Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  The rumbling sensation woke Paul who was sleeping uncomfortably in the passenger seat. This, Leslie thought, was truly the middle of nowhere.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul asked, dazed.

  “Jake needs gas.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Still in Oklahoma, I think. We just passed Arapaho.”

  Leslie parked in tight to the cube van and trained her lights on the overhead door. She cut her headlights leaving only the daytime running lights to illuminate Jake’s way. She watched as Jake limped around to the back of the vehicle. He looked sore and exhausted and as old as Leslie had ever seen him. Paul went to help. Neither man spoke; they both knew what they needed to do and were too tired for conversation. Paul opened the heavy lock and rolled up the overhead door.

  Leslie hopped out to stretch. She scanned the darkened landscape and listened to the peaceful rustle of the grassy swells.

  Headlights cut through the blackness.

  “Guys,” Leslie said pointing.

  Jake looked toward the little dirt road that was the source of this unwanted and unknown company. He cupped a hand on Paul’s shoulder to get his attention. Paul turned to look in the direction of the approaching lights. He hadn’t heard Leslie.

  “I fucked up Paul,” Jake whispered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I had planned to stop in Perkins. I don’t know what happened. I was tired.”

  “Jake, what?”

  “Rolled onto a turnpike north of town.”

  “Past a tollbooth?”

  “Yeah, Goddamnit.”

  “Camera?”

  “Probably.”

  The headlights were getting closer. Jake slipped up to the door of the van. His limp was gone. Adrenaline kicked in, pulling his focus away from his aches and pains.

  “Paul, here.”

  The stainless steel gleamed in the headlights. Jake grasped the beavertail grip of the Sig and forced it into Paul’s hand.

  “Jake,” Paul whispered.

  “It’s got a full clip and the safety is on,” Jake said, jamming a box of 9mm bullets and a couple of mags into Paul’s coat pocket.

  “Jake.”

  This time he got Jake’s attention, but it was too late. The headlights were on them.

  Paul pushed the gun in his other pocket as the reality of the situation set in. He felt the cocking serrations and the ambidextrous thumb safety, polymer grips and the cold, smooth surface of the 5” stainless steel barrel.

  Paul forced himself to swallow. And breathe… His chest tightened and his mouth grew dry as the vehicle pulled to a stop. Jake eased out of the headlight’s beam. He knew the blinding light would be a disadvantage.

  The headlights went out. The door opened, and a lone figure got out.

  Jake took a small step forward. In the dim light of the moon, Leslie spotted the glint of blue steel as Jake pulled his hand out of his right pocket. The Kel-Tec palm pistol was at the ready, and she could see the berretta in his left hand.

  “Howdy, folks!”

  The voice was big and friendly, and Jake eased his stance a bit, dropping one hand to the side.

  “Howdy back,” Jake said.

  “What you folks doing out here this time of night?”

  “Ran out of gas.”

  There was a pause.

  “You got some?”

  Jake paused. “Some.”

  The man took a step toward them. Something told Jake to meet him halfway, and when he did he couldn’t have been more surprised.

  He was a big man with friendly eyes and an open face. His hair and beard were long and white. Jake couldn’t help but think he was about to make the acquaintance of Uncle Jessie from the Dukes of Hazard.

  Jake barely got the Kel-Tec into his pocket before the old man took his hand into the largest, roughest hand he’d ever shaken. It was like being sucked into a cement oven mitt. Jake wondered if the old guy ever felt another man’s hand when he shook it.

  “Wilbur Wright. Pleased to meet you folks.”

  Behind them, Leslie burst out laughing, and old Wilbur spun around like his ass was on fire. “I didn’t see you there, missy. You caught me by surprise.”

  He winked at Jake and looked down at his left hand, which still held the berretta at his side, not quite hidden.

  “Guess I surprised you folks, too.”

  He slapped Jake on the back and roared with laughter, which was quite infectious. They all laughed like they hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Wilbur Wright?” Leslie chuckled.

  “Spelled the same, too. Guess what my older brother’s name is?”

  “No.” Leslie said.

