Back on the Road Again
Transcript of Back on the Road Again
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Part 1—Westbound
Columbia, MO to St Cloud, MN
735 miles, 15 hoursThere are two things about the weather in the mid-
west. It is usually intense and is often violent. Hot, cold, wet or
dry, doesn't matter, it overlays the prairie at full bore.
In all the years I've lived here, there have beenmaybe two days of gentle rain. Today isn't one of them. Wind
and rain combine to make the worst possible highway conditions
and today the weather is a mix of blinding rain and hammering
hail pushed by powerful gusts of wind. Wind that can turn a
tractor-trailer on its side can easily do the same to my thirty-foot
motor home.The rain comes down so hard I can't see the dividing
line. I pull off the highway without bothering to get permission.
The man sitting at the table behind me sways up behind the
driver's seat as I came to a crunching stop on the shoulder. He's
waving that little pistol of his at me. Like there's some real
choice between blind-siding a semi in this rain and being shot.He's been threatening me with great success ever
since he used it to force his way into my RV three hundred miles
ago. He doesn't have to wave it to scare me, I'm scared enough
just knowing there's gun within a mile of me. Bullies are like
that though.
The little guy with him doesn't have a gun; he has a
look about him that comes right out of Mafia TV. Their speech
is hard to understand it's so thickly accented. I'm an American.
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Never been anyplace outside the country. Never heard other
languages spoken except on television. The one with the gun
sounds like a TV Russian. The little one maybe Cuban. Whatdo I know, I'm too scared to breathe nine-tenths of the time much
less analyze anything.
We are stopped somewhere along Interstate-35
north of Des Moines waiting for the worst of this storm to pass.
I've driven over three hundred miles today. My usual limit is a
hundred. I'm not telling them that my foot is starting to crampand my neck is getting stiff. There is something worse than
living literally under the gun and that's being shot as a useless
nuisance and tossed out the passenger side door. I have no idea
where we are going, but they're in a big hurry.
The worst of the storm finally passes. The hard rain
has backed off to a gentle shower. I start the engine, put it ingear and only a slight touch of gas is enough to tell me I'm
probably in trouble. There is no need to panic, people get stuck
all the time. It’s getting close to being the worst thing that could
happen though. We aren't bad stuck, just in a little depression…I
hope.
The big guy gets out to see for himself. After someshouting back and forth, some sticks and rocks laid in front of
the rear tires, he yells and I apply a little gas to the problem. I
swear I don't know how it happened. I didn't gun the engine to
leap away from him. I wish I'd thought of doing that, but I
didn’t.
The big Russian gets back in the RV all muddy
holding his right wrist. He got hurt somehow and I'm hoping he
doesn't blame me. I'm trying not to let him see me grinning. I'm
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not exactly filled with sympathy. I couldn't help it, it wasn't
really funny, but then maybe it was. I'm just tired, scared and
totally frayed.The RV eases back onto the highway. The two of
them are yelling at each other in Russian and Spanish. Fear
pushes tears down my face blinding me like no rainstorm could.
I'm laughing and crying at the same time. It occurs to some
distant part of my brain that I may be in shock. I ought to be
able to use this chaos to some advantage, but I can't think straight. And of course, that's funny too. I just want to stop
laughing, stop being afraid all the time. The rain dies down and
with it the bedlam behind me quiets. The last six hours have
been more like six days and I have no idea when it will end.
Three more hours of exciting cornfields and the
thrilling flat nothingness of Iowa and we cross into Minnesota.I've never been in Minnesota. But then today there have been a
lot of 'I've never beens'. We stop for gas. Both tanks are empty.
When I don't produce credit cards the passengers come up with
the cash. That they do this without comment gives me a sense of
control. Not much mind you, just a sense.
The Russian's wrist has begun to swell and the twoof them have spent the time while I was pumping fussing with
each other over it. I don’t know why I didn’t run away. This
injury seems to have changed whatever their plans were.
Eventually, some decision seems to have been
reached because the little guy gets on the phone over at the edge
of the gas station’s concrete apron. The conversation is short but
seems to have put them back on track and in a better humor.
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With the Cuban back in the passenger seat, my
instructions are 'go straight'. He waves and points out directions
that work us north.It's beginning to get dark when we come into
Minneapolis. I've driven about 700 miles today. If they shoot
me I won't care, as long as I can die laying stretch out, I’ll make
a happy corpse.
More gestured directions put us at a restaurant
parking lot next to a small strip mall. That's where they got me,in a mall parking lot. I follow the directions I'm given and we
stop along the outer edge of the mostly deserted parking lot. The
only other vehicle within sight is a big black Ford pickup parked
several spaces beyond the RV.
We sit parked for about an hour, the streetlights
come on. I know I must have slept in the driver's seat for maybeforty-five minutes. How beats me. Just too tired to be scared.
To numb to attempt escape. Not that I would. This RV is my
home, my house, everything I hold dear rides on these tires. I’m
not giving up my home without a fight. Where I’ll get the
chutzpah to do that, I have no idea.
A bit of a verbal scuffle between my passengersstartles me out of my reverie. The little guy takes off to use the
phone at the restaurant entrance. He comes back huffing and red
faced; angry. More arm waving and yelling in Russian and
Spanish. This time I get the gist of it. The Cuban's brother has
changed his mind and decided not to help them after all. Now,
with the Russian injured and without the brother, they need two
more good hands. What for? Beats me.
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They are standing in the parking lot next to the RV
arguing over what to do. Across the parking lot strolls a gray-
haired man who seems to be headed for the black Ford. Henotices the rhubarb going on at the RV, I see him turn his head
toward it, but then he turns away. No fault in minding your own
business.
Amid their disagreement, these two brothers in
chaos also see the man approaching. When the sound of arguing
abruptly ends, I know exactly what they're going to do. The mansenses it a moment too late. They take him down hard on his
knees and from behind. They have his arms pinned behind him
before I can believe what I've seen.
The man struggles until his head is forced down
hard onto the asphalt. I've never seen anyone hurt like that
before. When they shove him limp and stumbling through thesmall RV door his head is bleeding; his eyes are closed. They
toss him onto the bed in the back. I could have scooted out the
open door while they were busy in the back if I'd had legs under
me that weren't too scared to move.
The Cuban re-takes the passenger seat and arm
waves me out of the parking lot away from the deserted mall andonto Interstate-94. When he says St Cloud, I can’t imagine
driving another mile, I pretend not to understand. That was a
mistake.
