by Rick Boyer
I arrived in midafternoon, grabbed a phone book, and located a big dealer at the edge of town specializing in recreational vehicles. After an hour and a half of looking and haggling, I rented a chassis-mounted camper on a GMC truck. It slept four and had a big double bunk extending out in front, over the cab of the truck. It was roomy but not too big. The dealer assured me it could go off the road for short distances and was powerful enough to handle the mountain grades. I gave him a week's rent, stowed the BMW in the back of his garage, and repacked my gear in the camper. I kept the keys to the bike. I stopped at a supermarket and stocked the camper with enough food for four days. I bought rib-eye steaks, chicken, game hens, and lamb chops, plus a few sackfuls of produce, spices, sauces, and other things I knew would make my chow at least bearable during my short recon visit. The grocery store was interesting. In place of the kosher deli section, which was all but absent, there was a huge counter display of tobacco in all its various guises—the most popular, it seemed, being chewing tobacco and snuff. They had leaf and they had plug. They had cable twist, too. They had wet and dry snuff. The products had names like Days O Work, Cannon Ball, Red Coon, Hound Dog, Brown's Mule, Taylor's Pride, Levi Garrett, Beechnut, Big Duke, Workhorse, and so on. just for the hell of it, I bought a little can of dry snuff—the kind you sniff up your nose, as they all did in Concord in the days of the Revolutionary War. I took the live sacks of food and supplies out to the camper and stowed them all neatly in the paneled cupboards and little racks. The camper reminded me of my sloop, the Ella Hatton.
The dealer had given me a little directory of nearby campgrounds. I found one right by Robbinsville that was open year round for RVs, called the owner, and reserved a spot. So back out I went, this time lacking all the speed and maneuverability I'd had on the previous trip, but taking my house on my back. Best of all, with the camper rig I had a Carolina plate on the buck, so I fit right in with all the other campers, hunters, and sightseers. My first stop was at the campground, where Mr. Hardesty, the owner, showed me my site. I backed into it, made sure the proper cords and connections fit, paid Mr. Hardesty for two nights, and was told that the gate to the grounds was never locked. I liked that. There were only two other rigs in the entire campground that I could see. One of them, a big motor home, was occupied by a retired couple. The other camper was scarcely visible from my site. The campground was surrounded by hills and thick woods. I told Mr. Hardesty that I was enjoying a three-day vacation from the wife and kids. He nodded in sympathy. I disconnected my power cords and water hose and rolled out of the campground. Soon I was again on the tiny highway that bordered the Royce farm. I passed it twice, deliberately not slowing down. There seemed to be no convenient, inconspicuous place to park the rig, so I went farther up the highway opposite the next farm. There I found a wide, flat space off the road where I could leave it when I returned. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
I returned to the campground, hooked up my rig again, and went outside to start a campfire. When it was going, I went inside, popped two small potatoes into the oven, and made a drink. I sat watching my small fire and thought. I realized that I was at the turning point. I could still pack it in and go home. I could then tell Roantis all I had learned from my little trip and my debt to him would be retired, at least to my own satisfaction. On the other hand, I was here now. I had arrived at my destination, discovered enough about Bill Royce to sense that something wasn't right, and was now in a position to perhaps find out something more specific and concrete. Wouldn't I be a fool to quit now?
Yes.
But wouldn't I be a fool to continue, especially alone and so far from friends?
Also, yes.
What conclusion can thus be drawn from these two inferences, Dr. Adams?
"I'm a fool," I said out loud to myself.
Well, that was hardly news.
But one thing I should definitely do: call Roantis, now. I secured the fire by putting big rocks around it and walked back to the campground office, where the pay phone was. I found him at home, of all places. Surprise, surprise. Roantis had definitely turned over a new leaf.
"And you're already in Robbinsville? How'd you do that?"
"Just kept pushing on."
"You move real fast. What's the name of the campground again?"
I told him. Then I told him about my interview with Bill Royce. I didn't mention that I'd showed Bill the photo of the statue, but Royce's comments had me going. I had to ask Roantis a question.
"Liatis, is there really a Siva, or is it a cock-and-bull story you made up so I'd help you find Vilarde?"