  “Sure as I’m standing here.”

  And then they laughed some more.

  “Daddy was a flyboy in WWII. Loved his planes and flew crop duster here on this very farm until the day he died.” Wilbur raised his head toward the sky as if to say a silent prayer. “Yeah. Daddy loved his planes, all right. Me, I’ve always been a car fellah.”

  They introduced themselves all around, and finally got a good look at the old man’s vehicle. It was a beautiful, deep burgundy ‘56 Chevy pickup on stock rims. Big chunky front end, flared rear wheel wells, and dull chrome front bumper. His own pickup came to mind when Jake saw it, and he smiled, admiring its lines.

  “You folks look beat.”

  “You could say that,” replied Jake.

  “You’re welcome to pull in for a stay up at the house. The missus would be glad for the company. I was just packing up the trailer to head to my brother’s tomorrow.”

  Jake turned back to look at the group. He knew their presence would be putting this kind man and his wife at risk. We shouldn’t but…

  “Maybe we should get off the road for a bit. It’s been a long day,” Jake said, looking over at June, who’d just snuck away from the sleeping children.

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” she said.

  “Let’s get you gassed up,” Wilbur said, making a beeline toward the back of the van. He walked with a slight waddle, favoring his right knee.

  Paul came over, and they dumped one five-gallon can into the van and followed Wilbur to the house. The van kicked like a bronco on its springs as it navigated the little road, which turned out to be Wilbur’s rough driveway. It had to be at least a mile long and didn’t amount to much more than two mud ruts with a strip of grass fighting to survive in the center.

  They finally arrived at a well maintained farmhouse, with a barn off to the side and several small pens for various animals.

  Jake pulled up alongside Wilbur as he climbed out of the truck. “I hate to burden you further Wilbur but is there room for our vehicles in the barn?”

  Wilbur hesitated at the peculiar request.

  “We have a lot of supplies and don’t want to see them stolen,” Jake explained.

  “Sure.Sure thing,” Wilbur said as he nodded his compliance. His tone was a mix of suspicion and understanding.

  After getting the vehicles safely tucked away, everyone filed into the farmhouse.

  “Dot’s asleep, but Matt’s room and the guest room are free. The children can have the couches, or else…”

  “The couches are fine, Wilbur,” Paul said. “We appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

  Sleep came easy for everyone. Leslie and Paul got the kids settled in on the couches. Wilbur had been very gracious, providing them with pillows and warm blankets. Paul and Leslie took the guest room. It was a neat little room on the main floor. The woodwork spoke of a bygone era. There were twelve-inch baseboards, heavily grained and stained clear to show off the beauty of what Paul guessed was ash or walnut. The wallpaper was dated, but rich and clean. The only furniture was a double bed, nightstand, and matching dresser. A wooden cross hung over the headboard.

  June took Matthew’s room. It was like a museum. There were objects and collectibles that reflected the innocence of a teenager of the seventies, maybe even the sixties. I
t was neat and tidy like the rest of the house, but it looked more like a shrine than a bedroom that got any use.

  A framed picture of a serious looking young man in uniform hung on the wall above the highboy dresser, a small crucifix beside it. June felt sad, but honored when she realized that Wilbur had given up his son’s room, which had clearly been untouched for many years.

  Jake got his second wind and gratefully accepted Wilbur’s offer of coffee, and the two men sat in the kitchen at a broad oak table and talked into the night.

  “It’s a nice family you have there, Jake.”

  “Thank you.” Jake bowed his head. “It’s more like they have me. I’m an old friend of June’s husband, Leslie’s father, but they’ve taken me in like family.”

  “Where is he, if you don’t mind my prying?”

  “Not at all. Robert died in a hit and run in 2004.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How did you two meet?”

  “We met back in 1971 in Vietnam. Robert was heading up a mission behind enemy lines. Suicide mission. I was the pilot ordered to drop them in. We flew across the border into Cambodia when the loach we were flying started taking heavy fire. It was a real shit storm, pardon my French.”

  “Not at all.”

