by D. F. Bailey
“Black on a bruise,” he said once he’d cleared the impasse. “It’s what everybody said about J.R. Like a sort of code.”
“So what’s the story behind the story?”
“All right. I met J.R. when he was part of the Military Police unit stationed in Baghdad.”
“MPs, huh? Supposed to be a tough gig.”
“The toughest. But before I met him, J.R. came up through the ranks. A frontline grunt. He earned a reputation for dodging all the incoming ordnance the Iraqis could muster. Grenades, bullets, RPGs, flak, everything they could throw at us. They’d fire it left, and J.R. dodged right. It didn’t take long for the newbies to realize if they stuck to J.R., they’d make it through to the next day.”
“So he was lucky.”
“More than luck. Something called battlefield intuition. He could read the situation like a map laid out in front of him.”
“You believe that?”
“I’d like to.” Finch turned to look at her. Now that she’d questioned him, he realized he didn't believe it at all. Apart from snipers and sharpshooters picking you off one at a time, the vast majority of battlefield casualties came from random shrapnel hits. Most of them from IEDs — Improvised Explosive Devices, which, on one occasion, Finch got to know far too well. “Anyway, reality and belief often go their separate ways when you’re under fire.”
She gave this some thought, then asked, “You ever been in battle, Will?”
He shifted his hands on the steering wheel. “More like a skirmish.”
“Yeah?” She watched him drive, watched him hold the line on a long arcing turn in the road. “You’ve never told me about it.”
He said nothing.
“So what they say is true, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“No one ever wants to talk about it.”
He glanced at the sideview mirror, pulled into the left lane and passed an aging VW camper van. “Pretty much.”
She decided to let it go. “So get back to the story about J.R.”
He ran his free hand over his jaw and continued. “This luck of his soon became legendary. Everybody heard about it. After awhile everyone said you should stick to J.R. like black on a bruise.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Ever heard the expression, nothing sticks like ‘white on rice’?”
“Not really.” She frowned as if she’d failed to notice a minor sub-cult. “Okay, so?”
“J.R. came up with it himself. For the first time in his life, he had this amazing run of luck. Claimed it stuck to him like black on a bruise.”
“Like it was a kind of joke, right?”
“Nope. Just the opposite. Dead serious.”
Another puzzled look crossed her face as she watched the cars ahead of her jibe and tack in the stream of traffic.
“He’s a proud African-American man, Eve. You’ll see that when you meet him.” Then a recurring worry struck him. “If we can find him.”
※
Finch pulled the RAV4 into the only free parking slot he could find in the Ashland village plaza. The clear, cloudless sky stretched above the valley hills. A good omen, he thought. He opened his door, stood on the asphalt and tried to stretch out the kinks in his lower back. He could feel a chill in the air as he watched a lofting breeze wring the ash and maple leaves from the trees that surrounded the parking lot.
“Love that mountain air.” Eve drew an exaggerated breath and stretched her arms as if she might fly to the ridge above the west side of town.
Finch checked his watch. Three forty. “Let’s grab some food and coffee, then drive over to the far side of the hill before sunset.”
He quickly calculated a working timeline. In another three hours, dusk would descend on the valley and they’d have to continue their search for J.R. in the local bars and restaurants. The problems presented by this new challenge loomed ever larger in his imagination. How to find one man in a town of twenty thousand? A problem complicated by the fact that Ashland was an arts mecca that hosted a Shakespeare festival that sold over 350,000 tickets a year. On the other hand, Finch knew that J.R. stood out like a proverbial sore thumb. Most of the citizens and tourists were white, middle-class liberals. Many others were broke-ass hippies living a fantasy that resembled San Francisco’s 1967 Summer of Love. On the walk over to the restaurant from the parking lot Finch encountered a knot of six or seven hipsters passing a joint from hand to hand. They smiled in an opaque stupor as Eve passed them, her charming good looks igniting their imaginations one-by-one. She smiled; they blinked and fell in love.
