One Rule - No Rules

by Lawrence Ambrose

  "It was nice meeting you, Thalma," he said, squeezing open the door. "Thanks for everything, including the offer, but I don't think I'm cut out for whatever it is you're offering."

  Thalma watched him walk away toward Wal-mart, his long, golden brown hair slapping against his slim shoulders as if waving goodbye. Pussy, she thought, but then smiled acridly at herself. Too bad I like pussies.

  She drove out to a house a mile north of Breton – a smaller version of her own house and property – surrounded by corn and soybean fields in the first stages of ripening. She'd purchased it at an auction through one of her agents, who represented a dummy corporation – the same dummy corporation that had purchased her own property.

  The house was isolated, but she followed the same procedure as always: observing it with high-powered binoculars from two vantage points on adjacent dirt roads before driving up to it. Three young men lived there. Two were students at the university – a math and sociology major - and the other was between both colleges and jobs. They were all long-haired and bearded like Louis, and favored jeans and tie-dyed shirts. She thought of them as her hippies.

  Arthur met her at the front door. Arthur listened to classical music and loved math puzzles. He was her most serious and responsible local distributor, the one she trusted to keep his roommates in line. He offered her some herbal tea, which she accepted.

  "Anything new?" she asked him.

  "Same old, same old." He tapped the padded envelope on the coffee table and smiled. "Just maybe more of it."

  Thalma opened the envelope and rifled through the bills – mostly hundreds with a smattering of fifties and twenties.

  "Six thousand, seven hundred and fifty," he said. "So far the summer slump hasn't struck."

  Thalma smiled and nodded. He brought her a cup of tea, and she joined him on the couch. The money was small change – a minuscule percentage of her trade on Silk Road 2.0 and a new outlet, Blue Sky – but it all added up. Diversification was the mother of prosperity, her Brazilian mentor, Adriano, had once told her.

  "How go the studies?" she asked. "Solved Goldbach's Conjecture yet?"

  He laughed. "Not quite. I've been kind of busy, but I'm on it."

  Thalma finished her tea and rose. At times she might linger and talk more, usually about nothing of substance - just idle chatter she could carry with her back to the empty recesses of her big, airy house. But she wasn't in the mood today. Her thoughts kept turning to the golden-haired man she'd dropped off at Wal-Mart.

  "I'll be right back," she said.

  She returned to her truck and performed her usual tour of the place, winding slowly between the barn and former chicken shed, looking for anything or anyone out of place. She ended up back in the shade in front of the house. Arthur was out on the lawn, drinking a second cup of tea. She'd never seen him drink anything stronger or ever partake of their product.

  Thalma popped the hood. Leaning over the engine, she sprung the clips on the charcoal canister. Inside what appeared to be the filter was another heavy plastic canister. Inside that canister were a block of dry ice and a vacuum-bagged portion of what she called "Special B" ("special blend"): the result of many years of marijuana plant crossbreeding that produced an exuberant and yet mellow high. Next to her recent triumph in plant engineering – the result of collaboration with a plant geneticist that was already becoming legendary as "Purple Haze" – Special B was her bestseller.

  Attached behind the fuel injectors was a Heckler and Koch P30L – companion to a Glock 20Sf in a compartment under the arm rest and a M14 clipped under the truck chassis. She considered these "worst case scenario" weapons, to fall back on in a fight against multiple opponents. Her preferred weapons were her own feet and hands.

  Arthur received the bagged item with a bow of benediction.

  "Thanks, Thal," he said. "You know, we could do more."

  "And you know how I feel about over-saturation drawing police interest."

  "I know, but I was going to tell you, I've got a good friend from California who just moved to Rapid. I haven't said anything to him, of course, but I have a feeling he'd be interested in joining our little operation."

  "How long have you known him?"

  "We grew up here in Breton. He followed his parents to California when we were sixteen. He just graduated from Chico, and has a lot of student loan debt."

  "Give me his name. I'll look into him."

