Times What They Are

by D. L. Barnhart

  The drive was uneventful, the traffic lighter than she remembered—far less truck traffic on I-80. But tractors were in the fields and the countryside appeared normal for the early planting season. It was cities, she thought, that had really changed.

  Karla reached the realty office at eleven, and was not surprised to find it closed. She had planned for that possibility and pulled the short list of agent’s names she had culled in her research. She called Warren Griffiths, her top pick, and started her rehearsed spiel.

  “Hi, I’m Amy Williams. I’m not looking for property, but I am looking for some specific information. It’s not criminal, and I will pay for it.”

  It took Warren a second to filter that. “What is it that you want to know?”

  “If I am going to pay you, it would seem best to meet in person. Is that possible for you, like this morning?”

  “You’re a little late for morning. But I’m free for lunch. There’s a sandwich shop open on the Santa Fe Trail. I could be there in say twenty minutes.”

  “That would be great.”

  Warren gave her directions, and she checked her map. It was a lot easier, she thought, when the GPS still worked.

  She found the shop and stepped inside, scanning the clientele. Mostly men. No unaccompanied women but her. A man in a booth signaled her over. He was late forties, balding early, and making up for it with a full and dark mustache. He stood.

  “Amy?”

  “Warren?”

  He nodded and they sat facing each other across a Formica table.

  “First off,” Warren said. “Let’s get some numbers on the table, what we’re talking about that you’re willing to pay.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I want?”

  “Well, yes, that too.”

  “Do you have any relatives that work at Otteon?”

  He looked a little puzzled. “No, why? Are you looking to buy the place?”

  “I just want to find a few people. One I’m looking for right now has an Otteon cell phone.”

  “We all do, or did.”

  “This person still does.”

  “And you want me to tell you what?”

  “Whose phone it is. I’ll pay you two hundred dollars for that simple piece of information.”

  “If you have the number, why don’t you call it and find out for free?”

  “I could, that’s true. But you’d lose the two hundred, and I’d lose my surprise.”

  “So you want to know who has the phone, but you don’t want them knowing you know?”

  “That sums it up nicely, Warren. Do you think you can help me? By the way, I’m buying lunch.”

  “I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, but business isn’t what it used to be. Would you mind showing me the money?”

  Karla withdrew two hundred from her pocket and placed it on the table, her hand resting on it. She slipped the phone number across the table with the other hand.

  Warren glanced at the number. “It’s one of ours.”

  “I think I already said that. Do you know whose?”

  “Are you a private investigator?”

  “I’m not being paid. This is purely personal.”

  “No stalking? Nothing like that?”

  “Warren, I just want to talk with her. She’s not in any way going to get hurt.”

  “How did you know it was a ‘her’.”

  Karla slapped the money in the center of the table. “A name, Warren. A name. If it’s too much trouble, I’ll call Bud Colliers.”

  “Alyssa Otteon.”

  “Is she the owner?”

  “The daughter.”

  “Can you tell me a little about her?”

  “Like what?”

  “Age, appearance, lifestyle, work habits, nicknames?”

  Warren hesitated.

  “I can get it from Facebook. I just thought since we were here, you could save me some time.”

  “She’s thirty, perky, had figured to take over the business before this happened.”

  “Does anyone call her by other than Alyssa?”

  Warren rubbed his chin. “Ali sometimes, nothing else I ever heard.”

  “One last thing, do you happen to know where she lives?”

  Warren did and told her.

  “Thanks, Warren.”

  Karla pushed the money to him, then lifted her purse and plunked it sideways on the table. She opened it, exposing the pistol, withdrew twenty dollars from her wallet and handed it to him as she stood.

  “This will take care of lunch, if they ever come. And please, let’s keep this between us. I wouldn’t want to see anyone hurt unnecessarily.”

