by Alton Gansky
“Bob Vincent,” the voice on the other end said.
“Bob, it’s Anne. Are you aware of a large construction project going on in town?”
“No. Should I be?”
“I just saw a caravan of trucks go by, and some of them were transporting large equipment.”
The director of the planning department asked, “What kind of equipment?”
“I saw a backhoe and dozer and something I didn’t recognize. There were also a couple of semis and a bus.”
“A bus? You’re kidding.”
“Straight-up truth, Bob. I assume that they’re bringing their own workers in.”
“That’s possible. Makes me curious.”
“Me too,” Anne agreed. “Have you ever heard of Sachs Engineering?” She spelled the name.
“Can’t say that I have, but that doesn’t mean much. Engineering can mean anything. It’s like companies with ‘Communication’ in their name. That covers speechwriters to telephone companies. Have you tried the Internet?”
“Not yet; I wanted to see what you knew.”
“Sorry I can’t be more help. You want me to call the county and see if they know anything?”
“That’d be great. I’ll see what else I can find.”
Anne was on her computer within seconds of returning the phone to its cradle. Keys clicked and clacked until she was on the Internet searching for “Sachs Engineering.” A list of over 150 hits appeared on her screen. Most were dead ends. She wanted the business site and found it near the top of the list. A mouse-click later she was looking at a professionally designed, brightly colored web site. Across the top of the page were photos of skyscrapers, industrial centers, and airport terminals.
“Wow,” Anne said to herself. She studied the web page and found a button titled About Us. She clicked it and watched as the screen dissolved to yellow then reassembled itself into a grouping of text and photos. She read quickly, mumbling the words aloud.
“Sachs Engineering . . . founded in 1975 by Henry Sachs . . . specializing in major construction projects around the world . . . Hong Kong . . . Bombay . . . London . . . Dublin . . . Rio de Janeiro . . .” She stopped short. A quick count revealed fifteen projects in South America, twenty-eight in Europe, eight in Africa, and sixteen in Asian countries. She didn’t bother counting the long list of projects in the U.S. “What are you doing in our little neck of the woods?” she asked the monitor.
She spent the next twenty minutes perusing the site. It was a professional and impressive presentation but still simple. There were no flashing images or sounds. Just straight-to-the-point information.
Anne’s phone rang, and she jerked at the sound of it. It was Bob Vincent.
“Ready for what I found?” the planning department head asked.
“That didn’t take long,” Anne said.
“It didn’t take long because I struck out,” Bob explained. “I called the county, and they don’t show anything going on in the areas just beyond our city limits. I also checked with the utility companies, and they said they had no projects in our area. I made other calls and struck out everywhere. No one knows anything.”
“I saw the trucks and equipment go through town,” Anne said.
“I don’t doubt you,” Bob interjected. “Maybe they were just passing through.”
“Did you check with San Bernardino County?”
“Yeah. I also had my aide call Bakersfield and Mojave. Nothing doing.”
Anne’s mind processed the information. “I wonder if they’re planning on doing something sneaky. They’re a huge firm,” she said, then told him what she had learned.
“Firms like that don’t sneak around,” Bob said. “If they want to do something in a small town like ours, then they would just bowl us over with high dollar attorneys.”
“Something’s not right,” Anne said. Her curiosity began to churn. “You want to take a drive?”
“Where?”
“To wherever they are. I don’t think they were just pulling through town, Bob. We’re a little off the beaten path. They are either completely lost or are headed here. And they had enough equipment to make me think that some big project is in the works—a project that no one knows anything about.”
“Maybe it’s a government thing,” Bob suggested. “You know those guys. They think they’re exempt from every law, especially those in jerkwater towns like ours.”
“Tejon is not a jerkwater town, Bob. People live here because the air is clean, they can see the stars at night, and it’s a great place to raise kids.”
“I know that, Anne,” Bob said defensively. “But to big city clowns that come through here on occasion, we’re just a little hamlet in the hills.”