  Afterward, Thalma drove away, releasing a breath that wasn't quite a sigh. So young, she thought. So full of life and high hopes. When he graduated, Arthur might be in her employ for another year or two while he taught part-time at the university, and then he'd probably go on to a full professorship, a wife, a family, and a life completely removed from the game. At least she hoped he would.

  Arthur was only one of three people in her distributive network who had met her in person as Thalma. Four others had dealt with her male doppelganger, Mark. No one, including Arthur and his roommates, knew anything about her other than that she supplied them with dope. Googling her or looking her up in the public records – which she did periodically - wouldn't yield anything but a couple of vehicles registered in her name. The only time Arthur saw her was at this house. The other distributors never saw her at all. Their only connections to her were encrypted emails and text messages - and money transferred into various dummy corporation accounts.

  After picking up groceries at "Wally World" and HyVee, and a pair of burritos from Qdoba, Thalma drove home. She sat on her front steps eating her burritos, while Socrates crouched a polite distance away, eyes averted to the adjacent farmland, which Thalma owned and rented out. Thalma tossed him a couple of scraps of beef, which he gobbled up almost before they hit the ground.

  Visible from the front steps, the ARE wind turbine, one of three located on the property, was making a small extra noise which pricked her ears. She frowned. Hopefully, it just needed an oil change, which she could handle. The three thirty-foot turbine towers were the only clue of the amount of off-grid electricity the property consumed.

  "Farmer Bob" rolled by in his pickup, tipping his hat to her on the way to the barn where he stored his harvester and other equipment. Bob Johnson and his family had been leasing her land for five years. To them, she was merely a long-term tenant who managed the property on behalf of Land Trust Investments. The Johnsons were a small compromise on her privacy, but with a huge payoff, she thought, in the appearance of normality. People, especially nosy neighbors or law enforcement types, would wonder about a woman living alone out here on such a large property with three wind turbines, but tractors, combines, and storage trailers rolling in and out made it just another one of hundreds of farms dotting the countryside. For a few months out of the year, Bob and his sons cultivated, planted, harvested, and did some routine maintenance – then they were gone.

  Thalma carried the cash from Arthur down to her basement. She dropped a couple thousand in her "wall safe" – a brick-surfaced drawer that blended perfectly on the wall next to the wood burning furnace – before activating the sump pump. When the cavity had drained, Thalma set aside the pump and dropped down six feet onto the moist floor. She tugged the side latch near its bottom, and a curved panel swung outward. The sealed stainless steel door behind the panel had a small push-button lock at its top, well above the water level. She punched in the four digits, pulled down the deadbolt, and twisted the compression wheel counterclockwise to open the door. She tugged the sump pump back over the hole by its attached chain before entering a steel-walled chamber – one of a series of linked former shipping containers.

  Her entrance triggered fluorescent lights on the ceiling which illuminated several rows of hydroponic tubs sprouting dozens of one and two foot plants. Her Special B clone room. Beyond that lay two Special B and Purple Haze mature plant rooms, followed by her Special Project room, and finally, her Magic Room, where various strains of psilocybin mushrooms lurked in cool, near-darkness.

  In the second room, s
he slid a magnetic handle off a wall and used it to lift a square steel floor panel out of a nearly seamless black-painted metal floor. She opened the safe below the floor panel, and dropped in the cash on top of the stacks of currency, gold, and silver already there.

  AFTER SUPPER, with the June sun still hanging well over the horizon, Thalma strapped on her fifty pound weight vest and went for her usual evening jog around the property. Socrates padded along with her for the first mile before dropping off, as usual, to stroll back home. She continued down the dirt road between fields of corn, picking up the pace a little. Long-distance running and one hundred and forty pound Rottweilers was not a match made in heaven. Not that her 215 pounds plus fifty were all that light, either, she thought. People would be shocked if they knew how much she weighed. But then many things about her would shock people.