  * * *

  Karla scanned her map, drove to Shawnee, and found Alyssa’s apartment not far from the interstate. The building was an earth tone stucco and fairly new. It also had locked security doors. She pressed the buzzer for Alyssa’s unit and waited. She tried three more times over five minutes. No one passed in or out. Karla sat in the parking lot for an hour and ate her packed lunch. She tried the apartment twice more. She stopped a returning couple, but they said they didn’t know Alyssa.

  Karla made her last try at five-thirty. She didn’t like that she’d get home after dark. She didn’t like that this woman was named Alyssa not Ellen, either. Something didn’t seem right, but Karla wouldn’t know what it was until she found Alyssa.

  * * *

  Karla circled her house in the truck, playing the headlights across each surface, making sure nothing had changed. She left the truck outside, not taking the chance of opening the overhead door and giving time for someone to cross the yard and enter as she drove in.

  She poured a glass of wine and ate a plate of crackers. She couldn’t go back to Kansas on the chance Alyssa was home. Karla would have to call the number at some point and talk with the woman. Maybe she didn’t know the whole story. Maybe if she did she’d help Karla. But right now, the phone was her only link and she didn’t want to blow the chance to use it well.

  She took her dinner to the living room and turned on the late news. She hadn’t gotten her fix for the day.

  The Cedar Rapids murder rate continued to climb along with robberies and home invasions. The state declared a moratorium on foreclosures and evictions. They would open meal tents in major cities next week—food card required. Karla pictured what lay behind the decisions: so many people in trouble the governor thought herding them into tent cities was impractical. Meanwhile their former homes would remain empty and ripe for looting. And from what she’d learned of the real estate business, banks couldn’t sell the homes if they took them.

  The anchor ended with an announcement that, beginning Monday, the station would broadcast only between 6 AM and midnight. She flipped to channel 2 and saw it was already off the air.

  Chapter 29

  Ray jumped from bed on the second heavy blow to the reinforced barn door. On the third, he seized the Mossberg semi-auto shotgun from the wall along with a pouch of spare shells. On four, the door burst open. He hit the switch for the barn lights and dove to the floor.

  The overhead spotlights blinded the first two men. They got off six wild shots with handguns as Ray opened up with the twelve gauge, cutting them down with four quick pulls of the trigger.

  Rapid gunfire sounded from the house—dozens of rounds from numerous weapons. Ray crawled forward. Rifles appeared from either side of the doorway and fired into the barn. Ray fired once at each weapon and watched them fly to the ground. He charged the door, rolled through, and dropped the two men with a single shot each.

  A bullet kicked dirt in Ray’s face. He scrambled back through the barn door and slid behind the dead men inside. He reloaded the shotgun as bullets ripped through the sliding door, barely over his head. The lights inside the barn were now a liability. He looked to the switch, calculating his odds of making it there.

  Cheryl appeared, crouched against the wall, just ins
ide their room, an arm’s length from the switch. Ray pointed to the lights and toggled his fingers. She nodded, reached around, and killed the lights.

  Another burst came through the wall on his left. He scuttled to the bedroom. There was no place safe when bullets came through the wall.

  “Stay down, behind the bed,” was all he could tell Cheryl.

  Firing continued at the house and into the barn. Ray slid into his jeans and T-shirt. He tucked the Beretta into his pants and picked up his hunting rifle.

  “What are you going to do?” Cheryl’s voice little more than a squeak.

  “Up.” He handed her the shotgun. “Anyone comes through the door, pull the trigger.”

  Ray sprinted across the open floor and climbed the wooden ladder to the loft. He worked his way to the front of the barn, unlatched the loft door, and used the rifle to swing it slightly open. He rearranged hay bales, then peeked out.

  A crescent moon lit the yard between the house and barn. The man he thought had been shooting at him was tucked behind a maple tree, staring intently at the lower door. Ray rested the rifle on the sill, sighted in, and fired. He ducked behind the bales, knowing he hadn’t missed but expecting someone to shoot back.