“You want to go with me or not?” Anne demanded.
“Yeah, I’ll go. Someone needs to keep an eye on you. You sound like you’re in the mood for a fight.”
“Not really,” Anne replied. “I just don’t like someone taking advantage of our city or our county.”
“I’ll drive,” Bob said. “We’ll take a city vehicle. That way we’ll look official. Any idea where they went?”
“No, not really. I know they were headed west through town. That was half an hour ago. They can’t have gone far.”
“Moving big rigs on these roads is a slow process. Still, we better get going.”
“Okay,” Anne said. “I’ll meet you out front. I’m going to make a quick call first.” She hung up, pulled a city directory from her desk, searched for a number, then placed a call. Three minutes later she was in the front seat of a white Dodge pickup. Bob, a tall man in his fifties, sat behind the wheel. He smiled through gray eyes. “Ready for Anne’s big adventure?”
“Just drive, Bob,” Anne said as she slipped her seat belt on.
“Who’d you call?”
“Sergeant Montulli. I thought extra eyes might be useful, so I asked him to alert his deputies. If they see the caravan, he’ll call me on my cell phone, assuming we’re not in a cell phone dead zone. Connections are iffy in these hills.”
“Pretty smart. I guess that’s why you’re mayor and I’m just a city employee.”
“Let’s see, who gets the full-time salary? Wait, don’t tell me. That would be you.”
“Ah, small town life.” Bob dropped the truck into gear and drove it out of the parking lot.
Chapter 3
PERRY KNOCKED LIGHTLY on the wood jamb and waited. The front door was open, and he could see through the aged screen door into the simple living room. The house was a white ranch style that he judged to be less than fifteen hundred square feet. When he pulled his vehicle up the dirt drive and into the gently sloping front yard, he noticed that the home was in need of repairs. The roof was a blanket of weathered composition shingles, many of which were askew or missing. The walls were covered in shiplap siding that had been exposed to years of California sun and roughly abused by decades of persistent wind.
To the south side of the house stood a simple vegetable garden, bordered by a three-foot-high fence of chicken wire to keep out rabbits and squirrels. Now he stood on a creaky wooden porch waiting for someone to answer his knock. Gentle music wafted out the door.
Perry knocked again. The music died, and he heard the sound of a sliding glass door opening, followed by muted footsteps. A woman with a wrinkled brown face approached.
“Yes?” she said softly. She stayed a few steps back from the door. Perry could see her apprehension.
“Good afternoon, I’m Perry Sachs. I’m here to see Hector and Rose Trujillo.”
“Oh, Señor Sachs,” the woman said with a broad smile. “I am Rose. Please, come in, come in.” She approached and pushed the screen door open, and Perry entered. The room was filled with the lush smells of food, and his stomach came to attention. “I didn’t know you were going to stop by,” she said. Her voice was spiced with a Mexican accent but not as strongly as he had expected. He had spoken to her previously, but only on the phone and only for a fe
w moments before being handed off to her husband. “Hector is in the back.” She led the way.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said.
“Oh, no. We don’t get much company out here,” she said.
“Out here” is right, Perry thought. The nearest neighbor was several miles away. Nestled in the hills as the home was, no other house could be seen.
Rose led Perry through the small living room, past the dining area, and back outside through a sliding glass door. “Hector, it’s Señor Sachs.”
Perry descended a three-step set of creaky stairs and found himself standing on a cracked concrete patio covered with a worn, whitewashed latticework that checkered the floor in squares of shade. The patio was furnished with two cushioned lounge chairs and two plastic chairs. A small, round redwood table separated the lounge chairs. On the table were plates and two half-filled glasses of tea. One plate held only a few crumbs; the other had a half-eaten portion of casserole.
A thin, brown man who looked to be in his early seventies was seated on one of the lounge chairs. Perry knew the man was only fifty-eight. He was dressed in jeans, a tan work shirt, and one tennis shoe. Only one shoe was necessary since his left leg was missing. Next to the chair was a pair of crutches. The man reached for them.
