Brotherhood Protectors_STEELE RANGER

by Jesse Jacobson

  “Good,” Vandy said. “We’re all set then.”

  “Vandy…”

  “It’s done, Pam. Good night.”

  Chapter 5

  The limo arrived at Vandy’s home at 3:57 a.m. There were no signs of reporters or paparazzi. The trip to the private airfield was smooth and uneventful. The limo accessed a private entrance and pulled up directly to the plane. She stepped out of the limo and walked onto the plane. She was informed that her flight to Missoula would begin in less than 15 minutes and was handed a vanilla latte and a fruit plate by a handsome, young airline attendant.

  She called her Uncle Randall, PACNY’s CFO, at least for now. If anyone was more under fire than her, it was Randall. For the media however, attacking a 62-year-old decorated former Navy SEAL wasn’t nearly as sexy as watching the self-destruction of a billionaire, former supermodel who is married to a movie star.

  “Did Pam tell you I was leaving town for a few days?” she asked.

  “No, she didn’t,” he replied.

  “Sorry, I asked her to.”

  “She won’t do shit when it comes to keeping me in the loop. You know that. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to Montana for a couple of weeks, Uncle Randall,” she said. “I’m at the airfield now getting ready to board the private jet.”

  “Now?” he responded. “Are you crazy? Vandy, I told you to ignore the press, not run away. This is no time to be running off—.’’

  “Dr. Charles said I need to do this,” she interrupted. “I hate to leave you here holding the bag, but— you kind of deserve it, Uncle Randall. I’ve been defending you, but most of the heat we are facing falls on your lap.”

  “Pam put you up to this, didn’t she?” he asked. “That bitch. When will you learn—that woman has her own agen…”

  “Look, I know you two hate each other, but it was Dr. Charles who diagnosed me with an acute anxiety disorder,” she replied, “not Pam. He said isolation and rest is the best treatment. He wanted to actually institutionalize me.”

  “Ahhh, that’s just a horseshit diagnosis from a Hollywood doctor who spends all his waking hours kissing the asses of celebrities,” Randall retorted. “Besides, if Pam ever stopped walking Dr. Charles’ nose would go straight up her ass.”

  “My condition is real, Uncle Randall,” she fired back. “My nerves are shot. Cameron wants me to turn over my assets to him, Lindsay won’t even talk to me, the press is hounding me, the paparazzi is camped outside my house and office. I—I—I—can’t take it anymore.”

  “Okay, okay, settle down,” he said. “I get it. We’ll manage. Where are you going in Montana?”

  “West Glacier,” she responded.

  “West what?” he replied, in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of it. It sounds like it’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It is,” she replied. “There’s no cable television and no cell service.”

  “No cell service?” he repeated, incredulously. “I suppose you’ll have to shit in the woods, too.”

  Vandy laughed. It was the first time she’d laughed in quite some time, “No Uncle Randle. They have electricity, running water, toilet paper and everything?”

  “So, you’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere by yourself,” he summed up. “Do you really think now is a good time to be alone? You are all over every website and news channel. There are a lot of whackos out there.”

  “Alone is what I want to be right now,” she replied. “It’s what I need. That and sleep.”

  “I supposed Abbott and Costello are going with you, too?” he asked.

  Abbott and Costello were the names Randall Vanderbilt called Pete McCutchen and Mike Arnaiz, the two celebrity security goons Pam had wanted to go along. Her uncle disliked and distrusted them even more than Vandy did.

  “No, I blew them off,” she replied. “This is truly going to be me… alone.”

  “Well, I’m happy those two idiots aren’t going to be there but maybe I should send some of the company security team with you. They could…”

  “No, Uncle Randall. I don’t want anyone to know where I’m at.”

  “But…”

  “All the arrangements have been made,” she added. “The only people who knows where I will be is you, Pam and Cameron.”

  “Cameron? He’ll probably call the paparazzi himself. He hates your guts right now.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Cameron is a king-sized dip shit, but he wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Still,” he continued. “It just seems like you could accomplish the same goal without being so vulnerable.”