They settled into a table at Hearsay Restaurant. While they ate, Finch studied a map of the region on his phone. “I think we should get onto Horn Creek Road,” he said. “It curls around the backside of the mountain. Maybe that’s where Liane thought we could find him.”
While he toyed with the map, Eve found three available Air B’n’B’s within walking distance. “All right. And I just booked a queen bed for us next to a yoga studio up the block.”
Finch chuckled at that.
“The landlord wants to meet us at eight. You good with that?”
“Should be perfect.” He chewed on the last corner of his pizza slice and washed it down with some coffee.
They both took a turn in the bathroom, and while Finch waited for Eve to appear he showed the cashier the picture he had of J.R. on his phone.
“Looking for an old friend,” he said. “He just moved up here in the past month or so.”
The cashier squinted at the image. “You know” — he waved a finger at the picture — “maybe I seen him, but then I seen a lot of people wander though these doors.” He smiled at Finch as though J.R. could be any one of thousands who’d ambled through the village plaza every week.
“Okay. Thanks for trying, pal.”
Eve came alongside him. “Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
Less than an hour later they’d made their way to the west side of Mount Ashland. The backroads followed the twists and turns of the topography and over the creeks that ran off the slopes. When they reached Horn Creek Road the asphalt became a packed gravel track and plunged into the emerald shadows of the vast evergreen forest. Soon they passed a sign that read, Entering Siskiyou Mountain Park.
“There’s nobody living in here,” Eve said as she peered into the heart of the forest. “It’s beautiful, but completely untouched.”
Finch nodded in agreement. The sparsely settled roads they’d traversed revealed little prospect of finding anyone, let alone J.R. The RAV4 eased onto a lip on the roadside and Finch performed a series of three turn-and-reverse maneuvers before he could point the vehicle back toward the town. He was about to click the transmission into Drive when Eve put her hand on his arm.
“Wait a sec, okay? I just want to smell the roses.”
Smell the roses. The old cliché that she’d brought back to life after they’d survived a brutal attack two years ago in the Catskill Mountains in New York State. When she’d recovered, she said she never wanted to enter a forest again without “breathing it in.” The ritual became a form of spiritual renewal for her. He cut the engine and stepped onto the gravel.
“My God, it smells so clean!” She walked beside him and stretched her arms above her head. “And completely quiet.”
He drew a deep breath. “Yeah, it does.”
Somewhere a raven called into the trees.
“Hear that?”
The cry sounded twice more.
“Yes. It’s something, isn’t it.”
She stared through the forest. “It feels like no one has ever set foot in here. Not ever.”
Finch doubted that, but he didn’t want to taint her brief epiphany. “I can see why J.R. came out here. If you want to disappear, this would be the place.”
“All right.” She detected the sense of urgency in his voice. “I just needed a minute.”
He climbed back into the car and turned the key. In an
instant, the outside world evaporated in the gray blast of engine exhaust.
“Let’s go find him,” he said, still wondering where to go next.
※
Amanda Willard’s Air B’n’B unit was a tidy bachelor suite next to a yoga studio on A Street. Her welcome to the apartment was a bit long-winded for Finch’s liking, but he soon found himself embracing her sweetness and light — all part of the Ashland hippie ethic. She encouraged them to pick up food at the Ashland Food Co-op, just a few blocks up the road on First Street.
After they paid her, Finch showed her the picture of J.R. “He’s an old friend of mine. Any chance you’ve seen him in the past few weeks?”
“He lives here?” Her eyebrows knotted together as she considered the image.
“On and off. Mostly off. But he’s up this way right now.”
“You know I might of.” The lines in her forehead relaxed and she offered a hopeful smile.
“Really? You’ve seen him?”
“Well … I can’t be absolutely certain. But, yeah. I think so.”
“Where do you think we can find him?”
“Same place you find anyone here. Down in front of the Food Co-op. Eventually everyone’s got to go in there for something.” She smiled, certain that this answer would satisfy them.