“Don’t get up,” Perry said quickly. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your lunch. I assume you’re Hector.” Perry extended his hand and approached.
The man settled back in the chair and shook hands. “Yes, I’m Hector. It’s good to have a face with the name,” he said. He smiled, showing straight, white teeth. Perry wondered why he had expected a gap-toothed grin. “Please sit down. Can Rose get you some tea?”
“No, thank you,” Perry said. “I won’t keep you long. I’m just back in the country, and I’m a little worn out from the trip. I’m looking forward to a nap in my motel room.”
“I didn’t expect a personal visit,” Hector said. His voice was strong, but his eyes revealed an inner weakness. Perry knew he was sick, but seeing it firsthand filled him with a deep pathos.
“How are you feeling, sir?” Perry asked, pulling up one of the plastic chairs. Rose returned to her lounge.
“Some days are better than others. The cancer continues to spread, or so the doctors tell me.”
“You’re undergoing chemotherapy?”
He nodded. “It leaves me tired. My house grows old with me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
It was Perry’s turn to nod. “I came by to say thank you for letting us investigate your property—and to give you this.” Reaching into his suit coat pocket, Perry pulled out a slip of paper. “It’s another check.”
Hector took the check and looked at it. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said with surprise. “This is very generous. You’ve already paid ten thousand. That was our agreement.”
“I know,” Perry said. “But I was able to get more. You have been very gracious to us. I appreciate that.”
“Most businessmen don’t pay more than they have to,” Hector said. “This I’ve learned from years of life.”
“True, but Sachs Engineering isn’t like other businesses. I also wanted you to know that we’re on the site now. When we’re done, we’ll return the ground to its original condition just as promised in the contract. We’ll also be as speedy as possible.”
Hector passed the check to Rose. “Take your time,” Hector said. “I can do nothing with the land now. I can no longer ranch. The cancer has stolen my livelihood.” He shifted his gaze to the green hills beyond. “It has been two years since I sold my livestock. That was during my first fight with . . . with this.” He motioned to his body. “They took my leg back then. I suppose I could have adjusted, but the cancer continued to spread. All I have now is the land—the land and my wife.”
“We have our children,” Rose said.
“I suppose, but they are not here, are they?” Hector turned back to Perry. “We have two children; both have moved out of state. One teaches; the other is a nurse.”
“Noble professions,” Perry said.
“Yes, but what of the land? I suppose I can sell it, but it’s been in the family for many generations. My grandfather made a ranch of this place and gave it to my father, and he gave it to me. I will pass it to my children, but they will sell it. Do you have any children, Señor Sachs?”
“No, I’ve never married. Been a little too busy, I guess.”
“Children make you old,” Hector said.
“You stop that,” Rose demanded. “Children are a blessing from the Lord.”
Hector smiled then winked at Perry. “I can’t run from her anymore, but I can still find ways to irritate her. It’s good entertainment for a man in my condition.”
Perry chuckled politely.
“What are you looking for?” Rose asked.
The question caught Perry off guard.
“Rose,” Hector said quickly, “I told you that they want to keep that secret.”
“I know it sounds strange,” Perry interjected, “but I can’t tell you.”
“It’s not oil,” Rose said. “You have to go down into the valley for that, and all those sites were bought up two generations ago.”
“No, it’s not oil,” Perry replied.
“Gold?” Rose prompted. “There’s no gold here.”
Hector frowned. “Rose, leave the man alone. We agreed to let them have their secret.”
“Why can’t we know?” Rose persisted. “It’s our land. We may be cash poor, but we still have the land, and it’s valuable. We own whatever there is in it.”
“Mrs. Trujillo,” Perry said. “Your land remains yours, including all mineral rights. We’re not prospecting or mining. We should only be here a few weeks at most and probably much less than that. Right now I have to keep certain things under wraps, but when the time comes, I promise to tell you.”
