by Dave Balcom
Then she just sagged, and let the shotgun fall harmlessly to the ground. She fell to her knees, holding her face in her hands and sobbing.
Ed was almost as quick as Chance in getting to her. Both of them grabbed for the gun, and Ed pulled it out of her reach as Chance took one of her wrists and clapped a cuff on it.
I didn’t see the rest, I was at the table. I pulled the blanket away from the head and saw Jan’s face. There was a wrap around her eyes, and her hands were tied together in her lap. I gently touched her cheek whispering her name. She seemed ice cold and non-responsive.
As I pulled the blanket away from her shoulders, a board that had been wrapped there and had supported her upright position, fell down, and as it did, she folded neatly into my arms.
I lowered her to the ground and felt for a pulse. It was there, but faint.
I had my phone out and was dialing nine-eleven as Chance pushed me aside. He was untying the blindfold, and saying something under his breath; it sounded a bit like a chant, but it might have been a prayer.
“I’m Jim Stanton, I’m calling... hell, I don’t know where we are!” I stuffed the phone into Chance’s ear. He grabbed it with one hand, and reached up to my shoulder with the other as he stood up, “Keep her warm.” He shoved me down to her.
I held her in my arms, the blanket around her, waiting for her to wake up and tell me everything was all right. I just sat there, rocking slightly back and forth, watching what I could see of her face in the headlights.
I was sitting like that with her when I heard the sirens in the distance, and I sat there like that as I heard them coming up the hill; then I could see the flashing red lights. I sat there like that, holding her and rocking her when I saw the EMTs coming with a litter, and then one of them was gently taking her out of my arms as he made soothing sounds. “You’ve gotta let her go, Mr. Stanton,” he said softly; “Let her go; that’s it.”
They positioned her on the litter, and took her to the back of the ambulance. I sat in the dark, watching the tableau in the stark white light from the headlights and the even brighter light coming from the back of the ambulance.
I sat there, noticing a Sheriff’s Department Cruiser was now on hand, and I could see Ed and Chance and another Deputy as they loaded Ron and Cheryl Flynt into the back seat. Cheryl still sobbing; Flynt groggy from whatever Chance had done to him out there in the dark.
I sat there and watched their faces, illuminated in stark relief against the night, as they exchanged worried looks and whispered comments.
I sat there until I had lost track of time, and then Ed finally came to me, “Jim.” He was reaching down to me. “Come on, man. She wants you to ride with her...”
I felt like I’d just come out of a coma myself, “She’s alive?”
“Oh yeah!” Ed said huge grin splitting his face, “They had her drugged, and the guys got advice from the ER doc. They gave her a shot of something, and in just a few seconds her eyes opened, and a couple minutes after that... What the hell, I’ll fill you in later, they want to take her in; they want you to ride with her... Come on, Jim!”
I was on my feet by then. “She’s alive?”
“Hell yes! Let’s get goin’!”
Chapter 64
I don’t remember much of the ride to the hospital, and I don’t remember much of the rest of that night, either.
I do remember sneaking into her room just after midnight, finding her sleeping peacefully. I dragged a chair up to her bed, took a hand that was lying there, and sat there until a nurse came in and woke me up about five in the morning.
“You’d better scoot, Mr. Stanton; Doctor Jacobs will be on this floor at any time now, and he’ll lay into you if he finds you. You can come back up after breakfast; say about eight?”
I was sitting in the cafeteria, drinking coffee and staring out at the dawn when Richards and Hurst found me.
Without a word they sat down on either side of me, and sipped their coffee. Finally I came out of my reverie, I have no memory of what I was thinking, really I don’t, but I smiled first at her and then at him, “All’s well that ends...?”
Richards smiled back at me as I felt Hurst’s hand on mine. “You don’t know how happy we are,” he said.
“This is maybe my best day ever as an agent, Jim,” she whispered.
“I called Ray out in Washington; he’s pleased and demanded that you call him as soon as you get back home. I told him that we’d be done with you and Jan by the time she’s discharged but I didn’t know what kind of time the locals were going to need with you.”
“I haven’t even thought about it. I’m just so thankful to you, Chance, hell, Ed was just so... He came through so strong. In the face of that kind of betrayal and hatred, he was just a man...” I ran out of gas, shaking my head at the memory of that few minutes under the guns.
“We took his statement; he said pretty much the same about you and Chance. I think he wants to take a class in t’ai chi.”
“I know I do,” Hurst said without a touch of irony. “We calculated that if you drove like twenty-five miles an hour up that hill, and the time it took from when he fell out of that Suburban until he took Flynt down, he ran something like a mile and a half in twelve or thirteen minutes! And he did it without making a sound. He still had enough left in his tank to dispatch Flynt without a noise either. That was a hell of a testimonial for the benefits of t’ai chi.