  She heard the crunching of tires and spotted the plume of dust rising over the crops on a transecting road to her left. A little late in the day for Bob and his boys, she thought. Occasionally, other vehicles found their way on her property – usually a neighboring farmer taking a shortcut, but sometimes young men came out to horse around, cast-off beer cans attesting to their visit. The Private Road/No Trespassing/No Hunting signs posted strategically around her property often proved less than effective. She'd had to chase hunters off her property twice last fall.

  But as the car making the dust plume rounded into her private road between her two quarters of land, the light bar on the roof and red color identified it as the same Sherrif's Department Dodge Durango that had pulled her over earlier that day. Thalma scowled. It seemed that the sheriff had tracked her down for more questioning. By now, Louis had filed his report, and maybe, just maybe, he'd run into the good sheriff, despite filing the report at the Breton Police Department. Those pesky men in blue tended to get around. So chances were he wanted to know more about her supposed friend who so strongly resembled the fleeing car's owner.

  Thalma covered her mouth to fend off the dust as the sheriff's SUV slowed to a halt in front of her. The sheriff stepped out.

  "I'm Sheriff John Martson," he said. "You might remember me from earlier today."

  "You do seem kind of familiar."

  "What's that you're wearing? Some kind of flak jacket?"

  "A weight vest."

  "Huh." He swiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "You need some extra resistance when you run?"

  "It saves me having to run as far."

  Sheriff Martson nodded. "Anyhow, I'm trying to clear up a few things about the alleged car theft which occurred near where I pulled you over earlier. When the owner filed a stolen car report at the Breton PD, I was called in. The man I saw filling out the report was the same man I saw in your vehicle."

  "What did the owner say?"

  "He denied that, of course." The sheriff's expression hardened. "What do you say?"

  "I already said. The person with me is a friend."

  "Does your friend have a name?"

  "Yup."

  "What is it?"

  "None of your business."

  "That's sort of a strange name."

  "He's sort of a strange guy."

  "Maybe this would be a good time to point out that aiding and abetting a crime is a crime, Miss Engstrom."

  "Am I under arrest, Sheriff?"

  Sheriff Martson scowled. "If you are telling the truth, what's the big deal about giving me your friend's name and helping an innocent man avoid criminal charges?"

  "I'm not interested in helping you or him," Thalma stated. "I'm interested in minding my own business. That's what I was doing when you pulled me over because you thought the back of my friend's head looked like the back of the dude's head you were pursuing."

  Sheriff Martson stepped within arm's reach of Thalma, his grey eyes meeting hers. "We both know, Ms. Engstrom, that you picked up a fleeing man and for whatever reason decided to help him. Or maybe he actually is a friend of yours. Doesn't matter. It's aiding and abetting."

  "Sheriff, I think you took a wrong turn somewhere. Lake Breton is a few miles north of here."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I just assumed, since you're on a fishing expedition..."

  Muscles worked along the sheriff's jaw.

  "Again, Sheriff, am I under arrest?"

  "I'm considering it. It would go much better for you if you stop being a hardass and come clean with me now."

  "While you're considering it and my hard ass, I'm going to continue my run. Let me know."

  Thalma jogged away from the glaring sheriff back toward her house, anger roiling through her. She knew it wasn't a rational response – the sheriff was just doing his job, and had reason to be annoyed – but physical intimidation, especially from a man, brought out the worst in her. If Sheriff Martson had taken one more step closer, or laid his hands on her, things would've gone terribly south. They still could, she thought, glancing back at the red SUV, which remained idling on the road.

  She shook her head. It was ridiculous for her to be putting herself on the line for someone she didn't even know, even if she did believe in the principle of helping her fellow "outlaws." Though Louis wasn't a friend, anyone who stood against the insane drug laws was an ally of sorts. Not that she could work up much bitterness. Insane drug laws, after all, had made her wealthy.

  She circled around her house and out toward the large patch of woods a half-mile away. It was her own private nature preserve, home to squirrels, numerous birds, and the occasional deer, fox, or coyote. She'd spotted cougar prints there last summer.

