by Matt Minor
You can tell Jules is a numbers guy. He has all these miscellaneous pages with calculations scribbled on them. It looks like he was actually adding up his expenses associated with the whole dog debacle. There are several letters from the county courthouse, with attached deeds. Upon closer inspection, it turns out that there are other properties owned by Bowers Power, Inc. On the manila file is written, in bold black letters: BPI. It astonishes me that the Sheriff ’s Department could overlook something like this, particularly since much of the information it contains came from that same county’s courthouse. Perhaps I’m not giving them the benefit of the doubt? Perhaps they copied the contents and returned the document? But that doesn’t gel with what Mrs. Reynolds inferred when she asked me to clean up after myself.
Hell, I don’t know. I continue.
I start to examine the deeds. Turns out that BPI also owns, what is known in these parts as the Old Adobe. The Old Adobe is a replica of some Colonial Spanish fort that was supposedly torn down so the stones and timber could be used for other purposes. Apparently this happened a long time ago, because the ‘new’ Old Adobe was built in the early part of the last century. Access to it is precarious as the river patterns have changed in the past hundred years. Now the sizeable structure is right smack dab in the flood plain. It literally sits in a shallow swamp. Few even know about it because it’s so out of the way.
As I cull further into the documents, I come across several handwritten letters as well as numerous printed emails. All of the letters are signed: R. Sturnhauser. Interestingly enough, as I try to read through what is clearly the handwriting of a man, I discover that many references are made regarding an “Ella.” What I can glean from the scribbling is that Ella is Jules’ wife. She seems to have some relation to R. Sturnhauser.
There is no return address on any of these letters from Sturnhauser. Why?
As the pages turn, I am apparently getting to the meat of their correspondence, and the reason why these letters, which at first seem personal in nature, are included in this file:
‘…J. I must say that I share your concern regarding the animals. I must also caution you to temper your gung-ho nature. It is my professional opinion that any more contact with either the politicians or the police in your area is a bad idea. Obviously they do not care. But more importantly, I am concerned that you might be endangering yourself. Let me establish a connection between BPI and AUE, or not. If none exists, then I would advise pursuing the removal of the dogs. If one exists between the two, I think there is more here than meets the eye, and may have a connection to the deaths that instigated my flight back home. I simply don’t know and need more time. Again, I am cautioning you: DO NOT proceed with your complaints or research.’
So, I ponder, Bowers Power, Inc. is connected with Azteca Unidos Electrico, and may have something to do with…what deaths? Bizarre. I’m intrigued…so I keep reading. The letter in question is around ten pages long:
…the above stated aside, I suggest we continue with our correspondence in the method we have done up to this point. Do not call my home landline, as it was canceled, or my normal cell, but continue using the number I gave you until further notice. Soon I will be back in Texas, first and foremost to help Ella, but also perhaps to provide hands-on help with this issue. Remember, I have been in hiding now for some time. I do not wish you to have to suffer the same fate…’
I return the letter to its envelope and examine it further. Though there is no return address on the front, there is a stamped postmark. The letter was mailed on 7/30.
I think Jules went missing shortly after he received this.
The red ink reads Tuscaloosa, AL.
“Alabama? Why? Who is this?” I mutter.
My heart is pumping like a piston and my adrenaline is firing. I need a drink and a cigarette. Now I know why cops drink so fucking much: at some point the stress of the unknown just gets to you. And like a cop, a good one at least, I’m starting to feel instincts. I am convinced, as I slip the file back into its makeshift, hidden chamber in the filing cabinet, that the dogs have not been removed, but moved. Moved to the Old Adobe fort!
I gather my things and am locking up when I start to feel that same old eerie feeling I always get in this place at night. I lock our office door with my thumb and thrust it shut behind me. The French doors that guard one standing in the dark hallway from the back entryway are shut. Shut? I don’t remember shutting them. Then I hear something, a strange rumbling above in the large attic of the bank. I have only been up there once. From what I could tell it was basically a large storage area, like so many attics. Could it be rats? I’m pondering, a little panicked, as I pause in bewilderment. No time to retrace steps. Get the fuck out of here.