I've never been hit before. His open hand slashes
across my face with force enough to twist my neck and drive my
teeth into my inside cheek. It's over in a second. He doesn't
acknowledge the damage when I spit blood or realize that I
might not have understood his instructions.
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They want to add over a hundred more miles to
today's driving. If fear had kept me awake until now, absolute
terror keeps me alert for the time it takes to get to a campground just south of St Cloud.
They have me park on the edge of the campground.
I've been pushed and waved into the rear of the RV. The Cuban
sleeps in the drivers' seat. His partner, who is twice his size,
sleeps blocking both the RV door and the passenger side door.
They really didn't have to force me. Too many miles, too muchconfusion. Funny how the body can be worn out but the mind
just keeps racing.
I make my way to the rear of the RV in a mental
haze ready to collapse. The streetlight coming through the side
window casts shadows across the bed lighting the captured man's
face. His features reflect age; he’s past his prime, and strength, but not much else. The high forehead, wide mouth and thin lips
pressed tightly together trace faint lines of humor. Deep set
brown eyes open and stare at me. The brownest eyes I've ever
seen. I'm a push over for brown eyes. It's a weakness. There
isn't a brown-eyed dog or puppy I've ever met that goes hungry.
Finally getting the hang of the rough underside of life, I keepquiet about him being awake. He raised his finger to my lips to
insure silence. He needn't have worried; I wasn't capable of
speaking.
He wasn't in nearly the state of confusion I expected
having been knocked out and hauled into a strange place. He
spoke into my shoulder to muffle the sound. "We'll get out of
this okay, just follow my lead." There is no tremor of fear about
him. His voice is almost gentle, controlled and clear even at a
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whisper. For no reason at all, I nodded that I trusted him. He
smiled and nodded back. He might have been Attila the Hun in
disguise for all I knew, but I trusted him.It surprises me that just having him here, I find that
I can actually think straighter, maybe even sort out what's
happening. It's a cruel thing to be glad of someone else's
misfortune, but I am. I’m almost comfortable with his presence.
Close to my ear, he whispers, "You can sleep, I'll keep a eye on
them.”"I don't think I can sleep," I whisper into the
shadows. "When I close my eyes, I see seven hundred miles of
highway, when I try to lie still, I feel the vibration of every
mile.” In the silence that follows, this man who doesn't know me
from Martha Washington, puts his arms around me drawing me
close the way a parent would comfort a sick child. It works. Imust have drifted off almost immediately.
St Cloud, MN to Billings, MT
783 miles, 16 hours
Sometime a bit before daylight, the guardians in thefront of the RV decide it's time to be moving. No breakfast, no
coffee, no shower, just drive. Something is pushing them. I
drive.
They acquire a name by their own behavior. They
are the Chaos Brothers to me. At any rate, they are soon at the
table bickering again as usual. They are making some kind of plan. They have maps spread out on the cabinet and table and a
color photograph they wave in each other's face. They aren't
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paying attention to the front seat. I'm driving and the brown-
eyed man has come to the passenger seat nursing a swollen knee.
"I didn't have a chance to ask your name beforeclimbing into your bed," he's talking to me but his eyes are on
the two in the back.
"Harriet," I tell him, trying to get the morning gravel
out of my voice, "my name is Harriet."
"I'm Jack."
For about two hours, we head north and west awayfrom St Cloud. Jack and I agree that if we don't insist, those two
in the back won't consider stopping for breakfast. I'm starving
now and find that what was fear yesterday is turning to rebellion
laced with anger. The next place to eat, I stop. Before the two in
the back can react. Jack stands to face them. "Lets just get a
bite, behave like civilized…people, then we can go on."My mouth drops open. They agree. The Russian
will have the gun in my back to keep everyone in line. His wrist
is so swollen, I'm not sure he could pull the trigger if provoked,
but I'm not experimenting. It's awkward moving around in the
restaurant glued to the Russian. If I weren't nearly dead from
hunger, I probably wouldn't have been able to eat.In short order we are back on the road. I'm
disappointed in Jack. Maybe I've got a coward on my hands. I
thought the restaurant would be where we'd make a break. But
on second thought, maybe he's waiting until the swelling in his
knee subsides. This just needs to be over; I don't care how, just
over.
Jack is in the passenger seat again for short while.
Because of his knee, I'm still driving. Despite my
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disappointment at his not making any attempt to get away, I'm
still glad he's here. If he turns out to actually be a coward, I'm
really going to be disappointed in this brown-eyed stray.We don't talk. What is there to say? I just drive.
Jack has managed to get the boys in back to show us
their picture. It's a picture of something that looks for all the
world like some kind of missile with lettering I don’t recognize
on its skin. There is no way of knowing what size it is as there
no reference item in the photo. This is what they are in such arush to get? It must be incredibly valuable to them. The
lettering isn’t exactly Russian, I don’t think…but it might be.
Why would the Russians recover their property using these two
incompetents? The only thing I can figure is that they’re
hoodlums in a race with someone to retrieve the missile and then
probably ransom it to the highest bidder. In my imaginationnothing else would warrant their efforts. I wonder what Jack
makes of this.
Out of the corner of my eye, I swear he’s smiling to
himself. I reach to touch his arm to get his attention without
involving anyone else. He recognizes my raised eyebrows as a
question. He shrugs and shakes his head implying that he doesn'tknow what it is. It's a lie. I don't know how I know it, but I do.
He knows what the thing is and right then I know why he's here.
He doesn't intend to get away. He doesn't know where the
missile is and this 'ride' is his way to find it. He’s the Chaos
Brother’s competition, I’d bet on it. And they haven’t got a clue.
I’m smiling myself.
One realization leads to another. Jack (if that's his
real name) probably wasn't in that parking lot in Minneapolis by
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coincidence either. If I’m lucky he knows karate, has a knife
taped to his shin and a tiny powerful pistol in his armpit. If I’m
lucky that is; if I’m not, he’s just some ordinary guy in the wrong place at the wrong time and I'm in the middle of something that
is way, way over my head. As close as I've ever come to cloak
and dagger is sneaking up on friend in Walmart. I wish Ian
Flemming had put this trip together. Then at least, Jack would
be more James Bond than Joe Blow.
Near Fargo, we get lunch using the restaurantroutine again. The one where the Russian keeps his pistol buried
in my back and Jack and I behave so I don’t get shot. Maybe I
can find a way out on my own if I'm willing to abandon the RV.