"Why don't you believe me?"
"A lot of reasons. One: nobody else saw it, and it was supposedly big and heavy. Two: a poor village wouldn't have a gold statue, especially one depicting another religion. Now are you going to level with me?"
"I have already. Siu Lok was a river pirate, and that loot was his, not the village's. I think he was a selfish old crook who gave us the loot just to spite the Reds. He knew the Khmer Rouge would find his stash and use it to buy more guns. Nobody saw the statue because Ken and I wanted it that way. Now listen Doc: sit tight in that campground. Don't budge. Mike and I are starting down there early tomorrow. We'll be there the next day. And watch out for Royce, too. I don't like what I hear about him so far."
We hung up, and then I called Mary. It wasn't bad at all. She missed me. I missed her. I explained that I was about to head home, but not before Liatis came down to take over.
"Take over? That means he'll be in danger and not you?"
"Absolutely. He's good at it and I'm not."
"You're not kidding."
"So when he gets down here to wrap things up, I'll start home."
"Good. Let's do this: you call me tomorrow at dinnertime and tell me when you're starting back and what your plans are. And leave me the number of that campground. And goddamnit, Charlie, don't do anything stupid."
"I'll use my best judgment."
"Don't. Your best judgment is inadequate. I said: don't do anything stupid"
We said good-bye, and I left the little office and walked back to my rig. The potatoes were nearly done. The fire was low and beginning to make big coals. I mixed together equal amounts of cottage cheese and sour cream in a small bowl. Then I added a little grated Parmesan cheese, some chives, and crushed garlic. I fried three bacon strips in a pan. Then I took the rib-eye steak from the tiny icebox and put it on the wire grill I'd bought and placed it on the fire. When it was done, I yanked it off fast and stuck it in the oven on a plate. Then I crushed the bacon strips and put the crumbs on a bowl of raw spinach and cut mushrooms. Into the rewarmed bacon grease I mixed in sugar, white vinegar, a raw egg, and a teaspoon of stone ground mustard. I heated and stirred this mixture until it thickened, then poured the hot, German-style sweet-sour dressing over the spinach and tossed it. I cut the potatoes open and put butter and the cheese and sour cream mixture over them, then put them on a warm plate with the steak. I wolfed it all down. It was a sin, a Sodom and Gomorrah of the palate. To help wash it down, I had a split of dry red and a whole bottle of sparkling mineral water. Then I had a cup of strong coffee. To top everything off, I opened the can of dry snuff I had bought at the grocery store. It was a small cylindrical tin with a blue label on it showing a steam engine. It read: "Railroad Mills Mild Scotch Snuff." Mild, huh? I sniffed in a couple of doses and could feel my pulse go up. Talk about substance abuse. I thought of all the old geezers, male and female, up in the hills, who dipped snuff continually. The junkies in the South Bronx had nothing on them.
After the initial rush wore off, I felt sleepy. I opened the camper windows to let the cool air in, turned down the bunk bed, and went outside to sit over the fire while it died. From far off down the hillside, I heard the faint sound of spring peepers, those tiny tree frogs with the ultra-shrill voices. They seemed to be out early. But then, I was hundreds and hundreds of miles south of Boston. The fire died. It was not even ten, but I went
inside the camper, doused the lights, and crawled into bed. I decided to leave it to fate. If I awoke early, I'd go have a look at Royce's farm. If I slept through, then I'd stay put and spend the day reading. So be it.
16
AT TWO-THIRTY, I found myself pulling on my thermal underwear. I had gotten out of the bunk, found the clothing in a drawer, and was putting it on even before I was fully conscious. Half asleep, I sat at the dinette table and placed my Browning Hi-Power on it. I slid out the magazine, which was filled with thirteen nine-millimeter Luger rounds, hollow point. I squirted some WD-40 on the magazine and the rounds. I wanted them to snake out of there lickity-split if need be. They would. I put on a thick sweater over a quilted thermal liner, then the leather motorcycle jacket. Its side zip pockets were large enough for the pistol, but just barely. I wouldn't be able to get it out fast, but that was okay. I knew I could use the piece if I really had to, but it would take a bad situation for me to consider it. The second item was a flashlight. I put this in the left pocket along with the two spare magazines for the Browning. I made coffee and filled the metal thermos bottle. I poured the rest of the coffee into a mug and downed it along with a Snickers bar.