  He counted to twenty and took another look. The man he’d shot was down. Another man came out of the bulkhead cellar steps carrying a box. Ray dropped him with a shot to the head. A bullet splintered the doorframe beside Ray. He swung the gun to a man at the four-wheeler trailhead. He was working the rifle bolt when Ray shot him through the neck.

  The house was quiet, but no way was Ray going to cross to it before daybreak. He waited and scanned the yard. A man appeared on the trail and jumped back into the shadows when he saw the dead man. Ray followed his movements and when he emerged into a slip of moonlight, shot him.

  Ray stared out for thirty minutes. Cheryl slipped up beside him.

  “Are they gone?”

  He kept his eyes on the yard. “I’m not sure. At least they’ve stopped shooting.”

  “How long are you going to sit here?”

  “Till sunup. Another hour or so, I’d guess.”

  “It feels safer up here.”

  “Stay behind the bales you’ll be fine. The more the better.”

  Forty minutes. A man ran from the cellar stairs. Ray tracked him and fired. The man staggered and fell, dropping a handgun and clutching his thigh. He tried to crawl. Ray shot his other leg. He lay still. No one tried to help him. No one fired back.

  It grew lighter. Ray whistled a couple notes and got a response from Jason.

  “I’m going out to survey the situation. If you see anyone move, fire the shotgun and get behind cover. I don’t care if you hit them. I just want a warning.”

  Cheryl raised the Mossberg and Ray climbed down. He watched from the doorway a few minutes then stepped out and cut left into the trees. He worked his way toward the downed man.

  “You want to live? Ray called out.

  The man nodded. He was a bit younger than Ray, skinny with the early makings of a beard.

  “Anyone else out here?”

  “I don’t think so. I sure ain’t seen nobody.”

  “Where were you taking the food?”

  He glanced down the path. “We got a truck.”

  “Would there be anyone still waiting?”

  “Maybe Sarah.”

  “Why would she still be there?”

  “’Cause Jimbo over there didn’t trust her enough to leave the key.”

  “He trust her with a gun?”

  “Yeah, she’s got a gun.”

  Ray picked up the man’s pistol. “You wouldn’t have another one, would you?”

  “No, man. Just help me out, okay.”

  “Soon as I make sure we’re alone.” Ray stepped to Jimbo’s body. He dug through the man’s pockets and retrieved his keys. Then, Ray collected rifles and handguns from the dead, stashing them in tall grass before heading up the trail.

  A white Chevy Silverado sat in a small clearing a quarter mile from the house. Ray circled it a hundred yards out and didn’t see Sarah. He moved closer. She could have been hiding in the cab or truck bed, or she could have run. He decided to try the easy way.

  “C’mon out Sarah. It’s all over.”

  He scooted left from where he spoke. A few seconds later, a woman’s face peeked over the bed rail.

  “That’s it. Now, lay your gun on the bed.”

  Ray waited a few seconds. He couldn’t tell if she moved. He had to play it as though she were following directions.

  “Sarah, is anyone in there with you?”

  She shook her head.

  “In the cab?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Okay, Sarah, stand up slowly. It’s okay to put your hands on the bed rail to help, but make sure you keep them where I can see them.”

  Sarah gripped the rail and stood. She was tall and thin with loose blond hair that fluttered in the light breeze. Her long sleeve T-shirt hid no body armor.

  Ray shifted right and approached the truck from behind. The raised tailgate made him uncomfortable. He stopped seventy five feet from the truck and sighted the rifle through the crook of a tree.

  “Sarah, step over to the tailgate and lower it.”

  As Sarah touched the latch. A rifle popped over the rim beside her and a man, his head barely visible, fired three desperate shots, unable to get a fix on Ray’s position. Sarah jumped sideways and clung to the bed rail. Ray put a bullet through the man’s forehead.

  Ray held his position and sighting on the woman. “You lied to me, Sarah. Now drop that tailgate.”

  She reached down and let the tailgate fall open. Inside were three boxes of food and the dead man.