I know I can't run fast and there doesn't seem to be any way to
sneak off. How come the rest rooms in movies all have windows
big enough to wriggle out of. I know it's cool and windy outthere and I'd probably wish I hadn't run away, but if there's a
window, I'm going for it.
There isn't.
We leave the restaurant all bunched up under threat
of the gun grinding into my ribs. The weather is picking up. A
chilly wind whips around the RV. Jack loses his hat and goestrotting off after it. I'm dumbfounded; I'm going to get shot over
a windblown hat. This whole thing is looking more like a
comedy than anything serious. Who knows how far he'd have
chased it?
The biggest man I've ever seen, a football player for
sure, scoops up Jack's hat with a slow downward sweep of his
arm. This man is dressed for the weather with his own cap
pulled down over his ears. Jack gets his precious hat back before
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the Russian can take it all in. Dusting and re-shaping it, Jack
turns back toward the group. If looks could truly kill, he'd be
dead by my expression. If he doesn't have any respect for hisown safety, that's not my business, but my safety is my business.
"You do anything like that again and I'll shoot you
myself," I surprised myself by the harsh sound of my voice. I'm
not a violent person. But they say you are the company you
keep. I need some new company.
Jack passes me and waits at the open RV door bowing to me in exaggerated courtesy. I can see that he's
smiling to himself. His lips are tight, but his eyes are dancing
with delight at something. I can't help but return the smile. Yep,
I'm in way over my head. I can't figure out how to get out,
worse, I'm beginning not to care.
I'm still driving. North Dakota is about four hundred miles along Interstate-94. Nothing to break up the
miles. It's proving to be a real test of my attention span. Some
day I think I'll come back and really 'look' at it. In the passenger
seat, Jack fumbles with his hat and in his hand there a slip of
paper. He looks at it like it was a winning lottery ticket. Then
he eats it. He ignores the blatant question on my face and getsthat satisfied grin again. Somewhere in the back of my mind I
imagine that he knew the football player and the note came from
him as good news. Shaking off the cloak and dagger aspects of
my wandering imagination is easy. It’s all too far fetched to be
real, I think.
Another fifty miles and I'm tired but not sleepy, my
face aches where the Cuban hit me and the inside of my mouth is
still raw. Jack isn't riding shotgun. Angry as I am with him, for
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risking getting me shot, even if he had a reason, I miss having
him nearby.
The Cuban is in the back dead to the world. The bigRussian is mumbling over the maps again rocking back and forth
in pain cradling his wrist. There is a lounge chair behind the
passenger seat. Jack is slacked back in it with his eyes nearly
closed. I'm watching him in the rear view mirror. He isn't
relaxed or sleeping, I'd bet on that. He's watching the Russian's
finger trace over the maps. He wants to know where we’regoing. He’s seen the maps close up but for some reason still
doesn’t know where the Chaos Brothers are heading. I don’t
know where any of them, including Jack are headed and I don’t
care. I just want to get there and get them out of the RV.
The weather is howling again and it's hard to hold
the RV on the highway. I'm thinking of pulling over. In themirror, I see Jack looking squarely at me. His head moves
slowly from side to side. His lips shape 'Don't stop'. He gets a
pouting look back from me, a plea for relief. From him I get a
wink. Time is important to him too.
The storm will let up for a while and when I think
it's behind us, it comes roaring back. We are making aboutforty-five miles an hour during the worst of it. I am at my limit
and mentally coasting.
Seven hours and three stops later, we cross into
Montana and soon after we pass completely out of the storm. A
little sun sneaks through not much before dusk. By this time, the
Cuban is awake and up front glued to the passenger window,
watching miles and miles of nothing go by, it doesn't take much
to entertain him.
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Jack is going over the maps left open on the table
while the Russian is sleeping in the back. I can't see Jack; he is
directly behind the driver's seat with his back to the Cuban tohide his interest in the maps. I stretch my arm out and back
between the driver's door and seat, reaching back trying to get
Jack's attention without alerting the Cuban.
I'm not really sure where my stretched out hand
comes to rest, but when I feel human warmth, I pat gently. A
hand takes mine and the little squeeze instantly embarrasses me.My subconscious puts two and two together before my tired
consciousness has a clue. Red faced, I nerve up enough to look
in the mirror, Jack is grinning ear to ear. The man has no shame.
Aloud, "I wanted to find out how much farther we were expected
to travel today."
The Cuban glares at me, "Billings."Another two hundred and fifty miles is just more
than I can wrap myself around. At the next off ramp, I get off
and select a drive-thru restaurant. I'm parked before the RV
stops swaying enough to allow anyone to get to their feet.
Experience being a good teacher, I'm leaning out the
window to avoid the expected slap. It doesn't come. Jack's armis raised between the seats deflecting the blow. "She's tired,
she's dangerous at these speeds. I'll drive."
The Cuban lowers his arm before Jack draws his
back. Out of the seat now, the Cuban goes to the back rousing
his partner. I toss my leg over the center console and slide into
the passenger seat while Jack takes the wheel. We do the drive-
thru, the food isn't that great, but it's hot and the coffee is good.
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Out of the driver's job for the first time in over a
thousand miles and with hot food of any quality to eat, my tired
road-bored brain wakes up a bit. The two in the back are arguingabout something in the take-out bag. They would argue about
the color of the sky. I don't pay much attention to them now;
they just seem to like to argue. When they are in the midst of
one of these disagreements, I notice they don't pay attention to
anything else.
This is the best opportunity to find out what, if anything; Jack has learned from the maps and maybe get him to
share the message he risked my life to get from the football
player. "What did you find out?” I figure I've got a right to be
curious.
Jack heard me but doesn't answer right away. He's
trying to decide how to answer. I can tell by the way his face isworking. He says nothing. Okay, I think, fine.
"Never mind," I let him off the hook. "You were
probably going to lie anyhow." I put him back on the hook.
There is no need for further conversation but Jack
makes a surprising effort at small talk. I'm pretty sure this isn't
standard for him. "What do you do when you aren't escortingthugs and strangers across country?"
For no good reason, I don't suspect Jack of any
hidden motive, but it occurs to me that I don't really know him so
I opt not to be very open. If he’s someone’s version of James
Bond, he’s incredibly good at keeping it from me. "I'm out
rescuing stray dogs and lost souls. I'm a self-proclaimed 'do-
gooder.'"
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"Is that your day job?" He's making a joke; or
trying to.
"Well, I answer only to my conscience and I used tosleep pretty good. I have what I need, that's enough for me." He
knows my answer is evasive. He will make of it what he wishes.