Then I almost tried pulling out of the campsite without disconnecting the hoses and cords, but I remembered at the last second. In less than thirty minutes, I was pulling onto the level space off the shoulder of the highway that fronted the Royce farm. I carried my thermos of coffee and my binoculars out and locked the camper. I looked up; there was a sliver of moon up there, with silvery-gray clouds ghosting across it. The night was cold; I could see my breath. I walked along the road. It was dead quiet. The one thing that had me worried was the possibility of dogs. Even if not mean, they would raise a ruckus if they detected me. Everything was still when I came up alongside the farm. The camper was parked a quarter of a mile away, which I liked. If anyone happened to pass it, I hoped they would assume it had broken down and I had abandoned it, or else that I was a hunter and had left it to roam in the woods. I didn't know what, if anything, was legal in North Carolina this time of year. Turkeys? Raccoon?
From a knoll not far from the highway, and hidden from it by thick brush, I could get a good view of the valley and the farm. The binoculars helped gather enough light for me to see the buildings clearly. The house had no lights on, no vehicles parked nearby. From the looks of it, it had been abandoned some time ago. There were two barns. The big one was diagonally planked on the sides, with cracks in between to let air in. I knew what that was: a tobacco barn. And its wide doors were open. The smaller outbuilding looked as if it might have been a chicken house or swine shed at one time, but it too seemed deserted. I sat on the little hill and stared at the place for a long time. Something was missing. What? The machinery. Where were the tractors and cultivators? Then I spotted them. There was a big tractor in the tobacco barn that had been invisible earlier because my eyes were still getting used to the darkness. Behind the barn, drawn up near the edge of the forest, was a smaller tractor with a scoop on the front, turning it into a skip loader.
I glassed the place a while longer to make sure nothing was up. Then, just before three-thirty, I stowed the thermos bottle and the binoculars under a bush on top of the knoll and walked down into the valley. It would have been easier to walk right up the road, but I stayed at the edge of the trees as I walked toward the buildings. I came up to the old swine shed, or whatever it was. The roof peak was only about eight feet tall, and its sides, of corrugated steel, sloped gently down. I crept around the side and peeked into one of the low windows. Nothing. I took out the flashlight and shined it in. Dirt floor, old animal stalls for pigs or calves, some old hand tools such as spades, scythes, and rakes. That was it.
Over to the big barn. I examined the diagonal planking. Nice work. Fieldstone foundation also. Sixty or eighty years old at least and not even cracked. Some Scots-Irish or Moravian ancestor had done an excellent job of barn raising. And since I'd heard that most of the mountain folk had come down here from the Pennsylvania Dutch farm country, this wasn't surprising. I walked into the big barn and scouted it. There were no stalls or partitions. Elaborate drying racks still hung from the rafters overhead, but there was no tobacco on them. Old fuel and oil cans stood against the walls. Mostly, this barn was the home of the big Ford tractor and its various attachments. The one affixed to the tractor now was one I had never seen before on a farn tractor, a disk harrow with remarkably small disks and a series oi heavy chain links that dragged behind. It was probably a planting or sowing rig of some kind, and I remember that planting time was several months earlier in the South. But I didn't see any drills or seed holders, so it remained a mystery to me. Another mystery in the barn was the bottom half of an old tractor. The big wheels and the undercarriage were there, all right. But where were the engine and the drive shaft? Why half a tractor? Strange.
