by Joe Nobody
Is he circling around for another look? Dusty questioned.
Detouring at a right angle away from the policemen led to a slightly less affluent area, but he was the only person on the sidewalk, the heavy precipitation obviously keeping other pedestrians inside. Almost at the end of the block, Dusty paused, his attention focused on the lot of a small, private, used car dealership. There, parked on the front row, was a 1966 Chevy half-ton pickup – the exact model his father had driven for years.
A quick check of the traffic showed no sign of the patrol car, so he decided to walk onto the lot and have a peek at the old girl. If nothing else, getting off the street would help him relax.
Someone had invested a serious number of hours into restoring the old truck. Wiping the rain from the driver’s window, Dusty could see the vinyl upholstery looked new, as did the floorboards and parts of the dash. The interior reminded him of his childhood, so many hours spent with his dad riding in just such a vehicle.
Walking around and inspecting the body, Dusty could see a few patches here and there – body putty used to fill in areas of rust or damage. The paint job wasn’t worthy of a high dollar restoration, but it wasn’t terrible either.
“She runs as good as she looks, señor,” announced an older Latino man. “My son did the restoration after we picked it up from an auction.”
Dusty glanced up at the salesman, the fellow toting a huge umbrella advertising a popular Mexican beer. As he approached, he stuck out his hand and said, “Juan.”
“Max,” replied Dusty, deciding to use his father’s name in honor of the old Chevy.
Juan inserted a key into the driver’s side lock and then moved to the front and opened the hood. Dusty met him there where the two men stared down at a clean, plain looking engine. “From a simpler time,” noted Dusty.
“Not a computer chip or circuit board in there,” replied the salesman. “Simple, rugged and dependable.”
Dusty moved to sit behind the wheel, the maneuver requiring the closure of his umbrella. Juan didn’t seem to notice the quick glance his customer cast up and down the street before entering the cab. The coast was still clear.
While the outside of the old hauler sparked memories, the interior submerged Dusty into the past. The “three on the tree” shifter, the tarpaper like floor covering, bench seat, and primitive AM radio pulled him back to a simpler, happier time.
Reaching up to touch the shifter on the steering column, he recalled his father’s muscular arm working the gears in smooth motions, the manual effort seemingly second nature. The steering wheel was huge compared to modern vehicles, the diameter required due to the lack of power steering. Controlling a truck from this period required both upper body strength and coordination.
The dash was ridiculously simple. A well-worn, chrome slide controlled three environmental settings; vent, heat and defrost. There were no air conditioning, recirculation, or temperature controls. The radio was equipped with only two knobs bookending a row of green digits that indicated frequency. A thin, red post moved right and left to indicate where the unit was tuned. The small window of numbers would fill the cabin with a warm glow of light during nighttime driving.
Citizens of Fort Davis in the early 1970s received only one radio station, and that was often filled with bursts of static. Dusty remembered his father’s rapt attention as he listened to announcers rambling on about the price of corn per bushel, pork bellies, and bean futures. The market reports were typically followed by simple country and western music, the serenades often portraying the broken heart of a cowboy recently abandoned by the love of his life.
There weren’t any seatbelts, the safety feature not included or required for several years after this model year. The windows were raised and lowered via a manually cranked knob, the main panes of door-glass assisted by smaller vents at the front that were pushed out and whistled if the speed exceeded 30 mph.
Dusty reached up and pulled down the visor, half expecting a foil of chewing tobacco or pack of Marlboro to fall into his lap.
“Start her up,” suggested Juan, handing over the keys.
And he did just that.
The engine caught on the first cycle, no blue smoke visible out the single exhaust. Dusty paid attention to the vibrations in the floorboard more than anything else. He thought the engine was in remarkably good shape considering the many miles the vehicle must have travelled.
“Do you want to take her for a spin?” Juan asked, clearly hoping he was wrong about the rain keeping all the customers away.