The last hundred miles into Billings are traveled in
the dark. There isn't much traffic on this part of Interstate-94 at
this hour. The quiet, the hum of the tires, Jack's profile at the
wheel, life isn't all bad and scary. It occurs to me that I’ve become an adrenaline junkie if I can think like that in these
circumstances. We make the transition from Interstate-94 to 90
without the frantic attention of the Cuban navigator. Jack
announces "Billings" like a bus driver would. With that, the
Cuban comes forward. I'm out of the passenger seat without
threat or incident. The Cuban sits down and begins waving andgesturing directions.
East of town on a riverbank, the Cuban's directions
end at a campground. There are other people, hot showers, and
fresh air. The others can't possibly be as sapped by fatigue as I
am.
Hot water is unquestionably one of civilization'smost valuable possessions. I gather up my things and I'm out the
door headed for the campground showers before anyone can
object. "If I don't come back, you can shoot Jack." I toss over
my shoulder. Maybe I’ll find a phone and call the police; put an
end to this. There isn’t one, as a matter of fact, this place is on
the edge of an isolated stretch of nowhere.
I'm gone less than a half-hour. Once back in the
RV, I open all the windows, put clean linens on the bed and just
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generally make a nuisance of myself moving among the men.
Finally they all three get the hint and move outside to the picnic
table. House cleaning is the best distraction ever invented. Iwipe down the table and counter tops. There are fingerprints on
everything. I leave the refrigerator covered with their prints.
Cleanliness is one thing, being able to nab those two hoods later
on is worth a little grime.
Travel with considerate companions, creates its own
clutter. With those two Neanderthals, my RV has become arolling landfill. In about an hour, I've more or less reclaimed my
space. Thoroughly tapped out, I turn off the lights and crawl into
bed. Let them set whatever guard they wish I'm too tired to care.
I can hear them out there at a picnic table, threatening Jack,
posturing like the bullies they are. His voice mixes in with theirs
and they begin ranting at each other. They throw Jack into theRV.
The Cuban cracks the driver's door while I watch
from the shadows. He fusses under the dashboard. Takes the
keys and slams the door behind him. In a scuffle, he and his
injured cohort wrestle the poles free of my side awning and brace
the doors closed with them. Extra protection from a lame oldman and a cringing female. I’ve heard of people snorting at such
antics but I’d never actually snorted at anyone or anything. Until
now.
Jack lay quietly where they’d tossed him while we
are secured for the night, then he makes his way to where I’ve set
watching. "Okay if I try out your shower," is all he says, inviting
himself. I'm reminded of the Uncle Remus story in which Br'er
Rabbit pleads with his captors not to be thrown into the briar
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patch. Once there, the wily rabbit scampers about with glee, the
briar patch is his home. He fooled his captors into doing exactly
what he wanted.More convinced than ever, I believe that somehow,
this man has orchestrated every detail of the last two days. I
listen to the pattering water in the shower determined to stay
awake and force the truth out of him.
Not determined enough though. Dawn’s first light
on my face and the smell of burnt toast close by wakes me.
Billings, MT to Spokane, WA;
545 miles
The Russian and the Cuban are up front rustling
their maps again. We could be going anywhere with those twonavigating but I’m too road-weary to care even after six hours of
uninterrupted sleep. I just want to get to wherever it is and be
done with them.
Jack is busy looking domestic in the little kitchen.
He opens three coffee cans before he comes to the one with the
instant in it. There is some grumbling about my organizationalskills. I don't offer to help. I'm watching; trying to learn what I
can about a man I scarcely know who has become my lifeline.
When he finds the small jar of instant, he pours
coffee into the largest cup he can find. By the time he takes the
few steps from the kitchen to the bed, I'm sitting up but in no real
hurry to start another day like the last two.He crouches down in front of me, at eye level,
handing me the hot cup. "I'm sorry I couldn’t keep him from
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hitting you, but this is almost over. You've done great, just hang
in there a little longer," he isn't patronizing; he really believes
what he's saying. His hands cover mine holding the warm cup asthough to transfer courage by touch. I’m so desperate for
comfort that it works.
Jack drives. I try to go back to sleep, but not for
long. The Russian pokes me without ceremony and announces
that we are eating soon. I'm sleeping in my clothes and don't
care that my hair isn't brushed. I don't look in the mirror. I don'twant to know if there is handprint on my face.
When we stop at one of those 1950 style diners, I
automatically take up my position next to the Russian. It's one of
those days when I have trouble waking up. In the diner, we line
up on bar stools leaning on the counter reading single page
grease spotted menus.Then I see him. In the kitchen. The football player
who retrieved Jack's windblown hat a lifetime ago. Today he has
on a cook's hat pulled down to his eyebrows. I know it's the
same man. I absolutely know it. Jack wouldn't admit it, I'm
sitting close enough to him to ask, but what's the point.
I stare at the cook; point blank right at him. He putsa plate up on the pass window and I deliberately make my lips
form a small slow smile. His reaction is equally subdued. One
eyebrow raised and a smile of his own. He thinks I know what's
going on. Either that or he thinks I'm flirting with him. I'm still
perfecting my cloak and dagger stuff.
We eat the breakfast put before us. I'm sure he's not
a cook. Well at least not for much longer. The breakfast is
terrible. He'll probably quit or get himself fired within a few
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minutes of our leaving. There is no hint from Jack that he knows
or even recognizes the man, but that doesn't mean anything. I
can’t believe the Chaos Brothers don’t recognize the him. Howmany fellows of his size can there be? I watch for some contact
between him and Jack. If it happened, it was so incredibly subtle
that I fancy these guys may just know what they’re doing. I wish
I did.
Jack continues to drive, I'm shotgun but not a very
good one. I've never been in Montana and won't remember much of it. Mostly I doze. More than once I shivered awake
with a sense of terror. Jack is there, reaching over, offering
comfort.
Finally, I must be all slept out. I'm awake; I'm just
not alert. I'd been able to get comfortable by tucking one leg up
under me. A couple of more days of this and I'd be traveltrained.
The Chaos Brothers in back have taken to playing
cards. They bet big, they cheat, and the inevitable argument gets
started. Jack nips it off, like a father settling a budding argument
between children in the back seat. They are taken off guard by
his tone of voice. It works. The arguing ends.The RV is beginning to struggle on the up-slopes of
the mountains. Jack nurses the engine and I cringe wondering if
I'll have an RV when we finally reach his promised 'It's almost
over' point. The engine begins to overheat.
