by Gavin Reese
Michael purposefully crossed the dirt road, and his heavy boot treads audibly chewed into its hard, frozen surface. He strode into a tall, dry grass field and, even though he wouldn’t see it until he walked most of a mile, he hustled toward the familiar training complex. Snow had sporadically fallen in the area for the last three months, but the low humidity and constant wind had sent most of it on to Nebraska and South Dakota. Only a thin layer of snow-crusted ice crunched beneath Michael’s boots.
Gotta keep the low hills between me and the structures. Keep an eye on the running trails. Oughta see the flashlights and runners long before they have a chance to see me. If they’re even out in this shit. Depends on whether they pissed John off yesterday. That masochist might have ‘em out here doing wind-sprints in banana hammocks if they messed up bad enough. Michael realized he didn’t know how John would react to his presence there, but he certainly understood he didn’t want to find out. I’m not absolutely certain why I’m here. Answers, maybe, objective proof that I can trust something John tells me. Evidence that they’re working to protect us from Thomas’ ongoing, public betrayal without having to kill the man. All the above, I guess. If things go far enough sideways, maybe me and John can figure that out together.
As he approached a short hilltop just south of the Mother Mary trail he’d spent so much time on, Michael crouched down in what remained of the windswept grass and crawled forward to the low summit to get the best available view of the target. Retrieving his binoculars from the sling bag, he lifted them up to his eyes and apprehension immediately filled his innards. What the hell happened out here? Michael reflexively blinked hard, several times, to clear his vision, but the structures before him didn’t change. The place looks abandoned! Spending the next half-hour on the windswept hilltop, he repeatedly scanned each visible building, window, doorway, and crawlspace for any indication of human occupancy. No movement. No lights. No new trash. No fresh tracks anywhere, not even tire tracks across the driveway. No one’s been here since the last snowfall, maybe even longer.
After deciding that his gloves wouldn’t allow him to stay outside much longer, Michael finally risked a closer look. He dropped the binos back in his bag, zipped it closed, and carefully trudged down the hill toward a back, blind corner of the main house. It’s got the least number of windows for anyone to see my approach. Hearing nothing but the wind and the slight crunching beneath his feet, Michael tentatively pressed onward to the structure. John should’ve been up drinking coffee a half-hour ago, and his new crop of shitheads oughta be out suffering a distance run on Mother Mary by now. Not a light on in the whole place. Maybe they’re out on a field trip, but even John wouldn’t take them into the mountains this time of year. Nothing to teach up there but hypothermia survival.
By the time Michael reached the corner, he realized the two windows closest to him were broken. Even the pale moonlight cast enough reflection to reveal the damage. That can’t be right, John never would’ve let that stand. Working his way counterclockwise around the house, Michael kept the structure on his left side, which allowed his right hand a better chance of staying free to access his concealed Glock. Let’s pray that Roscoe gets to stay holstered today. I’d rather not get into a gunfight with John’s new Haggamore. Each window he passed was shattered at best, and missing at worst, and he briefly doubted he was on the right property. He stopped just short of the next corner and peeked at the old converted stable that had served as their classroom during the eight months he’d lived at the compound. Dismay overcame Michael when he saw the structure was barely standing. It now listed about twenty degrees to the east, as though it had given in to the ever-present Jetstream. It’s gonna collapse under its own weight! How did all this happen in four months?!
Michael grew bolder and more confident that he’d find no one at the property. He hustled down the long side of the main house as wind gusts propelled hard snow-pebbles up into his face. Squinting his eyes against the assault, he tried not to lose his situational awareness. Just before reaching the front corner and stepping onto the once-revered porch, Michael retrieved a small tactical flashlight from his pants pocket and kept it in his left hand. Just in case I need to draw or punch on something hidden inside.
Without slowing more than a step, Michael reached the front door, turned the knob, and stepped inside his one-time residence. He shifted left toward the kitchen to get out of the doorway and cast the flashlight’s bright, focused beam around the house’s interior. All the furniture’s gone, flooring’s gone, no appliances. It’s been stripped. Gobsmacked, Michael stood in amazement and worked to reconcile what he knew had been with what he saw now was.