“Sure,” replied Dusty, “Why not.”
Returning a short time later with a temporary tag, it occurred to the gunsmith that he might have just uncovered a way to secure transportation. He waited for Juan to get into the passenger seat and then put her in gear.
The Chevy ran fine, its suspension much stiffer than Dusty’s current model pickup back home. Steering required work, but was manageable. After a few miles, the two men pulled back into the lot.
“How much?”
“I’ll take $3500 for her, señor.”
And so the negotiations began. Dusty worked the man down to $2800, and then threw down the final demand. “Okay, friend, I want to have a mechanic I know look her over. I’ll leave you $2,000 in cash as a deposit. I’ll either bring her back in three days, and you can keep $200 of that for the trouble, or I’ll come back in and pay off the rest.”
Juan took his time weighing his options. The truck had been on the lot for a few weeks, no one showing the slightest bit of interest. If the guy never returned the unit, he could file an insurance claim and pocket the deposit. If the customer returned the truck, one hundred per day wasn’t a bad rental rate.
“Okay, sir. You have a deal. Come on in the office, and we’ll fill out the paperwork.”
The word “paperwork” caused a knot to form in Dusty’s stomach, but he followed the man inside anyway.
“May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“My license was stolen a few days ago,” Dusty lied as he began counting out $100 bills. “I should have the replacement copy in the mail before long.”
Juan, looking greedily at the money, replied, “No problem; many of my customers don’t have the necessary documents.” And without another word, the salesperson began filling out the numbers for a temporary tag.
Watching the man basically perform an illegal act, Dusty guessed that Juan, and others like him, probably served a huge underground economy. Millions of undocumented workers were said to be in the United States. How did they buy cars, rent apartments, or procure bank accounts without the proper papers and documents? It had never occurred to the West Texan to ask such questions, but now that he was in a similar situation, he thought it was a good time to learn. Juan was providing an important first lesson.
Ten minutes later and 20 Ben Franklin’s lighter, Dusty hopped in his new ride and left a smiling Juan in his rearview mirror. He drove for a short period before realizing the gas tank was near empty. Thinking it would be best to keep it full in case he had to make a hasty departure, he found a gas station a few blocks later.
The simple matter of filling his truck with gas initiated a whole new series of problems. First of all, he didn’t know if unleaded fuel would harm the old engine. Finding leaded gasoline would be next to impossible.
Next, he considered the question of pumping regular, mid-grade, or premium. He hadn’t put anything but regular octane in a car in years. He decided on the premium, just in case. Then he had to pay.
In Fort Davis, a man pumped his gas and then went into the station to settle up. There was a factor of trust involved in the transaction. Here, it was a requirement to enter the station first, pay, and then pump fuel. This was mandatory unless the customer had a credit card - something Dusty didn’t believe in, nor could have used even if his wallet had been full of plastic.
To make matters worse, the place was filthy with security cameras. Pulling the bill of his hat low, he si
ghed and made for the cashier.
Without thinking, he peeled off a $100 bill and then pointed to the old truck. The kid behind the counter nodded and said, “I’ve got one hundred on pump number 8.” Dusty was handed a receipt, and then left to fill his tank.
The truck wouldn’t hold $100 worth, the automatic shut-off stopping the flow with a significant amount of change due. He was going to get in the truck and leave, but visions of the clerk chasing after him changed his mind. Simply leaving might draw attention that was unacceptable.
Dusty returned to the store and waited in line for his change. The kid remembered him, looked at the computer-like screen, and counted out the change.
Putting away the money, Dusty looked up and saw a police car pulling into a parking space, the driver navigating it directly into a parking spot between the station’s front door and his truck. Holding his breath, he forced himself to walk casually around the cruiser, passing the front bumper just as the policeman opened the door.
He didn’t breathe until he reached for the Chevy’s door handle, his hands shaking so badly he almost couldn’t manage inserting the key. His mind kept waiting for an authoritative voice to shout, “Freeze,” or some similar command, but it never happened.