Progress slows and I'm listening to the big Russian
berate American craftsmanship. I raise up turning in my seat to
tell him a thing or two. What have I got to lose. Before I can get
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into position to have my say, Jack jerks me back into the seat.
He knows more about what’s at stake than I do.
An instant later, we head down slope, brakes gone,engine overheating, speedometer tapping ninety. Thirty feet and
five tons of RV weren't meant to do this. With both hands on the
wheel, Jack has all he can manage to keep the freewheeling
vehicle on the pavement.
There is a light flashing behind us but all four pairs
of eyes are glued to the next twist in the road and choose toignore it. As much as I have dreaded each climb, that's how
much I now pray for one steep enough to slow us down. I can
tell that Jack's teeth are clinched, his jaw is set solid. There is no
smiling crinkle at the corner of his eye. We have come to
something he didn't plan on. This is what he looks like when
he's at work, I'm sure of it. This focused expression fits the lineson his face.
The road straightens out and a gentle incline is
enough to bring us to a gliding stop. It's only now that we pay
any attention to the trooper behind us.
Like cockroaches running from daylight, the Cuban
and the big Russian jam themselves into the tiny bathroom. Iwait to see if Jack joins them. He doesn't. I'm betting those two
are either wanted by the law or are illegal aliens or probably
both. What I’m betting on Jack is that he has some kind of super
government identification.
He rolls down his window as the officer reaches the
RV. I am amazed that it’s a woman alone patrolling, but this is a
big state with a small population. She is surprisingly beautiful;
stunning to be honest. She asks for the registration and Jack's
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license. I produce the registration; Jack bumbles around but
eventually produces what might be a license. "You're a long way
from home in an awfully big hurry," is all she says. "Please waithere." She takes the documents back to her patrol car and does
whatever they do before slapping on a huge fine and impounding
my vehicle. Or, maybe she’s calling for backup and preparing to
arrest the Chaos Brothers, and send me back where I belong.
We wait; the RV seems roomy with those two idiots
stuffed in the bathroom. Jack is quiet when he should be rattlingon making jokes, defending his driving.
"Why don't you just tell her that the brakes gave
out?” I don't understand his silence.
"If I tell her we have no brakes, she'll have us towed
to some wide-spot mechanic and we'll be stuck there for hours."
I don't buy the explanation. "But we have no brakes; we need some wide-spot mechanic."
Jack is irritated. "They can be fixed right here, and
it won't take me all day. Assuming that can of brake fluid under
your kitchen sink is really brake fluid."
I should let it go at that but I don't. "You're going to
get points on your license for this. If you'd tell her the truth youmight not even get a ticket.
The irritation becomes a grin. "I'm not going to get
a ticket. You wait and see."
"You were doing ninety miles an hour in an RV,
swaying back and forth over the center line. Jesus Christ
Himself would get a ticket." I'm enjoying this a lot more than he
is, but when I see the trooper start back toward the RV, I decide
to back off.
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Jack sees her coming too. "I can get her to do
anything I want, he boasts," and he gets out. He's walking her up
the road ahead of us, gesturing and hanging his head, patting her on the shoulder, laying it on thick. No self respecting woman,
especially one beautiful enough to have heard it all before, is
going to cave under that. But I see her weakening.
He's fixed on her large blue-gray eyes. I'm sitting
there, mouthing a warning to her, but she takes off her hat and
shakes out her short blonde hair. I can only imagine what Jack says to her next. She draws back and slaps him hard enough to
make his head snap. I'm grinning.
She's thrust her ticket book at him to sign. As she
passes the RV headed back to the patrol car, she drops the
citation into the driver's seat. She is not smiling. I'm trying
really hard not to laugh. I'm not doing a very good job of it. Ican't see the side of his face where she made contact, but it's got
to be stinging. I'm betting that he deserved what he got.
The patrol car makes a U-turn behind us and
disappears, leaving us alone on the highway shoulder and to our
own devices to get running again. Jack goes to work on the
brakes. He wastes no motion and gives clear concise instructionsas to what I should do to be useful.
On the quiet Montana roadside, the bathroom
eventually erupts into an earthquake, rocking and swaying the
RV. Those two hiding in there couldn't keep the peace if their
lives depended on it. Jack tells me go in and sort it out. When I
protest that they aren't going to listen to me, I'm their captive, he
tells me, "They are a couple of idiots who are onto something so
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big that they are way past their limited wits end. Talk to them
like the klutzes they are. It's what they're used to."
I'm on my hands and knees looking at Jack workingand giving orders under the front end of the RV. I'm fastened to
the ground by a phrase he has used...something so big… He has
slipped up. The conversation with the trooper, maybe even the
slap and the brakes have all combined to put him off. The light
touch of humor, the comforting grin is gone. That fixed lined
expression is back. I'm trying to adjust to the two sides of theman.
His patience evaporates. "Go." He says. It's almost
an order. I'm put off by Jack's brisk behavior but I go…my own
good humor fading under his commanding tone.
When I step into the kitchen, the pair are out of the
bathroom and on the verge of a shoving match. They havestumbled headfirst into the buzz saw of my irritation with Jack.
They picked a bad time to even look cross-eyed at me.
"You two are guests in my house and you will
behave or I swear I will find a way to hurt you while you sleep."
It's a pretty weak threat considering they still have the only
weapon, but I'm fed up with the lot of them. If possible, at thatmoment, I'd have driven off and left all three of them standing on
the highway with nothing but their attitude for transportation.
I'm slow to boil but I simmer for a long time. I am
still simmering an hour later when we finally make Missoula.
It's late afternoon. We'd left Billings before daylight and just
barely covered 350 miles. Tempers are short. The Russian is
waving his gun around believing that threats will shorten the
distance to the next stop.
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I'm just barely aware when we cross into Idaho. In less than two
hours, just past dusk, we cross into Washington at Spokane
having made less than 600 miles. The Cuban points out Exit293, north.
Jack confirms his instructions aloud. "Exit 293
north."
In a matter of minutes, the RV has pulled into a
small campground south of Spokane.
I don't care where we are. I'm used up and I haven'tdriven a mile today. I make my way around the two at the table
and back to the bed. Stretched out facing the rear wall, I
concentrate on the crickets outside.
The standard security routine is in effect. Crack the
window, take the fuses, and brace the door. They plan on
spending the night in one of the small cabins across the road.Why I wonder do they slam the door. For emphasis I guess.
Trapped inside again, I'm too numb to care.