  “That’s the Navy SEAL coming out in you,” she said. “This is not the Middle East. It’s East Montana. I was raised on a farm, remember? I can handle myself. I want to do this. It’s done, Uncle Randall.”

  “What the hell are you going to do out there with no cell or internet or television?”

  “Read; watch videos; sleep; hike; maybe even ski,” she said.

  She could hear him sigh, “Okay. I just have one request.”

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “Call me when you get there. Let me know you made it safe.”

  She smiled, “I will.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of things here,” he said.

  “Really? You know we do need to sit down and talk. There are so many people pointing their finger at you. I’ve been defending you, Uncle Randall, but if this investigation bears fruit…”

  “I know,” he said. “Like I’ve been telling you, when all the facts come out, we will be exonerated.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. The FTC is not going to admit to finding nothing. They will probably come up with a series of minor infractions and slap our wrist, but whatever tip they received about gross improprieties was false. I swear.”

  She wanted to believe him.

  “Okay, Uncle Randle.”

  “Now go enjoy yourself.”

  Chapter 6

  Vandy stepped off the private plane in Missoula. She was wearing a scarf and sunglasses to maintain a low profile. A driver waited patiently to take her to the Amtrak station for the next leg of the trip. The train ride was smooth and uneventful. Leaving L.A. had been a good decision—she could feel it. Vandy had already begun to relax, taking in the breathtaking beauty of the Salish and Flathead Mountain ranges, and the Flathead National Forest.

  The air was clean and the weather was clear. Snow covered the mountain tops and the temperature was a frosty 25 degrees, with a wind-chill factor that made it feel considerably colder. It reminded her of the New York winters she lived through as a girl. As promised, there was a fully-equipped Jeep waiting on her at the Belton Train Station in West Glacier, a beautifully-restored building built in 1910.

  She tried to use her cell phone for navigation but the signal was already spotty, and she knew that during the course of her drive to the cabin, the cell service would disappear altogether. She pulled the Road Atlas Pam had given her and followed the directions she had written on the Montana page.

  An older model burnt-orange Dodge pickup nearly side-swiped her as she pulled onto the main road, giving her a start and causing her heart to race momentarily. Welcome to shit-kicker heaven, she thought. She flipped the driver the bird and decided to not let the unfortunate incident ruin her wonderful mood. The driver, a big fellow in a cowboy hat, gave her an apologetic wave and drove away, making her feel a little guilty about flipping him off.

  The sky was clear and the chill of the wind made the air as fresh as she had ever breathed. She had read that Going-To-The-Sun road was typically closed in winter, but this winter had been unusually mild and the road remained open, cutting her journey to the cabin by 45 minutes. She drove alongside Lake McDonald; the scenery was nothing less than breathtaking. With the mountains serving as a backdrop the water was clear blue and calm, reflecting the mountains off in the distance.

  The cabin itself nearly took her breath away. It l
ooked more like a small vacation resort than a single-family home. When she arrived, she began to explore the inside. Little expense was spared to make this a luxurious getaway for the owner. It had three bedrooms including a ground floor Master with fireplace and a spacious bathroom that contained the jacuzzi and adjacent sauna. The vaulted ceilings peaked at 24-feet. The wood appeared to be all solid oak. There were large windows everywhere. Remote-control window coverings were attached to all the windows for privacy, though she couldn’t imagine anyone would be watching.

  The living room looked like a fancy hotel lobby with a giant, circular fireplace in the center, surrounded by gorgeous leather furniture. The temperature had been remotely set to s comfortable 71 degrees. The big screen television and sound system was off to the side. She took a moment to thumb through the movie section. It was everything Pam had promised.

  She unpacked then lit a fire in the living room by pushing a single button. Opening a bottle of the Duckhorn Bordeaux and drawing a hot bath, she stripped and slipped into the tub. She lit a candle and allowed the jacuzzi jets to ease the ache in her muscles after a day of traveling. The sun was just beginning to set turning the sky into an explosion of orange, gray and red. A few dark clouds had just begun to move in, partially blocking the sunset. She dried off and slipped into some comfy sweats and an oversized robe that Pam had sent there in advance. Was there anything this woman didn’t think of?