The ceiling had been pulled down and most of the electrical copper wire was gone, which reminded Michael of a few abandoned homes he’d seen methamphetamine addicts demolish in his former life as a cop. It’s like I’m back in 2007 Silver City again, taking patrol calls about tweekers scrapping wire outta construction houses to pay for their next fix. Shining his light downstairs, Michael saw the basement, which had been partially finished when he last saw it, was now demo’ed down to the studs and dirt subfloor. Wind-drifted snow had piled up in the one corner he could see from upstairs. Had to have blown in through the windows up here, there’s not a window downstairs to break. Michael cautiously strode about the rest of the ground level, but it was clear the house hadn’t been occupied since he left. The floor creaks a lot worse than it did before. Like somebody loosened the boards on the way out.
All the interior doors had been removed, and Michael immediately suspected they would be the most significant source of latent prints and touch-DNA evidence if a competent forensics team ever had a warrant to examine the place. He briefly stopped and stood in the front bedroom where he’d spent so much time with “Father Harry,” discussing his psychological state and parrying questions about his efforts to best John’s training staff. There’s a lot more to that guy than he presented. Still convinced John’s taking orders from him, not the other way around.
Curious about that forensics angle, Michael checked the bathrooms and found all the toilets had been taken out, as well. He stopped near the middle of the structure and heard only the increasing winds blowing through its broken window panes. Hell, the house looks like it was abandoned long before I ever lived here. Even the light switches are missing. They went to a lot of trouble in a real short timeframe. They’re either operating from an abundance of caution, or they’re real goddamned scared that something’s gonna come from all the news reports. If it doesn’t go away soon, I don’t think Thomas’ll live to see summer. Only thing left to do here rhymes with ‘match and kerosene.’ He smirked and considered the apparent determination to erase the history of the compound. Wouldn’t surprise me if they got somebody just waiting for that one windless day to torch the place. Too easy to start a massive wildfire or draw unwanted attention from the local authorities. The typical winds up here’d blow the flames at the way to Nebraska, and that might be the only reason she’s not a charred shell. Michael shook his head in disbelief as he looked around the interior again. The house really looks like we were never here.
Although he expected to gain nothing from it, Michael moved back toward the stairs. He wanted to get a closer look inside the basement where he and his fellow Absolvers had lived, if only to confirm their presence had been erased. As he cautiously put weight on the top step, a low warning growl rose from beneath the stairs and halted his descent. Michael reflexively reached under his coat and quickly drew his Glock from its holster. Light cast around the rest of the basement interior revealed a few piles of dog feces. Coyote, probably. Hopefully, not plural. Realizing he’d been focused only on threats from the apex predator, Michael swore at himself for being so reckless. Always look for dogshit in the yard! That’s a rookie mistake! A quick, focused scan of the ground floor confirmed he hadn’t yet been surrounded, so Michael carefully stepped backward and kept his light and sights on the dirt floor in front of the stairs. Ti
me to go.
Now grateful that he’d elected to bring those specific gloves along, Michael cleared the areas ahead of him and kept a frequent focus on his six. I hate having the only known-threat area behind me. He stood just inside the main house’s doorway for a long moment, and the coyote downstairs didn’t immediately follow him. Sensing it shared his desire to be left alone, Michael determined he had to take this opportunity to inspect what remained of the property. I can’t leave here without knowing if they left the door, and there’s no chance I’m coming back a second time.
He shut off the flashlight and gave his eyes a few moments to begin adjusting back to the darkness, all the while listening intently for the stairs to reveal the animal’s ascent toward him. Once Michael decided he could see well enough in the exterior moonlight, he struck out toward the collapsing stable. John’s course on eyewitness testimony had claimed the stable’s doorframe and splintered the old pedestrian door about five months ago. The trainers didn’t adequately repair either object before Michael’s training program ended, and he hoped to find the same evidence still in place now. Crossing the open area between the house and the condemnable stable, Michael shifted his gaze and the Glock’s sights around him and twice made sure nothing followed him out of the house.