  “The controls were hit and we crashed in a field of elephant grass. Robert and I were the only ones alive. There was fire all around us. The smoke was black and thick and tore at our lungs. We might as well have shot up some flares.

  We crawled out of the wreckage. Robert had a concussion, and I’d been shot through the leg.”

  Jake touched his thigh to show where he’d been hit.

  “If it wasn't for the one-seven pushing forward, we’d probably be dead. NVA and VC were all around us. We hunkered down in a hole for two days with the enemy so close you could smell them.”

  “My Lord.”

  “I’ve never been so scared in my life. It was like we were thrown into the fires of hell itself. Our guys were dropping everything on them, carpet bombing the area, softening them up for the advance, so we put our heads down, prayed, and picked them off when they got too close. A couple of them even jumped in our hole.

  When the one-seven advanced, we took the VC by surprise. They had no idea we were flanking them. We checked our fear and jumped in, guns spitting fire and death. A lot of good men fell that day.”

  Jake paused, amazed that he had been so open about his past. He hadn’t shared that story with anyone since Panama. The only other person who’d heard his account was Howard Prentice, the owner of the lumber company who’d had given his life to try and save his men from the mouse pox. Christ. It all seemed like a thousand years ago.

  “That’s an amazing story, Jake. What come of Robert?”

  “He saved my life. After Vietnam, I was lost. A real mess. I went down to the Angola and spent some time in Zaire, flying choppers in one conflict or another. Then Robert set me up in Panama. He was down there at Fort Gullick with the Seventh Special Forces. He helped me with a chopper, and I did some contract work down there. Followed Robert around until he was killed.

  I owe him and his family my life. They took me in like their own. Now I’m like an old dog. They just don’t have the heart to get rid of me.”

  “I reckon they’re lucky to have you, Jake.”

  “No, Wilbur. I’m the lucky one. I’ve seen and done terrible things in my life. Terrible things. Swore I’d never be on the side of wrong again. Lot of catching up to get right with the man upstairs.”

  There was a glimmer in Wilbur’s eyes, but he said nothing. Jake sensed sadness, but Wilbur kept it in like men of his generation often do, and Jake didn’t press him. They called it a night and Wilbur showed Jake to a couch in a small reading room on the main floor. Wilbur brought in some blankets and a pillow, and Jake settled in and drifted off to sleep.

  *

  “One more motel then take us to Vance, Captain,” said Folkstone into the Avcom headset.

  “Vance Air Force Base has directed us to Fort Sill, sir.”

  “We have enough fuel?”

  “We have approximately an hour-and-a-half of flight time.”

  Folkstone sighed. “Fort Sill it is, Captain.” Where the fuck are they?

  “Sill’s where I went to basic,” Borda said.

  “Geronimo’s buried there, isn’t he?” Jones asked to no one in particular.

  Borda nodded. “He died there, a prisoner of war.”

  Folkstone grinned. “Not all of him is in that Indian bone yard.”

  The other men exchanged knowing glances, like they were just let in on a long kept secret, confirmation of a myth.

  “Fort Sill was a National Historic Landmark. It was originally called Camp Wichita, built during the Indian wars. Geronimo was taken prisoner and held at Camp Wichita. He died sometime in 1909 and was buried there in a prisoner of war cemetery. Legend has it that during WWI, six Army volunteers stationed at Fort Sill stole Geronimo's skull, some of his bones, and his silver bridle. The thieves were rumored to be members of a secret society out of Yale. The Skull and Bones,” Folkstone explained.

  “You went to Yale, didn't you sir?” Toombs asked.

  “Matter of fact, I did,” Folkstone answered.

  “You get tapped in, sir?” Borda asked.

  “I could tell you...” Folkstone looked at him, stone-faced.

  “But then he’d have to kill you!” Toombs shouted. They shared a twisted laugh. It had been put across as a joke but just maybe…

  “I took officers’ training there. The rumor was they had Geronimo’s skull in the tomb.”