  As she walked to the kitchen she thought she caught a glimpse of car headlights. She walked to the window and looked in the direction she thought she had seen the lights coming from. She saw nothing.

  In the kitchen, she surveyed the gourmet pre-made meal selection and chose the Spicy Elote-Style Vegetable Tostadas with summer squash, Poblano Pepper and Cilantro Rice. She followed the simple directions and nuked it in the microwave. She had rather low expectations for the meals but was pleasantly surprised at just how wonderful it was. She ate her dinner and then sat on the couch near the fire, choosing to read The Storyteller, by Jodi Picoult over watching Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson and Doris Day.

  This was truly the right thing to do, she thought. She had not felt this relaxed in years.

  She was 45-pages into The Storyteller before she fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 7

  The next seven days went by in a flash. Vandy had been worried about being bored, but thus far the trip had been anything but boring. In fact, it was both refreshing and exhilarating. Prior to visiting Montana, she hadn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in a night for as long as she could remember. By day four she was sleeping seven hours a night uninterrupted. Vandy stayed indoors much of that first few days, choosing to read, eat, drink wine and sleep. She did make it out for half-mile walks, but little else. She thought she would be getting antsy by now but had been enjoying her downtime thoroughly. Why hadn’t she ever done this before, she wondered?

  The cabin and its surroundings reminded her of her childhood, growing up on a horse farm in Upstate New York. Like Montana at this time of year, the winter air on the farm was cold and clean, the country-side beautiful and quiet. God, how she missed those days.

  She had taken the medications Dr. Charles had given her the first two nights, but none after that. She didn’t feel she needed them. She was feeling terrific. She had been taking her blood pressure daily—Losartan, a BP-lowering drug. She quit taking the medication on day three and her reading on the morning of day seven was 115 over 70. Her body was telling her a powerful story, she thought.

  She chuckled at herself, thinking the biggest decisions she needed to make each day was which novel to read, which movie to watch and what she wanted for dinner. It was a feeling she thought she could get used to.

  On day eight, she felt a very slight case of ennui and decided she needed a more exercise. She bundled up in her heavy coat, gloves and hat and went for a walk, which turned into a five-mile hike. It was exhilarating. There were dozens of trails from which to choose. The very first thing she noticed is that she wasn’t completely isolated. There were others, a scant few, on the nature paths. She chose a trail which appeared to be leading up to a small incline. She met a 45-ish year old woman walking her beautiful Burmese Mountain Dog. She saw a few other people off in the distance as well—a couple holding hands, and a woman riding a mountain bike. She wasn’t totally alone in this area of Montana, but there were very few people around.

  It was colder than she thought. During her childhood, back on the farm, she wore thermal underwear, long johns, in cold weather. She wished she was wearing some them now. They should be available in town someplace, she thought. The weather was changing before her eyes, she noted. Dark clouds were moving in from the deep horizon. It would be good for her to get into town soon and check out a weather report, just in case, she thought. She would do that the next morning, first thing.

  She wondered what was happening back in L.A. Was her Uncle Randall coming under fire? What was Cameron plotting? How was Lindsay? Should she call Pam and check in while she was in town the next day?

  Dammit. She had been doing such a good job keeping her mind off her troubles until now. She could almost feel her blood pressure rising just thinking about it. She shook off those feelings. Things in L.A. could not get any worse than they were. Those troubles would be waiting for her.

  She reached a path with a steep hill. When she reached the top of the hill, the view nearly took her breath away. Off to the right was the clear blue waters of Lake McDonald. Three small boats were tied to an old pier. In the backdrop was a mountain range etching the sky with perfect snow-covered peaks. Adjacent to the pier was a parking lot with four cars parked, the cars of the boat owners, she thought. She noted a burnt orange pickup truck. Probably the same asshole who nearly sideswiped her the day she arrived.

  Beyond the mountains the sun was filtering through gray, ominous clouds, making for a spectacular light show.