“If that’s what t’ai chi can do for guys in their sixties, I need to get started right now.” She laughed.
“It prepares you for whatever you need whenever you need it,” I said absently.
A young woman wearing a red and white striped uniform approached us, “Mr. Stanton?”
I stood up.
“She’s awake, had a trip to the bathroom, and has her breakfast, but she’s asking for you as soon as you can...” But I was already headed for the elevator. I heard the chuckles behind me, and didn’t even look back.
Chapter 65
We arrived back in the Blue Mountains on the first of July. The house had been opened and aired out by Shirlee Nelson and we were glad to be home after the trip. Jan took herself upstairs for a shower and a change; I started sorting all the mail that was piled on the kitchen island.
When she came down, smelling clean and fresh with a wide toothy grin on her face, I pulled her to me and just held her before heading upstairs.
The sun was making its daily descent into the Pacific horizon as we walked hand in hand up the road to the Nelson’s. I could smell the grilling chicken for most of the walk.
As we turned the corner around the garage to their back yard, Judy the amazing Drathaaur, came bouncing up to us where she executed her three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pogo stick act around us, careful to never touch us, but just too excited to restrain herself.
We took turns petting and scratching her ears, and then she let us follow her to the patio where Jack and Shirlee were waiting with wide smiles.
Jack embraced Jan and stuck his other hand out to me; Shirlee stood waiting her turn, but nothing was said. We’d been talking on the phone nearly every day. The events of June, the travel, and the waiting had seemingly dried up our words.
As Jack fussed with the chicken, Shirlee brought an ice-cold bottle of Portuguese Sauterne and four chilled glasses to the table.
Jack put the chicken aside to rest, and poured the wine. He stood at the end of the table, and raised his glass, “To good friends; home from afar.”
“Thank you,” Jan murmured. We all took a drink, but Jack wasn’t done, “And to Miss Donna Hastings, may she live a happy and healthy life for decades to come.”
That brought a chuckle from all three listeners. Then we got down to the serious business of eating Jack’s chicken with all the picnic trimmings.
After we’d cleaned up, we sat around in the growing dusk, basking in the contented silence of friendship that has weathered a storm or two.
“How did those family dynamics
ever go so far off track?” Jack started. “You ever wonder how an attitude like the Flynts’ could fester and grow? It seems so outrageous on the surface, but there are annals of this kind of clannish behavior all over the country.”
“It’s not just families, either,” Shirlee murmured. I could just see her eyes sparkling in the reflection of the small fire in their patio pit. The dusk had matured into dark. “Since this all happened to you two, we’ve been doing some research.”
“I’m not surprised,” I chided them with my tone, but they were not to be shaken from this subject.
“Really,” Shirlee continued. “There are histories of it affecting entire towns, this ‘them vs. us’, ‘haves and have-nots,’ kind of disconnect; it has poisoned entire regions.”
Jack took up the theme, “You see it sometimes in college communities, that ‘town vs. gown’ thing. Most of the time it starts because of some political or economic strife, such as a difficult strike at a leading employer. The town takes up sides with the lines drawn down the middle of the economic strata... Or some politician sees this divide over an isolated incident, and turns it into a lifelong platform he can leverage for continued victory at the polls.”
“It comes in all forms,” Shirley interjected. “It’s not cut-and-dried.”
Both Jan and I chose to let their comments lie untouched for a while. I wondered for a second if Jan had fallen asleep, but finally she stirred.
“I was taken most by the unadulterated hate I sensed from them; it was like racism almost. They used derogative terms to describe the “them,” not unlike the ethnic slurs racists use to dehumanize the people they fear.
“It was palatable. After the first attack, they didn’t abuse me physically or anything, but it was clear that they hated me without knowing anything about me. I tried hard to make them see me as a person, but they were unavailable. They objectified me. They didn’t know the difference, and weren’t interested in learning. It was horrifying and frustrating at the same time.”
“That’s what I’m wondering about,” Jack rejoined the flow. “How did they get that way?”
The quiet among us dragged out into minutes. I watched the thin trail of smoke from the crackling fire, and remembered all the thoughts I’d had over the eleven days of Jan’s captivity, and as I did, those thoughts started to congeal.
I spoke, finally, in a quiet way – almost a whisper – trying not to lose the spell of the night, these people, and these thoughts. “They forgot how to value what they had. They couldn’t measure what they had because they were corrupted by their lust for what they didn’t have. They lost their native curiosity, too...”