Through the evening Finch and Eve visited several bars in the village looking for anyone who could confirm Amanda’s sighting of J.R. Martino’s Lounge, the Brickroom, Growler Guys, Jefferson Spirits Bar. But the moment he entered a lounge, Finch knew he’d strike out. They were all up-market party bars still catering to the tastes of the Shakespeare festival patrons. None of them matched the hard-hitting atmosphere of J.R.’s favorite drinking hole at The 500 Club. Despite his doubts, he approached the bartenders at each club, showed them the picture of J.R., accepted their rejection with a nod, and moved on.
“I’m getting tired of this,” he said as they made their way back to Amanda’s.
Eve wound her fingers around his elbow. She knew the moment called for patience. Best not to talk, not to worry. They strolled along the empty sidewalk in silence, listening to the intermittent hoot of a gray owl.
“Funny how you can’t see him,” she said. When Finch didn’t reply, she added, “I mean the owl.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders.
“But we both know he’s out there.” She nestled under his arm. “Just like J.R. He’s out there, somewhere hidden in the night.”
※ — SEVEN — ※
JEREMIAH RICKETS — KNOWN by his friends as J.R. — sat on the bench next to the bike rack and draped his hoodie so that it fell just below the top of his forehead onto his eyebrows. From where he sat he could observe everyone entering and leaving the Co-op. The morning air was still cool, but the sunlight warmed his face. He decided to lap up the contrasting sensations. He let his shoulders relax on the backrest and took a sip from his cup of Starbucks coffee. Grande Latte. Keep living easy like this, he told himself, one day you might be mistaken for a white dude. The irony brought a weak smile to his face.
He prepared to bide his time. If Finch didn’t appear by noon, J.R. would stroll back to Starbucks, get another coffee, sit for another hour. And if Finch remained a no-show, J.R. would do it all over again. Today, tomorrow, the next day, too. Right now, everything called for patience. A waiting game. Meanwhile, he told himself, study the faces coming and going, the world of passing souls. In Ashland, the human traffic consisted mostly of fat-money touristas. They’d park their Audis and Mercedes and Beamers, step onto the swept-up asphalt streets displaying their polished leather shoes, their Rolex watches, their poofy hair styles and manicured nails. Some of the women clutched Shakespeare Festival guidebooks in their silky hands. As they stepped away from their cars, the men clicked their fobs and listened for the beep to confirm they’d locked up. In their world, things locked up good and tight. Tighty-whitey.
Then, from the far side of the plaza he saw them approach the Co-op on foot. Finch with a woman at his side. J.R. narrowed his eyes, tried to assure himself that this was the same man he’d last seen twelve years ago. He wore stone-washed jeans, a long-sleeve flannel shirt, a fleece vest, running shoes, aviator shades. Was it Finch? Maybe. Hard to be certain without seeing his eyes.
J.R. decided to wait for them to exit the store. He drew the slip of paper he’d prepared from his back pocket and strolled over to the entrance. He stood in the shade, away from the stream of customers coming and going through the doors. His plan was to advance toward Finch to see if a look of recognition crossed his face.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, they reappeared. They each held a bag in one hand. They were talking — something serious — distracted by their own worlds. J.R. waited. When they were five feet away, he stepped in front of them. Finch came to an abrupt halt. His free hand swung to the side and he blocked the woman at her waist.
“J.R?”
It was all he got out. J.R. pressed a finger to his lips and nodded once. Then he passed the slip of paper into Finch’s hand and walked past him toward the parking lot. Twenty minutes later he was driving Teesha’s Ford Taurus along Windburn Way, along the west side of the mountain toward his hideout in the forest.
※
Finch followed the hand-drawn map up to the cabin which J.R. had identified with an arrow. On the reverse side of the map he’d written: 1800 hours. 60 yards past the CAUTION sign, turn right onto the driveway. Ignore “No trespassing” sign. Cut your headlights.
Finch turned the wheel and eased the RAV4 down the winding tracks into the woods. The road was nothing more than parallel, twin ruts compressed into the earth over the past five or ten years. He had to hand it to J.R. If you wanted to slip out of sight and live somewhere in the Lower 48, the entrance to this hidey-hole provided a perfect screen.