“But—”
“Leave it alone, Rose,” Hector commanded. “We decided to trust Mr. Perry. We’ve made the right choice. Look, he even brought us more money than we agreed to. Who does that these days? No one, that’s who. Let him alone.”
Perry could see that Rose was not satisfied, but there was nothing he could do about that. Secrecy was part of the deal. They had a right to be curious and he regretted that he couldn’t bring them into the picture, but sometimes situations dictated actions.
“Well,” Perry said, rising from the chair. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I do thank you for your trust.”
“And I thank you for the check,” Hector said.
“I can see myself out,” Perry offered. “When we pack up everything, I’ll come to say good-bye.”
“Gracias,” Hector said, slipping back into Spanish.
Perry looked at the man in the chair who had given them the go-ahead to search and dig on his property and wondered if he would live to see the end of the project. “Via con Dios, amigo.”
THE ROOM WAS dark, made so by thick plastic blinds that hung like vault doors against the window wall of the nineteenth floor of the Straight Building, home and headquarters of RS BioDynamics. The brilliant late-afternoon sunlight pressed against the glass and blinds, attempting to fulfill its purpose of dissolving all darkness. It failed. The room was a sepulcher, and its lone inhabitant preferred it that way. The darkness’s only enemy was the soft glow of four computer monitors that did little more than tint the gloom with muted illumination.
The room was large, a man-made cavern of extreme expense. The floor was hand-laid teak; the walls were dressed in thick purple drapes. No pictures hung anywhere. Despite enough room to hold a houseful of furniture, only a single glass-topped desk broke the monotonous expanse. There were no chairs, no sofas, no place for anyone to sit. Such things just encouraged people to stay longer than the owner cared to entertain them. It was from this large desk that the computer monitors trickled forth their anemic light.
Dr. Rutherford Straight was behind the desk in the only chair he’d sat in for more
than six years. His body leaned forward, swayed from side to side, then bobbed up and down. His eyes were closed, completing the darkness he craved, but he was not asleep. His mind was awash with thoughts, ideas flying through the gray matter like angry hornets around a threatened nest. Music as dark and thick as the shadowed room bounced from the hard floor and ceiling. Baritones, sopranos, deep brass tones from horns, sharp notes from violins and violas filled the space like smoke from a fire. Mozart’s classical compositions fit the room and its lone inhabitant as if they’d been hand-tailored by the maestro for this purpose.
A bell, gentle as a kitten’s mew, added three notes to the concert. Other men would have missed the addition, but not Rutherford Straight. Nothing got by him. Fifteen years ago, just three years out of university with his doctorate, Newsweek magazine had declared him the “most brilliant scientist since Pasteur and more significant to the realm of biogenetics than Gregor Mendel.” Others had joined in the chorus of praise: Technology Review, Scientific American, the Journal of the American Medical Association, and twenty other periodicals, scientific and popular, had shown his face on their covers or in their pages.
His mind made him conspicuous, his research made him famous, and his forty-eight patents on biological material and genetically enhanced animals had made him a billionaire. “No man knows more about the processes of life than Dr. Rutherford Straight, nor does anyone know how better to make millions from that knowledge.” The words had been inked in the Wall Street Journal.
The bell chimed again, but Rutherford ignored it.
How ironic life had become. How viciously, bitterly ironic, that a man who knew more than anyone about the processes of life would have so much of his own existence stripped away. In college, through graduate school, he had been vibrant, healthy, and had moved with the spring of youth. He’d been out of grad school less than a year when he noticed that the sharp edge of his strength had been dulled. He ignored it. There was research to do, a company to found, patents to be obtained and defended. Genetic manipulation of food and animals were the keys to the future. Humans, too, could be altered, life extended, babies improved, and much more. Time was one thing he couldn’t control, and he was therefore committed to not squandering it.