  “Do you lie like that to Jimbo? Is that why he didn’t trust you with the key?”

  She nodded and showed the tiniest smile. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  She slowly undid the button on her jeans. She put her hands in the waistband and eased it over her hips, working her hands front to back. The jeans went down. Her right hand swung forward with a handgun. Ray put a bullet through her chest before she had time to aim.

  Ray had never shot a woman, though they had sometimes been the enemy in Iraq. He wouldn’t have shot Sarah, if she hadn’t pulled the gun. He guessed she hadn’t read that in him. His experience said people who didn’t play straight didn’t expect much different from others.

  Ray approached the truck, still wary. He eyed the man, clearly dead, and Sarah drenched in blood, seconds from joining him. Ray jumped into the bed and checked the cab through the back window. No one hiding there. He climbed down and walked the clearing, expecting to see tracks from another vehicle. He didn’t, which meant this one came loaded with people—hardly room for a big stash of food if they found one.

  Ray drove toward the house, stopped short, and stashed the weapons deeper into the woods. He walked to the yard, passing the injured man, now unconscious or dead. Ray whistled the all clear to Jason and stepped into the yard. Cheryl crossed from the barn and wrapped him in a hug. The door to the house opened and Dickie stepped out. He held the door as Ray and Cheryl walked to the porch then went in.

  “Everyone okay in here?” Ray asked.

  “Kim’s dead. Wayne took a hit to the belly. You want to have a look at him?”

  Ray passed Kim on the floor in the bathroom. Her chest and stomach soaked in blood. Two doors down, Wayne lay on his bed, Felicia beside him. Ray stepped to the man and raised his shirt.

  “How you doin’ soldier?”

  “It hurt’s man. It hurts.”

  Ray turned to Jason, “He needs a hospital.”

  “You want to bring him? Things like this, I gotta stay here.”

  Ray nodded. “Yeah, I’ll go. Take their truck. Couple bodies in it I gotta dump first.”

  * * *

  Ray r
eturned from the hospital without Felicia.

  “She wanted to stay with him?” Dickie asked.

  “Yeah, she did. I left her some money and told her to call if she needed a lift back.”

  “I don’t think she will.”

  Ray gave Dickie a questioning look.

  “Don’t ask, man. It’s just how it is.”

  “Where’s Jason?”

  “Collecting guns.”

  Ray shook his head and went out into the yard. Jason had a pile of weapons laid out by the cellar stairs.

  “Hey, Buddy, I guess you’re not figuring to call the law?”

  “What are they gonna do? The whole crew’s dead.”

  “You got a point,” Ray said. “These guys we can throw in a hole. What about Kim?”

  “Her folks are from over by Sweetwater. I’ll give ’em a call. They ain’t spoke in a year. I doubt they’d care.”

  “She was a good kid. They’ll want to see it done right.”

  “We’ll see.” Jason turned to Dickie. “Think you can make a hole out back with the bucket loader?”

  Dickie walked to the barn. Jason stared at Ray. “What do you suppose happened to the guns the men up the trail carried?”

  Ray pointed to the pile. “They’re not there?”

  Jason shook his head.

  “Must be they shared,” Ray said.

  “I was thinking they flung ’em into the woods with their last breath and that you and Dickie could figure out where. Value of firearms is only going to go up.”

  Dickie chugged out of the barn on the bucket loader.

  “Yeah. I’ll have a look,” Ray said. He stepped toward the tractor and jumped on behind the seat.

  Dickie stopped up the trail and scraped a hole not far from where the truck had sat. Then he and Ray rode back to the yard. They swung the bodies into the bucket, filling it twice to haul them all away.

  Jason came out after. “Kim’s folk said to lay her out here, like the old days. Mark the grave was all they asked.”

  They found a spot near the trees by the barn and hand dug a grave. They laid Kim in and the five remaining, bowed their heads for a moment of silence.

  “Any sign of the guns?” Jason whispered.