Alone. It's a luxury I had forgotten existed. The
peace of being alone. The day's events tumble around in my
mind without any sense of organization. If I can organize things,
I can usually deal with them, but too much has happened for sleep to easily knit up this ravel.
I want to be rid of them, but I can't leave--the RV is
my home. Why I can't abandon it must be a kidnap syndrome of
some kind. It doesn't make sense to me. I will figure it out later.
The sky here is clear and moonlight highlights the
interior of the RV. When I was a child, I used to sit at the
window in my room and watch the moonlight through the trees
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create shifting patterns around me. There has always been
something soothing in the dappling of moonlight.
The silence and false sense of freedom combine towork out some of the heat of fear, anger and humiliation. It
would be perfect if I had been the one to lock the doors, but I am
something of a prisoner of my own making insisting on staying
with the RV. Once I acknowledge this I content myself with
what comfort I find. Odd how the truth affects my attitude.
Without turning on the lights, I heat some water andmake a cup of coffee. Cross-legged on the bed at the back
window, with a hot cup for comfort, I watch the shadows around
me and feel myself becoming more human. I need to believe
that I can get my life back if I can hold to my sanity on until this
is over.
I don't hear or sense any movement until the bedshifts. I know it’s Jack. I can hear him breathing now, but I
wonder where he's been that I haven't been aware of his
presence. Probably slouched in the passenger seat. Odd that I
don't feel that he has invaded my sanctuary, I should, but I don't.
Without intending to overlook his earlier abrasiveness, I find
myself doing just that.He speaks slowly; fatigue is evident in his voice for
the first time. "I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier. I know I can be
an ass. If you can bear with me one more day, I promise I'll tell
you all that I can. Please don't try to make a break for it. I
would have to go with you if you did and I really need to be
there when those two reach their destination."
It's not like I have another choice or even want one.
I reach for him with both arms. He yields easily. Curled
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together, we sleep like innocents; serenaded by crickets and
blanketed by dappling moonlight.
Spokane, WA to Waldport, OR
482 miles
The morning fog is so thick that I'm not even sure
it’s dawn. By the time I've closed the windows and Jack has lit
the pilot light in the little propane furnace, the campground
outside is beginning to stir along with us.
Jack makes coffee and decent toast this time while I
fuss around up in the cab. When he goes to take a shower, I take
the passenger seat. We are still “locked” inside so for the second
or is it the third or fourth time in my traveling history, I watch
the sun come up from inside the RV rather than out in themorning quiet.
Watching people who don't know they are being
watched is stalking of sorts. I sit with my coffee, watching our
'neighbors' start their day. Days that will be filled with the
ordinary things that people do when they travel together. They'll
stop for lunch, take pictures to send home, walk their dogs, filltheir gas tanks, and talk to each other about simple things. I was
once one these people. I wonder if I will ever be again.
Directly across from me, a great-great-grandfather
creaks down the two small steps from his RV to the ground
pulling on a leashed Great Dane. Such a big dog belonging to
such a twig of a man. Simple things I would never have noticed before now amuse me with their sweetness. Until the dog heads
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for my RV. I rap loudly on the windshield to alert his owner that
maybe this is an RV not a tree.
Outside it begins to warm up. The birds are up, that proves it’s a new day doesn’t it? The Cuban wanders out of the
little cabin toward the RV. He indicates that he has the pistol in
his pocket. I shrug. He removes the awning brace blocking the
passenger door and pushes the fuses through the crack at the top
of the window, then heads toward the central latrines.
Wondering what good the pistol will do him inthere, I replace the fuses, unlock the doors and take up station at
the picnic table next to the RV. There is a faint breeze ruffling
the leaves overhead. Speckles of sunlight on the splintered table
capture my attention. Hypnotized by the pattern of light and
dark, for a few moments I’m dangerously unaware of my
surroundings.This campground is actually no more than a narrow
rutted road with vehicle stations for parking and plumbing on
either side. A young man, hardly more than thirty, in heavy
clothes and a ragged hat, comes wandering down the narrow lane
into my peripheral view. He didn't come from any of the RV's,
I'd bet. Homeless probably and foraging at this campground tosurvive. Normal cautions that have served me well most of my
life, no longer apply. When he slows at the sight of me, I
indicate to him that he's welcome at my table.
He sits down across from me. "I'll get you coffee if
you'd like some." I've seen some sad things. For civilization to
cast off this man must be the worst. Large gentle blue eyes
crinkle at the offer. A soft cultured voice speaking with a nod
says two precise words. "Yes, please.”
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each other, it's in the air. I'm looking for a clue, but other than
my sixth sense there is nothing.
"People have been sneaking up on me for the lastfew days," I tell my guest but I'm looking squarely into Jack's
face. "I ought to be getting used to it."
The Russian comes grumbling out of the cabin at
the same time the Cuban struts back to our campsite. So much
for anything quiet and normal for this day. They rudely shoo my
guest away while herding us back into the RV.The Cuban grabs my arm just long enough to
command, "Portland."
I take the driver's seat without permission or
comment. I've been a non-person for about as long as I care too.
If the Cuban is going to beat me, I'm going to fight back. It's
only pain. If the Russian is going to shoot me then I won't haveto deal with the pain. If Jack's going to use me…well, Okay! If
they see the grinning expression on my face, let 'em try to figure
me out for a change.
This courage comes from only brief contact with the
gentle creature at my breakfast table. I will not be thrown away.
Human beings should not be considered disposable. I've gothind legs under me and now thanks to him I damn well intend to
stand on them.
The passenger seat is empty. This adds to my sense
of control. A thin veneer of control admittedly, but I feel better
being committed to self-determination than I did dodging
around.
The silence in the RV is unusual to say the least.
No bickering. Jack is sitting on the bed studying the same folded
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slacks, tweedy jacket and open neck shirt, the homeless man is
still something of a waif. With a lost look he spots me. "Oops"
is all he says.It's too late for them to cover this meeting. Rooted
to the spot, I take on the brown eyes and then the gentle blue
ones without moving. "You are so busted," I tell them both. I'm
smiling at what I think I've learned as I re-take the driver's seat.
In truth all I know is that more and more of this 'surprise trip' is
happening by design.When everyone is back on board and I'm ready to
pull out onto US395, Jack takes the passenger seat. He doesn't
speak, just settles in propping up his tender knee. We are headed
south and west. For some reason this pleases Jack. I remember
he promised to tell me what this was all about so I hold my
tongue.At Pasco or Kennewick or whichever, we cross the
Yakima River into Oregon. We can't be going much farther
without water wings. We are about to run out of countryside.