  Chapter 8

  It was after 6:30 a.m. before the sun fought its way through the heavy, gray clouds, punching holes of light through them at various points. Sounds of wildlife stirring woke Vandy. It was the morning of day eight in Montana.

  She woke up feeling energized. She had no idea whether it was because she had no appointments, no place to be; or whether it was because her troubles were 1,300 miles away. All she knew was she felt better this past nine days than she had in years.

  Still in her robe from the evening before, Vandy inspected the refrigerator. She saw eggs, bacon, butter and milk, along with orange juice, pineapple and tomato juice. Perhaps she would go old school today and avoid the pre-made breakfasts.

  She fired up the stove, grabbed a skillet and made herself eggs, toast and bacon. She looked out into the valley, a stunning view from the kitchen. The snow had fallen during the evening. The clouds she had seen the day before had moved in with a vengeance. From the looks of the snow on the hood of her jeep, at least four inches had fallen.

  She was a bit disappointed that so much snow had fallen overnight. She had wanted to hop in the Jeep and go exploring and to go into town for additional supplies. As well thought out as it was, Pam hadn’t thought of everything. In addition to the wine, Vandy had a hankering for ice-cold beer—Stella Artois would do. She also wanted some popcorn for her movies, and needed some shampoo and toothpaste among a few other things. Thermal underwear! Surely a mercantile in Montana would carry long johns.

  She smiled thinking about the story TMZ would run if they had a picture of Elaine Vanderbilt, fashion model and clothing line executive, wearing long johns.

  Pam was right about one thing. Vandy had grown up in Upstate New York and had a great deal of experience getting around in the snow. She was a tomboy throughout middle-school and much of high school, before she “blossomed” into the fashion model that would propel her career. To hell with the snow, she thought. The shops in town opened at 8:00 a.m. If she left early enough she could be back in the cabin long before the storm hit.

  After breakfas
t, she slipped on jeans and a thick sweater. She put on boots and a heavy overcoat, donned gloves, a wool hat and a scarf for her neck. In the utility room she found brushes, brooms and scrapers.

  Outside, she started the Jeep and allowed the heater to warm up the inside. She brushed off the powder from the top and the hood of the Jeep. The tires were studded and looked brand new. The frost began to melt away from the windshield and the Jeep warmed.

  She got into the Jeep, allowed the engine to warm for a few minutes more, then pulled away, slowly down the driveway. The Jeep seemed to navigate the snow with ease though there were a few times the vehicle slid on the icy road. Luckily the roads close to the cabin were flat and she was content to not drive more than 30 miles per hour.

  On the radio, she heard the weather report. More ice and snow lay ahead. A severe snowstorm was moving in and would likely hit West Glacier sometime just after 1:00 p.m. She’d been through snowstorms before; she wasn’t really intimidated by the thought. From the sounds of things, however, the pending storm had been much talked about over the last couple days. Vandy had been truly cut off and hadn’t heard the news or weather reports. There were some predictions of a record-setting blizzard. They were expecting high winds as well. She checked her watch. She thought she had plenty of time to get to town and back before 1:00 p.m. If a blizzard hit, she would hunker down in the cabin and wait it out.

  Her first obstacle occurred when she reached Going-To-The-Sun road, which was officially closed due to the ice and snowfall from the evening before. The detour re-routed her to the alternative, Camas Road. Under even normal conditions it would put her about 30-minutes out of the way, but today, in the snow, she was looking at perhaps an hour or more. What the hell? She thought. She had time.

  Vandy slowly made her way to the West Glacier Mercantile. There were four other vehicles in the parking lot including the burnt orange pickup truck. Small town, she thought. She parked and walked into the Mercantile, and enjoyed some shopping. She picked up all the supplies she needed including a couple of long sleeved thermal t-shirts and thermal underpants. She made a few impulse buys as well; chips, cookies, and other comfort food. If she picked up a couple of pounds, it wasn’t a big deal. The stress had caused her to lose ten pounds over the previous two months. She could afford to pack a couple of pounds back on.