone who isn’t going to die?”

  Cheryl answered with an eye roll.

  “Once you accept that, the only questions become when and how. Timing isn’t all that important. If you’re lucky, you won’t have the opportunity to dwell on it.”

  “You’re not that much older than me. Don’t you think at all about the things you’ll miss?”

  “Sure. But that’s not the point. When you’re young and alive, you crave what you don’t have. When you’re dead, there’s no you to feel the loss.”

  “Wow. That’s bleak.”

  “More like realistic. Enjoy what you can while you can. Prolong it, if you can.”

  “We seem to be short on the enjoyment part,” Cheryl said.

  “Not me. It’s a major male fantasy to be stuck anywhere with a beautiful woman.”

  Cheryl laughed. “So that means you’re into prolonging this.”

  “Top priority. But succeeding means keeping us both alive. There’s something in that for you, too.”

  Cheryl brushed a few long, red strands from her face. “Do you have a light side?”

  “People tell me I can be pretty funny when I’m not focused on where the next bullet’s coming from.”

  “Tell me something funny.”

  Ray gave it a couple seconds thought. “I don’t have a motorcycle license.”

  “Well, that’s hilarious. Have you got another?”

  “I did SERE training
in July.”

  “I’m not laughing yet.”

  “Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. The Army teaches it in Alabama. We couldn’t practice cold weather techniques.”

  “Do you at least have a permit for the gun?”

  “Fifteen of them, for anyone who cares to check.”

  “You are a riot.”

  Ray smiled. He stepped over and laid the Honda on its side. He snugged the tarp over it and covered that with a few branches.

  “When you’re on the run, there’s always a balance between stealth and speed of escape.”

  “You think that’s going to hide the motorcycle?”

  “From the air, yeah, I think it will.”

  “Why . . . .” Cheryl let the question drop. Ray seemed to have reasons for everything. “C’mon in out of the wind. Lights about gone. Time to zip up.”

  * * *

  They woke to a scratching on the tent.

  “Your turn to let out the dog,” Ray said.

  “Not.”

  Ray slid from the warmth of the bag, gun in hand. “Hope it’s not the bear from across the street.”

  That didn’t get a rise out of Cheryl, so he zipped open the tent. A dark shape scooted away. “Hey,” he said sharply. “I got a gun.”

  “What is it?” Cheryl asked.

  “Coyote maybe. Or fox or wolf. They all look alike in the dark.”

  Cheryl went back to sleep. Ray lay awake, prolonging the pleasure of simple contact while he worked on a survival plan.

  * * *

  They ate cold chicken sandwiches for breakfast.

  “I think what you said about waiting out the roadblocks makes sense,” Ray said.

  “Here?”

  “Or someplace like it. Not a lot of options when you don’t have money.”

  “How long?”

  “A day or two. I need to get maps and supplies and work out a route.”

  “You’re thinking the back roads, again.”

  “The interstates got the roadblocks. The side roads got the yahoos. I think if we stay away from the borderlands the paranoia level will drop.”