by Thomas Locke
The crowd’s panic reached an entirely new level. What before had been a disorderly rush became a stampede.
Kevin dropped the rod in his left hand, gripped the earth, and leapt forward. The soldier probably expected him to rise, for his aim remained slightly high. But Kevin had no intention of straightening. Instead, he slammed the rod with all his force into the trooper’s left shin.
There was a sharp crack, then the trooper screamed and dropped to the earth. Before he could aim his weapon, Kevin brought the rod down on his head.
Kevin wanted to stop and take a single frantic breath. He wanted to fit his heart back inside his chest. He wanted to give his trembling limbs a chance to recover. But the shouts rising from lanes to either side told him there was no time.
He ripped the rifle from the trooper’s limp grip, unholstered the sidearm, then scrambled back to the three prone and groaning militia. He gathered up their clubs and lights and revolvers. Then he rose in swift stages. In front of him, the crowd sensed a change. First a few and then a dozen and then more and more realized the lane behind them had become free of the enemy.
They surged back down the lane, away from whatever it was the militia had been pointing them toward.
Kevin shoved his way through the throng, his arms filled with weapons and lights. To his vast relief, Irene remained where he had left her. He motioned her forward and shouted, “Run!”
29
An hour after sunset, Caleb’s vehicle halted at Atlanta’s boundary roadblock. The militia officer surveyed Hester’s badge, then handed out passes and ordered them to stow their weapons in the trunk.
The main road leading downtown was illuminated by electric lights. Caleb stared at the wrought-iron towers and the brilliant yellow globes, fearing the risk he took entering here. The hotel grounds were rimmed by a tall concrete wall topped by barbed wire and more electric lights. The entrance was guarded, and the guards appropriated all their weapons.
The Ritz Hotel’s lobby was unlike anything Caleb had ever imagined. One grand chamber led into another, all lit by crystal chandeliers. He, Zeke, and Hester each carried two bags, one for clothes and another for the gold. Empty rifle cases were slung from their shoulders.
As he approached the reception desk, Caleb caught sight of himself in a pair of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. He found himself arrested by the sight of a stranger staring back at him. His dark blond hair was precisely cut. His crisp new shirt was grey flecked with slate and heightened the breadth of his shoulders. Black trousers fell on polished black boots. Caleb searched the weary gaze staring back at him and wished he could feel that he belonged as much as he appeared.
The desk clerk had been alerted by the night porter and the security guard that a private car was depositing guests. Despite the hour, he offered Caleb his very best smile. “How might I help you, sir?”
Caleb knew what to ask for because Hester had coached him. “Do you have a suite?”
“Most certainly, sir.” He surveyed the pair who now waited behind him. “But we also have servants’ housing in the cellar.”
“My bodyguard stays with me,” Caleb replied. “And my servant can sleep on the floor.”
When they were in the suite with the door locked, Caleb’s first words were, “We’ve got one chance to get this right. All I can see are the problems. What if I’ve forgotten something?”
Zeke shrugged. “You probably have.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”
“That’s why you have us,” Hester said. “To guard your back.”
“And we’re good at it,” Zeke said.
She glanced at him. “One of us is, anyway.”
He grinned. “Hey, thanks.”
Hester said to Caleb, “I’m tired and I’m filthy. I have first dibs on the bath, and you youngsters can work out the sleeping arrangements. We can all worry tomorrow.”
The next morning they feasted on Caleb’s first buffet breakfast. He had been raised on potluck dinners, but this was entirely different. The hotel’s vast dining hall had more white-uniformed waiters than guests. There was enough food on display to feed the Catawba enclave. He felt scandalized by the waste.
When they could eat no more, Caleb remained where he was, trapped by doubts.
Finally Hester leaned across the table and said, “It’s a good plan.”
Zeke said, “She’s right.”
Hester’s gaze remained steady on Caleb. “It’s time to move. You ready?”
“Maddie is waiting,” Caleb told himself.
“There you go.” She rose to her feet. “One step in front of the other. That’s how good plans become great.”
Caleb went to the front desk and asked to see the manager. When the older gentleman appeared, Caleb said, “I need to ask you about a private matter.”
The man was dressed in pin-striped trousers, dark silk tie, and a black vest with gold buttons. The oil in his greying hair reflected the chandelier’s illumination as he bowed. “Certainly, sir. Right this way.”
Caleb motioned for Hester to remain where she was and followed the man behind the counter. When the door to his office was shut, Caleb came right to the point. “I need a list of honest lawyers.”
The manager took his time seating himself. “Define honest.”
Caleb was ready for that. “Somebody I can rely on when I’m seven hundred miles away.”
“Then it will be a very short list indeed.” The manager thought for a moment, or pretended to. “Of course, such information carries a significant value.”
“Absolutely,” Caleb agreed. “I was thinking a silver bar’s worth.”
The manager proved able to remain genteel even when dickering. “Two would perhaps be more fitting, sir.”
“Done,” Caleb replied. “But only if they’ll see me today.”