When he reached the doorway, Michael cast light into the interior to make sure he was actually alone this time. Can’t check all the interior, but it looks like I’ve got the only heartbeat out here. The stable had been even more convincingly stripped and damaged than the main house. Its broken door had finally been removed, and the interior condition convinced Michael he wouldn’t find anything that would help prove his presence and purpose there.
Frustrated and confused, Michael stood just inside the doorway and looked back to the west, where the Grinder had once been. Flagpoles are gone, obstacle course is gone. It’s like we were never here. He shone his flashlight on the doorframe, and his heart leapt, if only for a moment. The shattered wood frame showed a substantial difference in the visible age of the exposed wood. It was obviously locked and busted open. The interior wood’s been exposed to the elements more recently than the rest of the frame, but what the hell does that prove? Nothing. It proves, absolutely, nothing. It doesn’t even really corroborate my memory of two men in ski masks breaking down the door and fake-murdering John that day. All so he could have us, his students, prove firsthand that eyewitness testimony is unreliable without direct corroboration. He smirked and ran a gloved hand over the broken frame. Powerful lesson I’ll never forget, and a memory it now seems that I can’t ever prove really happened. At least I know I’m not insane, though. Without this small proof that I’d lived through John’s training program here, I might have to reasonably doubt I’d come back to the right place. Michael retrieved his cell phone from an interior coat pocket and snapped a quick photo of the frame damage. It won’t do anything for anyone else, but it does a helluva lot for me.
Part of Michael appreciated the effort that John’s team must have gone through to demo the property and its structures. In only a few months, it appeared that years, maybe decades, had passed without anyone having set foot on the site. There’s nothing here that anyone investigating Thomas’ allegations could reasonably use as proof. Anyone that wasn’t here to live through it would have no proof that anyone else had ever done so. I’m sure that’s the point: ‘Go ahead and try to say something. Take your little, maniacal shreds of evidence public. We’ll destroy you anyway, just like we’re doing to Thomas.’ Michael understood how little he actually knew about his boss and his chain of command. Pretty damned eerie to see they have this much power and ability to manufacture an effective, immediate outcome. Gonna hafta keep this place in mind if I ever think it’s time to spill my guts to the Washington Post.
Michael had wanted to leave the property before sunrise, and the property’s condition only worked to emphasize that notion. No other footprints out here. That oughta give me some comfort that I’m really alone, but, all it does is drive home the reality that out here, I’m really alone. No one’s gonna come to help, no one’s gonna hear me scream. Especially in this bitter wind. Just me and the goddamned basement coyote.
As Michael replaced the phone and zipped his coat back up against the cold, incessant wind, a sharp bark and whimper from the house caught his attention. He immediately pointed the flashlight’s blinding beam and his Glock’s sights at the porch, where the sound had come from. A full-grown, black-and-white Border Collie mix with a mottled chest wagged its tail and looked back at him across the open space. Michael lowered his gun and brought the flashlight’s beam down below the dog’s eyes. Its tail wagged more happily, despite its underweight appearance. It whimpered again and barked optimistically at him. Michael whistled back.
wwhhssst
“Come here, boy!”
The dog sprinted over to him and stopped just before running into Michael’s knees. After putting his Glock away, he used the flashlight to examine the excited animal. Michael spoke to the dog like he was a favored child. “Are you the mean old vicious dog from downstairs, huh? No, you’re just a good boy!” The collie mix turned circles and whimpered happily as he looked up at Michael, his tail wagging much faster and wider now. He didn’t have a collar, which wasn’t all that unusual for a ranch dog, but getting lost certainly was. “Who wantsa go get in the warm truck with me, huh, boy?” He rubbed the dog’s sides and immediately knew he was at least ten pounds underweight. Shouldn’t feel his ribs like this. He’s been out here for a while. “Can you sit?” The dog immediately faced Michael and sat upright. His head tilted to the side like he waited for another command. Or, a treat for being a good boy. “Wanna go for a walk?”