The heavy night air is almost comforting. Then I remember about instinct. How, if wrong, it can get innocent people killed.
I’m getting ready for work. Keith is still crashed, as he had a late night. He never heard me enter the apartment. I’m worried all this partying might inhibit his care. On his behalf, recently, in conjunction with our district’s congressional office, I’ve put in for benefits galore: Medicaid, disability, Medicare. I’m just hoping Keith’s natural instinct for fucking things up doesn’t rear its multitude of heads.
But my focus is not on Keith, it’s on the one thought above all others that I will not let go: I need to hit the Old Adobe. Not at some time in the arbitrary future, but tonight. Zipping up my slacks, I resign to do exactly that.
I must get prepared.
The whole day I can’t focus on anything but tonight. I split up to the Academy and buy a pair of waterproof rubber boots—or what Yankees call galoshes. I’ve packed a bag with a pair of jeans, a shirt I can soil, and a big flashlight. I’m beside myself all day, so restless, in fact that I decide to drive out to Bowers and inspect the structure before it gets too dark. This proves to be a good instinct because as I look out with binoculars over the water-infested field that buffers the Old Adobe from the roadway, I discover that it is barely visible. In fact, if it were dark out it would not be discernible from here at all.
Besides, sitting some quarter mile off the road, the rains of late have caused a profusion of foliage. The bottomland oaks and pecans—pecans in particular—have shrouded all but intermittent slivers of the sizable building. And what I can see is very well camouflaged. The Old Adobe, though architecturally a sort of cross between the Alamo and Goliad Presidio, was fashioned in the design of the time, which was stucco. But the paste has rotted away these past one-hundred years to reveal the brick and mortar underneath. All of it, both the brick and the mortar, are splattered and spotted with mildew.
I hop back in the Expedition and turn around at the railroad crossing. Circling back, I take the only road that could lead back to the adobe. I’m certainly not planning on pulling in whatever entry this thing might have—although by the looks of the saturated field, I don’t know how this would be possible in anything other than a tank—or canoe. I discover an arbor-shadowed, unmarked, dirt trail to my left, the Old Adobe’s on the right.
I know where to hide the car tonight. I’ve just got to make it to tonight. I don’t know what to do with myself.
I decide to hit a local Mexican food joint and then head on over to a simulated golf course to hit some balls.
I wolf down my chicken tacos, and, after fighting a little traffic, hit the green. Well, it’s not a green actually, as this is indoors. My tee off consists of an Astroturf area about ten by ten. The course is displayed on a movie screen. Great technology—golf in the summer in Texas. I suck at this game, but I’m killing time and anxiety; just trying to keep my mind occupied. I feel like drinking, but abstain. I can’t do what I’m about to do with a buzz.
This is summer, so it takes the night forever to sink in. But finally, it’s past nine and time to go.
My heart is racing as I detour down the road that I had surveyed just a few hours ago. I pull off on the dirt trail to my left, finding a well-co
ncealing nook. I’m worried about my headlights alerting my presence. But by now it’s so dark out I have to keep them on to keep from driving into the primordial ditch.
I put the car in park and pull off a pair of leather boots, trading them for rubber. I’m dressed all in black with the exception of my shoes, which are gray. I found some old Halloween camouflage makeup in my dresser drawers. I squint in the rearview mirror and smear the green and black cream all over my pale face. I douse myself with mosquito spray. I put my .38 revolver in a hip holster.
I get out of the Expedition, take a piss, zip, and…I’m off!
I can’t get the tribal riff of X’s song, “The Hungry Wolf ” out of my head.
Got to focus.