When Caleb and the others returned upstairs, Caleb carried a sheet of paper with five names. Hester and Zeke remained silent until the suite’s door was locked. Then Hester demanded, “How do you pick the right one?”
“It’s already done,” Caleb replied.
Zeke crowded in close. “You already sense the one we need to contact?”
“Soon as the manager wrote down the name,” Caleb replied. He indicated the cases holding the gold. “All of that comes with us.”
30
Two objectives had been at the heart of Caleb’s planning since leaving Catawba. Finding Maddie and finding a haven for the gold. As intertwined as a living rope.
Distance was not enough to shield Catawba. They needed to find a way to remain protected once news of the gold surfaced. Which it was bound to, sooner or later. Word of this much new wealth was going to emerge. When it did, Catawba’s mine had to remain both shielded and secret. Especially after they left to return home. And more important still, when they returned with the next load.
This entire journey came down to controlling risk and using his gifts. The time for hiding was over. He needed to stop taking baby steps. He needed to start testing his boundaries.
Caleb left Zeke and Hester in the hallway by the door bearing the lawyer’s name. He set his own case down beside theirs and entered empty-handed.
The law offices of Hamlin Turner held a shabby, somewhat careless air. As though the attorney was too busy wielding authority to bother with such trifles as a good airing. The outer office was as large as Caleb’s entire home. A waiting area extended to the right of the entrance. Waist-high shelves filled with ledgers and files created mock office areas for the three assistants, two men and a woman. The ornate desks were piled high with papers and forms and yellow folders. The oil paintings on the walls were dusty, and several were slightly skewed. The expensive carpet was frayed at the edges, and the broad-planked floor was in need of varnish. Eight people clustered in tight conversation on the sofas and chairs looked up and frowned when Caleb stepped inside.
Caleb selected the woman because she was seated closest to the double doors leading to the inner
sanctum. She spared him a single three-second glance as he crossed the broad carpet. By the time he arrived at her desk she had dismissed him and returned to her work.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I need to see Mr. Turner.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“The manager of the Ritz Carlton placed the call.”
“Ah. That was you, was it.” The woman sniffed softly. “I’ll tell you the same thing I said when he called. Mr. Turner could not possibly meet with you until tomorrow at the very earliest, and only then if there is a legal matter of such vital—”
“I need to see him now.”
Up close her grey bun had the severe tension of a clenched fist. “That, I’m afraid, is out of the question.”
Caleb kept his voice calm, steady, and very soft. “Just the same, ma’am. Mr. Turner will want to see me.”
“Is that so.” She inspected him more carefully. “What is your name, young man?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can’t . . .” She squinted at him. Caleb assumed she was trying to decide whether he was mocking her. “And why not?”
“Because,” he replied. “I’m not going to start our business together with a lie.”
Her eyes flashed with a glimmer—he hoped it was humor. “Well then. What could you possibly reveal that will result in Mr. Turner giving you the time of day?”
By now the entire office was watching them. But it could not be helped. “Could you please step outside?”
She folded her hands on her papers. “You are asking me to leave the office.”
“For thirty seconds. Less. Please.”
She inspected him for a time, then rose from her seat. “Lead the way.”
One of her associates asked, “Should I call security?”
“Are you a threat, young man?” she asked Caleb.
“Absolutely not.”
“I will be right back.” She stepped through the outer door, shut it firmly, then demanded, “Now what is this all about?”
“Zeke.”
Zeke was already opening his case. He pulled out a burlap packet and handed it to Caleb.
Caleb offered it to the woman. “Give this to Mr. Turner.”
Hester added, “Hide it under your coat when you go back inside.”
Zeke said, “No one else can know. Including the other office staff.”
“Thousands of lives depend upon maintaining secrecy,” Hester said.
But the woman made no move to accept the packet. “What on earth do you have there?”
Caleb took Zeke’s knife, cut the twine, and opened the burlap. He watched the woman’s eyes go round at the sight. “Tell Mr. Turner this is our calling card.”
31
The stables were locked when Kevin and Irene made it back. The owner and his wife watched with weapons propped on the balcony railing as the guards let them enter. Most of the other stalls were already emptied of people and horses and goods. Fast as they could, he and Irene lashed all their sacks onto the horses. Kevin stowed the militia’s items in a burlap sack he tied to his saddle horn. But the night and the market chaos were their friends. They joined the refugees and traders pushing out in every direction. Twice in the distance Kevin heard gunfire. But they were not challenged.
The farther they rode from Farmers Market, the quieter the night became. By the time they turned off onto the country trail leading back to where their team bivouacked, they had the route to themselves.
Irene maintained her normal silence, speaking only twice. The first time, she said no one seemed to be focused upon hunting them, or even searching in this general direction. Kevin started to ask how she knew, but then he left the question unspoken. Now that the danger was past, his body felt flooded with banked-up fatigue. His leg throbbed in the manner of a healing wound. His head thumped in time to his limb. His eyelids weighed a ton each.
The second time Irene spoke was to warn him they had just passed the farm’s turnoff. When they entered the main yard, Kevin slipped from the horse’s back, stumbled into the barn, found an empty horse stall, and was asleep before his head touched the straw.