The tingling of fear didn’t leave his legs for several blocks. It was another five intersections before he stopped looking in his rearview mirror every few seconds.
Dusty used the condo building’s parking garage, finding the reserved spot for his specific unit. Despite the close encounter with the police officer at the gas station, he closed the door behind him, carrying an improved outlook on life alongside his purchases.
Tim couldn’t see clearly anymore, his eyes strained from working at least 60 hours in the last three days, the pace of local news events not allowing for much sleep. The Post’s office had been absolute bedlam trying to cover the attacks downtown. Every reporter, staff member, and typesetter had worked around the clock, playing angles, gathering information and putting a unique perspective on Houston’s latest newsworthy event.
He called the initial rumors of a natural gas leak as bullshit, talking his editor into not wasting time on any background story and saving the paper some money and face. He had known immediately it was the guy with “God’s Gun,” his instincts bristling when the first explosions occurred at the federal building.
Despite the unwavering feeling that Weathers was behind the outbreak of violence, his boss wouldn’t let him run with the story - at first. The Post had taken a lot of criticism, from both the authorities and the general public, over Tim and Wendy’s first article. The paper’s owners had passed the word down - make certain that speculation didn’t run rampant after the explosions.
Then the mayor’s press conference had vindicated Crawford. Tomorrow morning’s edition of the paper would contain a front page full of “I told you so,” coverage, touting the fine reporting and award winning journalism of the rag. Bragging openly about being the first to cover what had become an ongoing, critically important story.
Tim looked at his watch, the small numerals on the face blurring beyond recognition. It doesn’t matter what time it is, he realized, it is damn late. I’ve got to get some sleep… and a shower.
The air, cooled by the day’s rain, felt good against his face as he walked down the steps in front of the newspaper’s downtown offices. Despite the rinsing effect of the precipitation, he could still detect the aroma of burnt rubber from the fires, his office only a few blocks away from the library.
He crossed the street and saw Joe was in his normal spot, sleeping soundly on two pieces of cardboard, a shopping cart full of empty water bottles, scraps of clothing, and empty fast food bags nearby. He pulled four bucks out of his pocket and dropped them in the homeless man’s lap. It was twice his normal donation, but he’d been working double shifts.
His Ford sedan was on the second floor of the garage. Enjoying the night air, he decided to walk up the ramp instead of taking the elevator. Besides, it always smelled like mold and old urine after a day’s rain.
He pulled the keys from his pocket when a voice sounded behind him, the presence startling the hell out of him.
“Mr. Crawford?”
Inhaling and pivoting both at the same time, Tim found the outline of a man in the shadows. “Who’s asking?” He decided to act tough.
“My name is Dusty Weathers. I’m the man you wrote about in your paper. Sorry to startle you, I mean you no harm.”
Relief flooded through Crawford’s bones, the fact that he wasn’t going to be instantly assaulted or killed outright stopping the gusher of adrenaline surging through his system. The follow-on realization that he was standing 20 feet away from the most wanted man in the world renewed his agitation, but it was of a different flavor.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve received about a million prank calls from people claiming to be Durham Weathers since I ran that article. How would I know you’re the real McCoy?”
Dusty reached for his wallet, a slight grin passing across his lips when the reporter took a step backwards at his movement. “I’ll show you my driver’s license. Will that do?”
The West Texan stepped closer, the movement bringing him into the light. He extended Crawford the license, but it was unnecessary. The man’s face was as familiar as an old classmate at a high school reunion – the unusual looking weapon slung across his chest all the proof the reporter needed.
“You’ve shaved the beard and changed your hair color,” Tim noted, ignoring the offered ID. “Still, I recognize your face.”