The dog jumped up and led Michael back out into the cold.
“Alright, boy, let’s get the hell oughta here.” Michael emerged from the stable, and the collie mix stepped in behind him on his right side. Bet he’s been trained to walk in that spot. As Michael led their way out toward the county road, he veered north toward the property’s running trails. Now out in the open, he’d had his fill of surprises for the morning and didn’t dare use his flashlight. Despite the paths having been well-defined and plainly visible only a few months ago, he couldn’t find a single one. Even Mother Mary’s M-I-A! How the hell did they do that in the winter? You can’t get dead grass to overgrow a trail in Wyoming in the winter?! I’m probably standing on top of the thing right now, and I couldn’t point it out to save my life. How the fuck did they do this? Even I’ve got trouble believing we were ever here.
Michael momentarily looked back at the dark, lifeless structures. The far eastern horizon brightened ever so slightly and winked out stars from its sky to warn him of the impending sunrise. There’s already been three different times I thought I’d finally left this miserable place forever. If nothing else, I’m real sure this one’s gonna stick. I can’t ever again set foot on John’s terra firma when it doesn’t exist anymore.
ONE
February 11. 0749 hours.
Niobrara County Sheriff’s Office. Lusk, Wyoming.
Michael drove his rented truck into the small lot in front of the Sheriff’s Office and parked near the front entrance. Not the best tactic, but it’s what people expect from an H-U-A civilian. He reached over to the passenger seat and pet his new best friend, Ira, behind his ears. The dog was so tired and warm under his new fleece blanket that he didn’t wake up. I’d sleep pretty hard, too, if my belly was full for the first time in a couple weeks. Thank God the feed stores open early in cattle country. Michael glanced down to the passenger floorboard, just below Ira, to check on the dog’s new water bowl. Not spilled, but mostly gone. See how he does and maybe give him some more in about an hour. “Good boy, Ira.” The dog still didn’t do more than breathe. “Definitely keeping you, and we’ll see about the name.”
Ecstatic to have rescued the dog from the abandoned compound, he stepped from the truck, zipped his barn coat back up to seal out the howling wind,
and glanced back at The Blue Bonnet Café as he softly closed the door. At least that’s still in place. I’d check myself into a rubber room if that had changed, too. Ducking his head away from the wind, he strode into the small building and saw a familiar face behind the counter. What was her name? Patty, maybe, something with a ‘P’ for sure.
“Good morning, how can I help you today, besides the obvious?” She pointed toward a large Thermos of coffee that sat upon the lobby’s counter just inside the doorway. “I’ve got hot water for tea, too, if you’re the one man in Niobrara that doesn’t drink coffee in the morning.”
Michael smiled. Peggy. Her name is Peggy. “No, thank you, ma’am, this looks like just the God-send I need this morning.” He stepped to the Thermos, pulled a Styrofoam cup from an adjacent stack, and poured his morning’s third cup of coffee. Heavy steam rolled out of the white cup and quickly dissipated in the air above.
“You look familiar,” Peggy offered and walked closer to Michael and the counter. “Have we met somewhere before?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t believe we have,” Michael lied. “I’m Tom Giles. I’m wondering if you might be able to help answer a couple questions I got about some properties near here.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister Giles, I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
“I help run a program for the Archdiocese of Santa Fe, back in New Mexico, and we take down old barns and use the reclaimed wood to teach job skills to folks in halfway houses. Try to give ‘em a new skill, a legit trade, so they can get back on their feet and keep their noses clean. I got sidetracked a little out east of town here, figure there might be a couple places with old barns they might wanna get rid of and donate the materials to us.” Michael knew rehabilitation programs were not especially well-received in rural communities and wanted her to answer his questions without offering substantial aid that someone actually in his position couldn’t turn down. If I offered to pay top-dollar for the lumber, she’d have the deed-holders on the phone in nothing flat.