It was early afternoon the next day before Kevin awoke. Someone had draped a horse blanket over him while he’d slept. He knew it was late because of how the sun shone through slats on the barn’s western side. Rich smells of wood smoke and cooking drifted through the barn’s open doors. He heard birdsong, then a young man’s laughter. When he stepped into the yard, Pablo greeted him with a bar of soap and a length of sacking. He directed Kevin to shower stalls used by farm workers during the harvest. Kevin reveled in the sensation of being clean, despite the water’s shocking cold. He remained there until the shivers forced him to retreat, then dressed in clean clothes from his pack.
When he emerged, Irene walked over bearing a mug. “Feel better?”
“Extremely.” He accepted the mug, took a grateful sip. The tea was just as he liked it, strong enough to melt the spoon, a lot of milk, a trace of sugar. “Perfect.”
“I know.” She smiled at him as Tula walked over with a thick farmer’s sandwich. “The wife came out this morning with two fresh loaves, butter, tin plates for us to eat from, and a wedge of cheese she’d made herself. And news the Atlanta garrison has been called north.”
Kevin felt a faint stirring of unease, one he could not identify. He surveyed the farmyard and his team as he ate but found no reason for his disquiet. The bread was excellent, the cheese even better.
“She also lent us a big pot,” Irene said. “We’re making stew with what you brought. It’s almost ready.”
He thanked her and realized all the others were watching them. Pablo waved to him from his guard position out by the rear well. Kevin lifted his mug in reply.
Tula asked, “More tea?”
“That would be great.”
“He likes it with too much milk and not enough sugar,” Irene said. When Tula moved off, Irene added, “They’re very grateful for what you did.”
“I imagine bringing you back safely means as much as having fresh food,” Kevin said.
“Taking our side in a fight means the most of all,” she replied. “They need a leader.”
There it was again. The label that left him staring at the gaping void ahead of them all. How could he be called that when he had no idea where they were going? He turned from that by asking, “Did you sleep okay?”
“Time and again I flashed awake over how close we came to not getting out.” She tilted her head, as though needing to inspect him from a different angle. “You weren’t scared last night, were you?”
“Absolutely. I was petrified.”
“No you weren’t.”
“Can you read minds?”
“Not like you mean. I can’t tell what people are thinking. But I get . . . impressions.”
“Like how a guy likes his tea.”
Irene offered him a full-lipped smile. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Only a little.”
Tula returned with a fresh mug and said, “John wants to have a word.”
“John?”
As if in reply, the farmer appeared around the barn’s corner and walked over with outstretched hand. “John Handy.”
“Kevin Ritter.”
“Want to thank you for bringing my horses back unharmed.”
Kevin waved for Pablo to join them. “They’re good animals.”
“That they are. Heard you had yourselves a ruckus in town.”
“Do you have any idea why the Charlotte militia would make a sweep?”
“Stirring up trouble, most like.” John gestured toward the truck hidden in his barn. “I expect you know more than you’d like to say about troublemakers from Charlotte.”
“I try to steer clear of them,” Kevin said.
The farmer wheezed a laugh. “Our closest neighbor was at market last night selling produce. Claimed some big fella knocked half a dozen militia boys for a loop, stole t
heir weapons, got clean away. You know anything about that?”
“If he did,” Pablo said, “it would be foolish to discuss it.”
The farmer laughed again. “We’re all pals here, right?”
“Sure thing,” Kevin said. “And we’re grateful for your hospitality.”
“And the bread,” Irene said. “And cheese. And utensils.”
Kevin returned to the main point. “Did your neighbor say anything about why the Charlotte militia ventured this far south?”
“Not a thing worth repeating. Got our own troops swarming like angry hornets, I can tell you that much.”
Pablo asked, “Which direction?”
“North by east is what I heard.” The farmer avoided meeting their eyes by kicking at the dust. “When do you aim on heading out?”
“We had thought today,” Pablo replied.
“Tomorrow’s better. Big rain coming in this evening. First summer storm of the season.” As if in confirmation, there was a faint rumble against the clear blue sky. “There you go, now. Storm’s near ’bout close enough to touch. Plus our own patrols are out in force just now. You best wait for things to settle down.”
Kevin offered his hand and tried to put some feeling into his response. “Thank you very much, John.”
The farmer retreated, saying, “The wife’s making up a batch of crackling bread. It’ll go right nice with that stew of yours.”
Soon as the farmer moved off, Irene said, “What he said about the Atlanta militia. That was a lie.”
Carla offered, “Forrest says no one is coming our way. But there’s a lot of traffic out on the main roads. And guns.”
“Tell the team to pack their gear,” Kevin said. “We eat and we load and we drive.”
32
Hamlin Turner could not see them until the early evening, which might have troubled Caleb and the others a great deal. Except for how his secretary, a tightly composed woman named Esther with the stern determination of a seasoned elder, assured them that her boss turned down twenty requests for every new client he took on. She personally escorted them to the main exit, shook their hands, and warned them to be on time.