“Good thing he gave you a map.” Eve’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “We’d never’ve found him on our own.”
The car shuddered as it rolled over a root extending from a massive Douglas fir tree. It was one among hundreds that surrounded them and extended in all directions. As they continued, Finch let the car coast along the tracks as it sloped downhill into the forest. After five minutes, he felt that they were no longer driving through the forest — rather, the wilderness was swallowing them. Soon the shadows formed by the twilight and the shade from the trees became so thick that he was tempted to flick on the headlights. Instead, he leaned over the steering wheel and tapped the brakes whenever the way forward became obscure.
“There.” Eve pointed to the left. “There’s a light.”
Finch couldn’t make out anything. Then he rounded another massive tree and the dim glow from a cabin cast its light onto the lot ahead. A ground-level, log cabin stood on a cleared patch that formed a wide oval in the forest. In front of the cabin a mid-90s Ford Taurus was parked, nose-out. To the left, a well-stocked woodshed held at least two cords of split and neatly stacked firewood. A river-rock chimney built into the side of the cabin emitted a gray mist of smoke that dissipated a few feet above the roofline.
“Looks like we just drove into an 1890s pioneer homestead,” Finch said as he parked next to the Ford. “Makes my cottage on Mayne Island look like a Manhattan condo.”
They stepped out of the car and scanned the surroundings. Behind the cabin stood an out-house with a quarter-moon cutout on the door panel.
“Cute,” Eve said. She caught a whiff of dry wood smoke in the air. “I’m starting to like this place.”
The cabin door swung open and J.R. stepped onto the narrow deck. A dim interior light from two or three oil lamps cast his shadow into the air.
“You made it,” he said. His voice resonated between a bass and baritone timbre. “Been thinking you might get lost. ’Nother ten minutes, I was going to go searching.”
Finch walked up to the porch and gave J.R.’s right triceps a squeeze. Obviously the man kept himself fit. “Where’d you find this place? There can’t be an
other human being within ten miles.”
“Almost. The nearest neighbor’s an Aussie living with a pack of wild dogs about three miles through the woods.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and smiled. “I see you brought a friend.”
“This is Eve,” he said. As he spoke, he noticed a woman peer through the doorway behind J.R.
“And this is Teesha.”
The women traded smiles and everyone shook hands.
“Have you eaten?” Teesha’s face had an expectant look.
“To be honest, I’m starved,” Eve said.
“Good. We’ve got a pot of stew on the stove and peach pie in the oven.”
“Peach pie?” Finch landed a soft punch on J.R’s shoulder. “Can we start with that?”
※
The beef stew and pie were superb. Teesha, an excellent cook by any standard, had adapted to cooking and baking with the wood-fired stove — an antique Montgomery Ward unit with lifting covers, a two-tier oven, a stove-top warmer, and a built-in hot water tank. Eve and Finch had seen these gems in museums and curiosity shops, but never as a working appliance. Yet somehow Teesha had mastered the art of pioneer cookery and served up an outstanding meal. At once Finch’s estimation of J.R.’s lifestyle went up a notch or two.
“You know, last time I saw you was in The 500 Club. You’d just lost your job with some kind of security company.” He paused and dipped his chin to one side as though he regretted bringing up a dark moment in J.R.’s life.
“The year of the crash. Took me a while to get right-footed again,” J.R. admitted.
“That’s just about when I decided to become a cop,” Eve put in.
“You were a cop?” Teesha’s eyes widened with surprise. “Me, too. Back in Baltimore.”
“San Francisco’s finest,” Eve said with an ironic twist. She pressed the tip of her thumb to her chest and gave it a turn as if it were a blunt knife skewered into her heart. “It didn’t take me long to bust out.”
“Three years in my case.” Teesha puffed up her cheeks and let out a long breath of disbelief. “Amazing how quick my train ran off the rails.”