  The helicopter dropped down over a dark and lonely motel in Lohoma. It was little more than a flop house that lay west of the Cimarron Toll Highway. A camera at the toll booth where Highway 177 turned onto the turnpike captured Jake and Leslie’s plates. The pictures NSA sent him were time stamped. They’d gone through that booth just two hours ago. Folkstone figured they’d been on the road at least sixteen hours straight. He was feeling good because they were close, and Jake Miller was starting to make mistakes.

  Chapter 27

  Jake lay awake on the couch. He’d slept longer than planned. Maybe it was the pace they had set the day before, or the feeling of safety, real or illusory but he enjoyed the best sleep he’d had in years. Nightmare free. He didn’t question why his nightmares had stopped. He was just glad they had.

  Jake drifted back to the family farm, before his older brother Tommy died. There was an enormous willow tree he and Tommy had called the “Octopus Tree.” It was a whimsical monster that blotted out the sun, allowing nothing to grow at its feet. The Octopus Tree stood on the edge of a hill that dipped down to an irrigation pond. Jake and Tommy used to spend hot summer days in the shade leaning against the tree’s wrinkled trunk. They’d talk about the big city and whittle with their Swiss Army knives, occasionally breaking for a swim. They’d snatch up the spindly branches from down the slope, climb back up the hill, snake up the braided vines, and swing out over the pond where they’d drop into the blissfully refreshing water. Tommy died in the fall of 1959 when Jake was ten. He was bit by a rabid fox and never stepped foot in the big city he’d longed to see.

  Stirring himself from the memory, Jake wiped his eyes, folded his blankets, and followed the breakfast smells into the kitchen.

  Hickory bacon, eggs, and a fresh pot of coffee. Even if you didn’t drink coffee you had to love the smell. The aroma produces tangible warmth that draws people together. It’s practically therapeutic and stirs the memory.

  Jake leaned in the kitchen doorway.

  “Good morning. You must be Jake?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And you must be Dorothy?”

  “Call me Dot.”

  “Dot it is,” Jake said.

  “Good morning, old man,” Leslie said, nudging Jake aside and entering with June. They both looked rested and fresh. “Mrs. Wright, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Dottie to you, dear,” the old woman
said with a smile.

  Leslie gave Jake a sly; I must be special look and sat down at the table.

  “Better get the kids up,” Jake said. “And that includes Paul.”

  “Wilbur’s got ‘em all out in the barn, dear,” said Dot, bustling around the kitchen. “We don’t get company much anymore.”

  “They were up early helping him pack his truck, sleepy head,” June teased. “Peaceful sleep Jake?”

  “Yes. Yes it was,” he answered.

  Jake took a seat at the table. He hadn’t paid much attention to it last night, but it was beautifully made. Rectangular, solid oak with two pedestals as big around as a man could hold his arms, fingertips touching. The chairs were sturdy, stained to match the table. Jake appreciated good craftsmanship.

  Dot brought him coffee, setting it on a place mat that matched the patterned seat cushions.

  “Thank you, Dot.”

  “You’re welcome, Jake. It’s good to have company. Been quite a while.”

  Dot was a pleasant old woman, soft spoken with a warm manner. Like Wilbur, she had to be near eighty. She moved at her own pace, slightly stooped.

  Wilbur, Paul, and the kids came in from the barn just in time for breakfast. Wilbur dominated the conversation. As it turned out, he was as humorous as he was chatty. It made for an enjoyable meal, like breakfast with a comedian who never stopped tossing out one liners. After breakfast the women helped Dot with the dishes and Paul went to watch CNN with the children in the living room, which left only Jake and Wilbur at the table with their coffee, a repeat of the previous night.

  “Take a walk with me, Jake,” Wilbur said.

  The two men walked out toward a utility shed far behind the barn. Wilbur was quiet. Jake said nothing, figuring the old man had a reason for asking him outside, and he’d speak when he was ready.

  “You know, Jake, when I met you folks last night, I would have sworn June was your wife and those were your grandkids.”

  Jake smiled, but said nothing.

  “So protective.”

  Jake nodded, remembering Wilbur’s reaction to the gun he’d tried to hide.

  “I see the way you look at her and all. It’s the way I look at Dot.”