Then I went to the edge of the clearing and examined the smaller tractor with the skip loader blade in front. There was a big pile of gravel next to it, which meant that they were using the rig to fill in low spots on the land. The house was next, and I wasn't anxious to go inside. I circled it once before drawing near, then went up the three steps to the old verandah that went around two sides of it. As I got close to the first window, I realized I had taken out the Browning and was holding it in my right hand, the flashlight in my left. The beam of my light played through the old window glass, sweeping through dark and dusty rooms. No carpeting or furniture. Old ripped windowshades. Vacant. I continued my tour around the house, shining the flashlight inside every available window. I tried the front door. Unlocked. I went in, leaving the door open. It took me less than a minute to scan the downstairs because there was nothing there. I stood and stared at the old stairway. Dark wood, with thin turned spindles in the railing. Forget it, Adams, and the cellar too. No. I walked up the stairs and checked all the bedrooms. There was an old bed in one; the rest were empty. The john was ancient, with a toilet tank high on the wall and a pull chain to flush. Old torn shades and boards on the floor. That was it. Quickly, before I had time to change my mind, I went halfway down the cellar stairs and shone my light around. Nothing but an old furnace and some cardboard boxes that looked stuffed with pieces of rug. Enough of that. I padded out of the house quickly, on cat feet, shutting the door silently behind me. I wasn't sorry to leave; I'd had some bad luck in similar old buildings. I shone the light on the footpath that led to the steps and the porch. Grass grew there plentifully. I walked around the house and checked the ground behind the back door and found it was I the same. The grass showed me nobody was using the house. I returned to the old porch and sat down with my feet on the stoop steps, watching my breath in the faint moonlight. I rummaged in my pockets and took out the can of snuff. Nasty habit, snuff. I did a couple of sniffs. My eyes watered and I felt a ring of fire around the edge of my scalp. But it gave me a lift. Yes indeed, it did do that.
Well, I thought, there's nothing here. Whatever personal problems Bill Royce has with substance abuse, it doesn't affect his farm. And maybe he sees this place as a kind of therapy—working with his hands on the land of his youth. What's that his aunt had told me? "Being home is the best thing for a body."
Yes, she was right.
I replaced the flashlight and the automatic in my jacket and began the walk back to the edge of the woods. I went along the road first, then began to cut across the field. I tripped hard on a small tree stump and fell on the cold ground. I spent the first few seconds cussing and grabbing my knee, which felt as if it were broken. In a few minutes the pain eased up a bit, and I could walk. I shone my light down to look at the stump. I found it, sticking up out of the ground about half a foot, hidden from casual view by the tall pasture grass.
But it was the strangest stump I'd ever seen.
My flashlight beam reflected back at me from a big glass eye. The eye, a dome of glass about four inches across, sat on the end of an aluminum cylinder, which appeared to be a hollow tube. I
squatted down and grabbed the metal base and tried to wiggle it. Wiggle it did, and I pulled it up a few inches, revealing a thick metal spike. An electrical cord led from each side of the contraption. The cable, thick and black, dove into the earth only a few inches from each side of the object. I peered in through the glass eye. The top end of a two-hundred-watt lightbulb stared back: lightbulb pointing skyward with a weatherproof cover. Keeping the flashlight on, I hobbled in pain along the road. Fifteen paces farther, I found another glass eye, again with a subterranean cable leading in one side and out the other. Another fifteen steps and another glass eye, and so on, right up to a few hundred feet from where the farm road ended.
Farm road, my fanny. I was looking at an airstrip. The road was straight, wide, and very smooth. The tractors, with their special blades and drags, made certain of that. I crossed the road and walked back on the other side. Lights on that side too. I followed the trail of glass eyes maybe two hundred feet beyond the buildings. At that point, the road took a right turn and crossed the creek, then disappeared into an adjoining field. I wasn't interested in that; I was following the cable from the last set of lights. I didn't want to rip it out of the ground, but I did want to see which way it was headed. I walked not more than forty feet before I saw a small, very low structure with a slanted tarpaper roof about four feet high. It looked like a pump house for a well. I shone my flashlight all around it. Sure enough, the black cable snaked into it under the tall grass and weeds. I tried the low door. Locked. Ha! The whole place open to the wind except this one, and it's nailed up tighter than a drum. There was a small vent window in back. I peeked through with the light. I saw eight auto batteries, connected all in a row. There was also a portable Honda generator that appeared to be hooked up to the batteries. As I stood up to leave, I noticed the cable snaking out the back of the structure and into the grass. Now where did that lead? I yanked up on it. Two feet of the cord flew up out of the ground. It was headed right toward the woods at the foot of the mountain. I walked slowly in that direction, sweeping the flashlight beam ahead of me the way a blind man sweeps his cane.