  She ran along a path through the woods that her walking and jogging had carved past a small steel shed where she stored, among other things, a Honda Super Blackbird. If the shit hit the fan, it was her escape shuttle to a utility building two miles away, where a blond wig, Fedex van, and Fedex uniform waited – along with a new driver license and passport in a different name. She practiced riding the motorcycle at least once a week, and had reached 145 of its official 180 mph top speed on several occasions. It would make short work of those two miles.

  Thalma jogged home. Inside, the message machine was blinking. None of her people called her land phone. That was for "official communication" with the outside world – the Johnsons, insurance company, garbage pickup, and some local and state government offices such as the DMV and county assessor. No one but the Johnsons ever called; the phone number merely served to support her public identity.

  She hit playback and an unfamiliar male voice spoke in measured tones from the speakers.

  "Hello, this is Attorney Dale Waters. I have a practice in Breton. I've been asked by Louis Maxwell to call you. Please call me at your earliest convenience. I will be available at this number until 9 P.M. this evening."

  So he's been arrested, she thought. Not surprising, considering they had an eyewitness who also happened to be the Breton County Sheriff. Louis needs something from me, she thought. Money? His family, if he had any, hadn't come through. Louis probably called the first lawyer he found in the phone book.

  Thalma's first thought was to ignore the call. The long-haired youth had already cost her a threatening visit from the county sheriff. Now he probably wanted money. She didn't care about the money, but drawing attention to herself was never a good idea.

  Still, she sensed something good about Louis. He was honest, disarming, funny, well-educated, and sounded almost professorial at times. And that hair, and those long eyelashes framing such soulful brown eyes. His slim body would be like silk in her hands. He wasn't one of those guys who had to prove his manhood or was by nature dominant. Those kinds of people brought out the worst in her.

  Thalma paced around the phone, willing herself to go downstairs – she had work to do with her crops – but feeling unable to break free of the phone's gravity. Finally, she snatched up the phone and punched in the attorney's number. He picked up after a few rings.

  "Yes?"

  "This is Thalma Engstrom. You left a message f
or me about Louis Maxwell."

  "Ah, yes. Thank you for calling back so promptly. Mr. Maxwell called me today asking to hire my firm. He apparently was arrested earlier today. He is being held on a ten thousand dollar bond. Unfortunately, Mr. Maxwell lacks the funds to pay the required non-refundable thousand dollar down payment as well as my own retainer fee. He thought perhaps you could help with these expenses."

  "He doesn't have any family or friends who could help?"

  "He indicated that he has no immediate family, and that his friends wouldn't have that kind of money."

  Thalma nodded to herself. So far just as she'd expected.

  "What would your retainer be?" she asked.

  "Fifteen hundred dollars. That could cover both my services and the necessary administrative fees for this month at least."

  "Twenty-five hundred would cover your fees and the bond?"

  "Yes it would. If I received these funds by tomorrow morning, I could arrange a meeting with the bail bondsman and get him released by tomorrow afternoon. I know it's Saturday, but I also know that Mr. Maxwell would strongly prefer not to spend the remainder of the weekend in jail."

  "All right," she said. "When do you want to meet?"

  "Could you come to my office in the morning, say at eleven A.M.?"

  "I can do that."

  "Good. I'll see you then. I'm sure Mr. Maxwell will be deeply grateful."

  Chapter 2

  "MAN, I CAN'T THANK you guys enough! Jail is hell, you know?"

  Louis shook hands vigorously with Dale Waters and turned to Thalma, arms spread wide, as if contemplating a hug. Her cool gaze made him extend a tentative hand instead. She shook it with her usual semi-limp grip, designed to protect the other person's hand.

  "I know it was kind of a Hail Mary," he said, "but I couldn't think of anyone else to call, Thalma. I appreciate it more than I can say. I'm like completely in your debt. Which I will totally repay, believe me."