The Cuban, awake and short-tempered, spits out
"Portland" to remind me which road to take.
Jack points out the ramp and in silence we areheaded west again.
I decide to give up the wheel. Driving without
permission was all about retaking some control over myself. I've
made my point, at least to myself. As soon as the traffic thins
and on a level spot, I pull over. We trade places without
comment, even from the two in the back. Portland is less than
seventy-five miles from the ocean as the crow flies, the high
flying crow that is.
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It turns out to have been a good idea to give up the
wheel. We are back in mountains; twisting never ending curves
and at speeds that stop my heart for minutes at a time.Twenty-five miles of silence is enough for me. All
is not forgiven; Jack’s meeting with the young man served to
warn me that I had probably been deceived repeatedly and now
he surely realizes that I know it. He had promised to clear the air
but that doesn't help to lighten the mood now, and I can't keep
silent forever. They say women need to speak on average fivethousand words a day, while men are content with no more than
a thousand. I have my work cut out for me.
I want to hear Jack's explanation but right now I will
settle for his voice making jokes and twisting the circumstances
into something funny. I need to hear that he is in control of
whatever is to come. I need to forget the violence of yesterday, but I can't tell him this. Maybe my cloak and dagger persona
will work. Jack makes jokes, maybe I can too. I turn in the seat
to face his profile. Then for lack of inspiration, I just sit there
watching him wind down-slope at seventy miles an hour and
then up again at forty. He's fixed on the job at hand, but I notice
after a bit that a little crease has appeared at the corner of hismouth, a little wrinkle at the corner of his eye.
The next short flat stretch, he turns to face me.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing," is all the information I share.
The afternoon wears on and Portland comes and
goes out my window with only the additional instructions called
from the back sending us toward US101 south. From Jack there
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is not much conversation, just an easy smile and warm touch
every so often.
East of Otis Junction, the Cuban stirs to alertnessagain and comes forward. Leaning between the seats he satisfies
himself that Jack is headed toward US101 south.
Without wanting too, I tremble at his nearness and
cringe when his eyes touch me. I think no one has witnessed my
involuntary reaction but when the Cuban turns back toward the
kitchen, Jack reaches for me. With the lightest pressure, he runshis hand down my arm stopping with his hand covering mine
where I'm gripping in my seat. He knows something has
happened involving the Cuban. He can't know it from me, my
determination to deal with it myself was solid; but somehow he
has found out. I begin to suspect that the “not-so-homeless
young man has passed Jack some information.This madness has got to be over soon, it just has to
be.
Lincoln City is on the ocean. A beach town. The
kind of place so crowded in July that you can't drop a pin without
pricking someone. Jack has relaxed his grip on the wheel and is
taking in the variety surrounding us.It's nearly 4:00 PM and I'm thinking that maybe
something to eat would be a good idea. If it's ready when the
Russian wakes up, maybe he'll eat and take another of those
knockout pain pills.
I keep the meal simple; I'm not laying out my best
for a couple of hoods. When they see me in the kitchen area,
they come forward and seat themselves at the table like pigs
hanging their heads over the trough.
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Jack, steering with one hand, swallows his sandwich
whole.
While I'm clearing up, the Cuban takes the passenger seat. I catch my breath, this may be where those two
want to be, make that those three. Where they want to be is
where Jack has been headed right along with them.
Newport, Oregon is a strip town lying up against the
Pacific Ocean. US101, its main artery, is just barely seven
blocks from the lapping surf. The highway shoulder is pepperedwith businesses of all kinds. The Cuban motions Jack into a
Texaco station with a huge attached garage.
The Cuban leaves the RV to meet with a young man
who has recognized him. The Russian cradles his injured wrist,
the pistol in the left hand pointed in Jack’s general direction. In
front of the garage, a lot of arm waving and overheated babbledrifts toward us. Business Cuban style. Jack and I are permitted
to leave the RV. The Cuban is distracted and the Russian doesn't
seem to care what we do. I want to know what they are
planning, Jack wants ice cream.
I know from the last few days that Jack isn’t
planning anything here, we aren't going to try to get away, so Ifigure ice cream might not be a bad idea. Jack can turn anything
into a party when he puts his mind to it.
Coming back across US101 from the ice cream
stand, dodging determined drivers, we climb up on some old tires
piled up under a tree. We have a clear view of the RV and the
full front of the gas station. Both the Russian and the Cuban can
see us.
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The Chaos Brothers & Co. are wrangling over
hooking a trailer to the RV. It has never towed anything so they
have to install lights and a hitch.It would be hard not to admit that this stop is a nice
break. From our spot on the tires, we can't miss the arrival of the
tiniest red sports convertible anyone ever saw. I don't know
squat about sports cars but I know I like this one. "Once the RV
is fitted for towing, maybe some day I'll tow something like
that." I dream aloud."You and two Rockefellers couldn't afford that
baby," is just out of Jack's mouth when the tiny door opens. Out
come the longest legs even I have ever seen. Jack's mouth has
dropped to his knees. Slowly the rest of the driver unfurls from
the low slung front seat. A movie star shape with very little of it
concealed by a bikini whose proportions match the tiny car. I'mthinking that driving wearing that has to be uncomfortable.
I take a peek at Jack, clearly that's not what he's
thinking. His ice cream is forgotten and dripping. She turns
toward the gas pumps and takes her sun hat off. Her hair is short
and blonde. I know who she is right away.
Jack didn't take even that long to recognize theMontana trooper. Five will get you ten that she is not only not a
trooper, she's likely not from Montana either. She's pumped her
gas and melts back into the red car. Jack is red from his gray
roots to the open button on his shirt. I pay really close attention
to my ice cream because I'd rather Jack didn't see me grinning.
It takes an hour to get the trailer hitch and the RV
matched for towing. I'm wondering what they need a trailer for.
The young man comes out of the garage clumping and struggling
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under the weight of a hand winch. The Cuban comes out behind
him with a coil of cable--for the winch I assume. To Jack all this
seems to be just another predictable piece of a puzzle. A lot of money changes hands and this seems to delight them all.
We are motioned off the pile of tires and back into
the RV. They want Jack to drive. I take the lounge behind the
passenger seat. I see Jack looking at me in the rear view mirror.
He is positively glowing with delight. The blonde or the trailer
and winch, I can't tell which. But I know he's back solidly incontrol and orchestrating to his hearts delight.