The paranoia I had regarding the headlights I equally share regarding the flashlight; it must be used sparingly and cautiously. The road leading back towards the Old Adobe is flanked by deep swollen ditches. If a car comes my way, it will make for precarious escape. I switch the flashlight on and furiously survey a way onto the property. I spot a culvert covered in earth. It provides a short bridge to the other side of the ditch, just up ahead. And just in time, as I hear the hum of a car approaching from the main road. I stash myself behind a small tree that has grown out of the lingering water, just in case the car turns my way. The headlights keep straight, cutting horizontally through the thick darkness. I’m lucky…this time.
I don’t have a lot of options here, so switching the light back on, I begin studying the barbed wire fence that surrounds the entire place. According to the deed I lifted from Jules, this property is damn near three hundred acres. I find a few loose wires and squeeze through. The ground is soaked and I feel my feet getting heavy, as if the earth’s gravitational pull just got stronger.
I’m now trespassing—with a firearm and no permit. It hits me that if I get busted, I’m toast.
Not knowing quite how to besiege this thing, I proceed along the perimeter, sticking near the fence.
People talk of butterflies, but I feel like I’ve swallowed a nest of yellow jackets.
From my back pocket I feel my phone vibrate. It’s Brenna. Shit. I haven’t talked to her since I dropped her off at home last Saturday. I guess my not calling her worked—although it wasn’t intentional— because she’s now calling me, but what bad timing. Seems I can’t win. I can’t answer…and I don’t.
The closer I get to this thing, the bigger it appears to be. I have no choice but to shine the light. Wow, this is some structure. It looks to be about half the size of a football field: the length being the longer and the width the shorter. The front is Alamo-like, with a bell hole cut into the center; doesn’t appear to be a bell though. But the walls that enclose whatever lurks inside, they have to be at least fifteen feet high.
Shit, I’ve thought of everything but a goddamned ladder. I guess I just lack Jules’ training. I’m thinking this venture may have been for nothing. Plain stupid.
I stop, and shine the bright yellow orb towards the road that’s to my left. A metal gate, the length of the pavement, abruptly signals its end. By what I can make out, it looks like a dirt trail resumes the path. I guess this is the entry way?
The fort is situated catty-corner from where I stand near the fence, under a large tree. I move accordingly, picking up my pace. I’m half jogging. The flashlight is on. The tight yellow orb bouncing with each stride along the short side of the Old Adobe’s decaying walls.
No sign of life. Nothing.
I kill the light and try to catch my breath once at the end of the side wall. The weed and smokes are really catching up with me. I’m panting like a sweltering bullfrog. Suddenly, I feel like puking. I lean over and start to spit. My mouth is warming. I need a drink of water.
What the fuck am I doing here? I ask myself. I mean really, no plan of action or anything, just a state employee trespassing on private property with a firearm. I must be sick in the head and covet a death wish.
After sitting down in the mud for a few, I finally get my shit together. My stomach is starting to settle, but the sweat in my eyes is causing a fresh problem. I wipe the trails from my forehead and from around my eyes, but they are still burning.
I’m here. It’s time to flee or fight. I start thinking about Ann, Keith, Mrs. Reynolds…and Jules: that’s why I’m here, because of Jules! Goddamnit, I’m going to fight.
I stand back up. With my shoulder snug against the back corner of the Old Adobe’s left side wall, I eek my head around to survey the ass-end of the structure. Awkwardly, with my left hand, I focus the flashlight down its shadowed length: nothing but pockets of standing water and tufts of wild weeds.
The back wall is lower than the rest of the structure, by several feet as far as I can tell. In the center is a gothic-style wooden door, with what appears to be a heavy metal latch. There’s no way I’m getting in this place. What a waste of good danger. But before I call it quits and sneak back to the car…I try sliding it open.
It opens. Whoa.
This thing is heavy, so it takes a little weight to ease it open. The weeds at the base are high and further inhibit its movement. I unbutton the clasp on the holster and place my right hand on the pistol’s handle, my index finger twitching near the trigger. Now, with my right shoulder, I lean into the door with all one hundred and eighty pounds of me. I lose my balance and stumble as the door gives way. Regaining my ground I draw the .38. My left hand flashes the orb of the flashlight in terrified fury.