I went silent, and somehow everyone knew I wasn’t done. After a few minutes, “Look at what they had going for them from the time they settled. They had a firm family foundation. They were successful in endeavors from agriculture to politics. They had land, freedom, and dignity, but somehow they could only focus on what others had. Instead of self-assessing to see what they needed to add to their lives, they chose to fall back on blame.
“They lost the meaning of competition and in that, the concepts of winning and losing became blurred by their hate. It got convoluted up into something those of us who regularly give thanks for what we have will never understand. I don’t think the Flynts are unique, especially in rural America.
“And I don’t think this is the last time we’ll hear about this kind of thing, especially as the economic gap between haves and have-nots that used to be filled by something we called the middle class continues to grow. The story of the Flynts and millions more like them may well be a cautionary tale for the future.”
That pretty much wrapped up the discussion of the Flynts, and we all sat there in the silence of the night, watching the smoke from the little fire climb toward the blanket of stars that went about their silent, timeless passage. I don’t know for sure, I never asked, but I think all of us once again, gave silent thanks for each other and nights at home
Epilogue
That evening was still in other towns and other places as well. The sun had set in the southern Midwest, but there was still enough light so that most houses remained dark. A few fireflies winked from the shadows under the lilac hedge. As they had on many an evening, a young man and his son stood on a street corner, looking at a home that many considered the finest in their little city. Its dignity and charm were evident for all to see, from the ivy-bordered front stoop, to the immaculate lawn cut perfectly around plantings of decorative trees and the perfectly maintained flower gardens. The carefully-edged sidewalks and driveways that invited visitors into the spacious grounds added another touch of caring attention so much a part of the overall scheme of the place.
It was a two-story home with tall windows offering a hint at the spacious high-ceilinged rooms that awaited those invited visitors. Carefully designed brick entrance pillars adorned with antiqued carriage lamps that were yet to respond to the lengthening shadows, braced the wide walk leading to the front door. The brick facade offered stark contrast to the white sided walls that bracketed it and offered protection from all the elements that threaten any such home. The contrast of colors and textures also added a touch of reality to the traditional shake roof that belied the modern design which made the disparate elements whole.
The little boy, wearing a pair of his older brother’s faded jeans, held his father’s hand as the two stood silently appraising this stately testament to a family’s success. The seemingly endless half light of dusk almost served as sepia tone for this Currier-and-Ives-like triptych of the American dream.
Then, in a voice that couldn’t be heard from more than a few steps away, the man made a pledge to his young son: “Someday we’ll get those sonsabitches; you wait ‘n’ see...”
- 30 -
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dave Balcom spent his adult life as an award winning journalist, writing, editing, and photographing local news and sports for community newspapers in a career that spanned 35 years and eight states. When he was no longer involved in the newspaper business, he turned to writing Jim Stanton Mysteries to satisfy his need to write. He is married to Susan Kay (Roush) Balcom and has been since 1969. They have two happily married children and a spoiled Yellow Labrador retriever to keep them busy between visits with their grandchildren. Like their hero, they love the outdoors; foraging, hunting, and fishing at every opportunity.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank Doug Mathias, Principal at TD&T Inc. of Ottumwa, IA for his insights into how a family might preserve the sudden wealth of a windfall such as a mega lottery prize or one of the “You may have already won” sweepstakes. Certainly any fuzziness in that area expressed by my characters is not Doug’s. No one should look to me or this book for tax advice. While the story, characters and many of the places depicted here are fiction, they would not have come to this point without the able contributions of my faithful and gentle editor, Susie.
Have you read all of the Jim Stanton Mysteries?
In paperback or E-books where ever books are sold
The Next Cool Place
The first Jim Stanton Mystery
Jim revisits his childhood haunts to solve a deadly mystery and finds the answer to the question of “how tough is tough enough” right next to him throughout the story.
Sea Change
The final installment in the trilogy that launched the Jim Stanton Mysteries
Battered, broken, and bruised Jim comes back off the canvas to still kicking as he finds answers to his deepest held questions.
Song of Suzies
A young Jim Stanton’s first mystery.
The young editor is forced to dig deeper than the heart-breaking headlines to resurrect his newspaper’s reputation even as police have him tagged as a primary suspect.
Fear at First Glance
Reliving shadows from the past
Jan’s high school class reunion puts Jim squarely in the sights of a madman who turns her Northern
Michigan homecoming into a macabre quest for revenge.
Code Matters
In matters of moral codes, all codes matter
Jim and Jan find themselves defending the most indefensible of Jim’s acquaintances; a man who turned his intellect into a breach of everything that matters in Jim’s personal code of ethics.
Helix
Twenty-three and Jim
The retired journalist is caught in a three-way intersection between the past, present, and future involving family trees, predictive genetics and political extremism woven in a spiraling story that involves many more than twenty-three possible solutions.