Grunting, Dusty returned the card to his wallet, and then his attention to the reporter. “I’m sure a man in your profession has a million questions, Mr. Crawford. I’m a guy with a million answers, but not tonight. You look tired and in need of a good night’s rest. I promise not to generate any more news for a few days – unless I’m pressed into doing so again.”
“Pressed? Again? I’m not sure I follow, Mr. Weathers.”
“The reason why I acted against the cops is because they have taken two of my friends into custody and won’t give them a fair hearing or due process of the law. My friends, freeborn Americans, are being treated worse than the prisoners down at the military jail in Cuba. I tried to negotiate with the FBI, but they kept calling me a terrorist and a traitor and wouldn’t listen. I hit their garage and the SWAT vans to send a message, both to you and to them.”
“To me?” Crawford’s voice sounded nervous.
“Yes, to the press. Please keep in mind, sir, that I could have collapsed that federal building. I could have turned the entire structure to dust – everyone inside would have been killed. I didn’t. I’m not a murderer, terrorist or traitor. I’m a common man who accidently invented a very powerful gun. Now, my government wants to kill me and take the weapon.”
“Have you offered to just turn it over to them?”
“No, and the powers that be aren’t too happy about it.” Dusty patted the rifle-like device hanging across his chest, and continued. “This is too much for mankind right now, Mr. Crawford. We barely kept from destroying the planet with nuclear weapons, and the destructive power of this technology is several fold beyond splitting atoms. This is small, compact, easy to make and, according to my brother, has the capability to generate virtually unlimited amounts of energy. I judge my fellow man far too immature to handle this right now, and that’s why I won’t hand it over to my government, or anyone else for that matter.”
Pulling the sling over his head, Dusty offered the reporter the rail gun. “Here, hold “God’s Gun” for yourself.”
Tim hesitated, not sure if the device was being surrendered or if Weathers wanted to give a demonstration. In the end, curiosity got the better of the reporter, and he accepted the weapon.
Crawford had spent a fair amount of time around guns. He’d hunted, shot trap and skeet. After hefting the weight of the piece, he shouldered the rail gun, aiming at distant skyscrapers visible above the half-wal
l of the garage.
“Whatever you fire at is certain to be destroyed,” began Dusty. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a building, plane or an aircraft carrier, the weapon will pulverize anything. Nothing on this earth can withstand it.”
“So I could just pull the trigger, and it would destroy that entire building?”
“Yes, and the one behind it, and the one beyond that if the power is turned up enough.”
Crawford believed Dusty. He was also surprised at the lure of the gunsmith’s creation. Unlimited power, right there in his hands. Easy to use, unstoppable. His mind began to race with the possibilities, interrupted only by the big cowboy’s arm reaching outward, obviously wanting his weapon back.
Tim hesitated, not quite ready to give it up. At first, he told himself that he was simply curious about the technology. Honesty broke through, the reporter finally admitting that the feeling of invincibility was a powerful emotion. To hold such power – right here – in a parking garage. He shook his head to erase the developing fantasy.
“You see my point, don’t you sir? It’s difficult to hand it back, isn’t it?”
After another moment, Crawford did hand it over. He felt a deep sense of loss watching Dusty re-sling the weapon.
The reporter’s eyes focused on the gun, stunned at his own reaction to holding such power in his hands. He hadn’t considered Weather’s side of the story. It had never dawned on him that the now-vilified fugitive might actually be a good guy trying to protect others.
“Mr. Weathers, you’ll pardon my skepticism, but how can I know you’re telling me the truth? How can I prove what you’re saying is accurate?”
Nodding, Dusty replied without hesitation, holding out a small piece of paper. “I was hoping we would get past the invention and around to that question. My story is easy to prove, sir. Find out what is happening to these two people, and you’ll see the government’s lies begin to unravel. Once you do that, I’ll be happy to sit with you and answer all your questions.”
Tim accepted the paper, holding it so he could see in the light. There were two handwritten names on the small note, Hank Barns and Grace Kennedy.