Nothing, nothing at all…only an open-air yard.
But wait…
Along the left wall, I spot several large crates in a row: four or five of them. Doing a double take on the yard, which ends towards the front with a covered area that appears to house several darkened passageways, I carefully navigate towards my left where the crates sit.
What the hell is this? The first one seems to be moving, jostling as I approach. Across the front is a small, rectangular slit covered by a metal coverlet. Slowly, I slide it open. Shining the light into whatever might be inside, I struggle to view its contents. Holy fuck! It’s a dog, a pit bull…I think. It’s hard to know definitively because its snout is muzzled. It’s shaking furiously. I can’t tell if it’s out of fear or rage. The smell of dirty dog and dog shit hits me hard. The stench mixed with the damp air conjures a rank alchemy my upper gastro region finds hard to take. I guess my adrenaline is pumping too hard because my gag reflex refuses to oblige this potent stench.
The darkness near the front of the Old Adobe beckons me as I stand surveying the line of crates against the wall. I’ve still got the flashlight in my left hand and my right index finger on the trigger. I really think if I had to I could shoot whatever sick motherfuckers are doing this to these poor dogs.
I’m sweating profusely and am having a hard time seeing. I should have brought a hat or headband. The back portion of the open yard, where I entered, is closed off by a short wooden slatted fence, about chest high. The gateway is wide open. I now enter a foyer-like area that ends with a series of covered tunnels. One goes left, the other right. Both are black as ancient pitch. Both smell of musky mold.
I remove the gun from its holster. I cock the trigger.
Arriving at a door to my right, I check the knob to see if it turns. It doesn’t.
I continue down the stone-cobbled corridor. I come to another door, again to my right. Out from under it, a dim light glows, barely detectable; like from a computer monitor? The knob gives under the gentle torque of my wrist. I wipe the river of sweat from my face with my sleeve. I push the door open and drop, gun drawn, hitting a knee. And, there, just as I expect: a computer screen.
This small compartment, no bigger than a shed, looks to be an office of some sort. I step in so I can see what’s on the monitor. I wiggle the mouse. What’s this, shots from surveillance cameras…?
My amateurism strikes me like a stray bullet.
But wait…
What sounds like the squeal of a plastic toy faintly at first, grows lo
uder with each stilted second…into…the sound of rustling dogs!
Holy fuck!
The hallway I’m presently down, dead ends. I’ve only one way to go, back from whence I came: The direction of the squealing, rustling dogs?
I take off running. I break out of the enclosed passage area. The sound of canines is only getting louder. I sprint towards the back gate where I entered, searching for anything that might be moving. I see nothing! I return the firearm to my belt so I can open the gate…but it’s locked! Again, Holy fuck! I turn around and spot a small pack of squatty dogs charge out of the darkened foyer! I’m rattling the gate…why isn’t it opening!
With a loud armor-like thud, a large ladder drops to the ground from over the fence.
“Here ya go, kid! Git yer ass outta there—NOW!” a heavy Southern accent bellows from the other side. The dogs are no more than ten feet away as I clamor up the endless series of rungs, the length of which far exceeds the height of the fence I must breach.
“Jump!” a shadowy figure shouts as I stand in panic at the top. Below, it sounds like a chorus of chainsaws barking into wood!
I jump.
“No time for pleasantries. Move it!” the stranger screams. “Follow me—and git that goddamned flashlight outta my face!”
This previously shadowed figure now looks vaguely familiar. It’s the ghost of Bear Bryant.
CHAPTER TEN
THE ALABAMAN
A brittle crack just overhead breaks the seal of the black night air. Are they shooting at us?
I have no idea who this man is or where he is leading me.
Racing into the void that is the woods, he stops and turns back towards the Old Adobe, which is now stirring with life.
“Turn that goddamn flashlight off!” Bear yells as he bobs his fedora-topped head like a scribble, trying to see around the wild foliage that surrounds us.
“It’s pitch black out here, man. How do we see where we’re going?” I ask, panting.