It is after six now and three hours till dark this time
of year. I'm guessing whatever they are going to do with that
winch requires cover of darkness. The Cuban is up front issuing
the usual tirade that has been passing for directions.
Jack makes a wrong turn into a dead end. The frontseats turn into a circus getting thirty feet of RV plus trailer turned
around in tight quarters. Once Jack gets headed in the approved
direction, all is forgiven.
Making one more turn as instructed, we stop at a
Marina type store. We sit tight, the Russian, Jack and I. We
wait while the Cuban takes care of whatever his business is here.I can't catch Jack's eye.
Seems this stop was to pick up scuba gear. Jack
looks up now and nodding slowly puts on a little smile. This is
it. Whatever they are after, it is big, it's probably heavy, it's
underwater and I figure pretty valuable considering all they've
spent so far and don't have dust to show for their money or
trouble, I'm further convinced Jack was right, they are a brick
shy.
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Twenty minutes south of Newport is Waldport. We
enter the campgrounds at exactly 7:00 PM. The setting is
secluded, surrounded by fir trees and tall undergrowth on threesides.
Inside the RV, anticipation is like a low electric
current running through everyone. That undercurrent sends the
three men out to work it off milling around the trailer, drinking
sodas, and kicking the RV tires. Killing time the way men do.
I'm sitting on top of the ever-present picnic table just staring off into nothingness. In my field of vision something
moves unlike the bushes or tall reeds. I look away so as not to
call attention to what I think I've seen. I pick out a squirrel to
study. When I sneak a second look, I'm sure there is someone in
the tall undergrowth.
I glimpsed the football player’s shape in the bushesthen he seemed disappear, but I know I saw him. Somewhere
out there just beyond the camp clearing I know there is also a tall
blonde woman and a young man in a jacket and slacks. They
belong to Jack in some way and I'm guessing they are waiting for
his signal.
The Russian has wandered off across the road anddown to a spit of sand. We can see him at the water's edge
bathing his right hand and wrist in the cool surf. There are vivid
red streaks running up his arm. Cool water isn't going to make
much difference.
Dusk comes slowly. Then it’s time to move. The
Cuban puts us to work getting the winch down to the beach. I
figure if I can lift my end it can’t be all that heavy for Jack, but
he is moaning to the Cuban about his back and knees, performing
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with a clumsiness even I recognize as affected. Finally, he gets a
handhold on his end. I've learned that anything with Jack that
'doesn't fit' usually has a reason. I think he's buying time. Heneeds darkness; he can't call his people out when there is light
enough for them to become targets.
Once we have the winch at the water's edge, we
head back for the cable.
Jack points me toward the RV jerking his head in
that direction. I can’t see the expression on his face, it’s toodark, but he’s indicating that I’m expected to wait in there. Sure,
like I’m going to miss the show down on the beach because he
wants me holed up in the RV for some reason. Then it dawns on
me why the hurry, why the push to reach this destination. They,
the Chaos Brothers and Jack’s group, had to be here tonight and
I’m guessing it’s because this is a night when there is no moon.My “I don’t think so", delivered point blank, settles
that. If he doesn’t want me to see what’s about to come out of
the water, he should have taken steps to exclude me before now.
“I’m in.” I spit at him. “I’ve paid the dues to be here.”
The Cuban goes into the RV to get into the rented
wet suit. I point to the man as he enters the RV and glare at Jack."Besides, there’s no way I'm going in there."
There isn’t time for any more argument. Jack is put
to work winding the cable onto the wench drum. It will be dark
soon.
The Cuban struts down the beach with swim fins
and lengths of rope in one hand and the extra air tank in the
other. Before I realize it, the Russian has the gun buried in
Jack’s neck. I’m not prepared for this level of hostility after the
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relative harmony of today. The Cuban drops his fins and the
tank. He jerks my arms behind me, tying my wrists tightly
together. He pushes me toward where Jack and the Russian areat the winch. When I don’t fall, he trips me deliberately;
winding the rope around my crossed ankles, tying my feet
together.
I’m thinking it’s time for Jack’s people out there to
show up, but they don’t. Why are they waiting? The Russian
stands between Jack at the winch and me on the sand, the gun is pointed at Jack.
I get into a sitting position. We are watching the
Cuban’s underwater light out about fifty yards from shore under
the water. We can’t see what he’s actually doing just his light
moving. He surfaces after about fifteen minutes and shouts
something I don’t get.The Russian kicks Jack and the winch squeals to
life. The cable begins to strain under the weight of the item.
Nothing happens. The cable is taut but the item isn’t moving. It
occurs to me that with this bunch, they may be lashed onto a
piece of the Oregon coast rather than a movable object.
The Cuban comes ashore stomping and cursing.Stomping in swim fins is a funny thing to see under any
circumstances, a man cursing nature always amuses me, but I
don’t feel like laughing. Jack’s people should be coming. If,
that is, they have time!
Seems the item has been sucked into the sand. They
need to break the suction. There is the traditional heated
discussion, arm waving, gesturing, and shouting. You gotta love
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the way these two sneak around. At any rate, I find this familiar
scene somewhat soothing. All is well; they are at each other.
Surely this ruckus will get Jack’s people down here.It doesn’t. Jack is no longer doing things that smack of stalling.
He takes up the extra air tank, vents it for effect, shoves it at the
Cuban and goes back to the winch. The Cuban gets the hint and
they agree to use the compressed air to break the sandy suction
on the item. I’m wondering if I’m ever actually going to see this
thing.The surface of the water erupts like an explosion
and the tension on the winch cable causes it to go slack for an
instant before Jack catches it and takes it up taut. The item is
moving. Both Jack and the Russian are glued to a point on the
surface waiting to catch first glimpse of something they both
want enough to risk kidnap charges. I can’t see and I try to standup with my ankles tied crossed, but lose my balance and roll
forward, bumping the Russian's right side just at the level of his
coat pocket.
I’ve never heard a human being howl like an animal
in pain. Jack reacts with impressive speed. The gun is tossed up
the beach; the Russian is down with his right throbbing armtwisted behind his back by the Montana trooper. The football
player is literally carrying the little Cuban up out of the water.
Jack is kneeling in the sand behind me untying my hands. The
well-dressed homeless man is cutting the rope at my ankles.
The two of them are arguing about who screwed up
what and how bad. About who was going to get this mess
straightened out. Now they are going to have to be the ones to
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do the heavy work. What is the report going to say? They
remind me of the Russian and the Cuban when they squabbled.
With the football player on the winch, somethinginches its way up the beach. It doesn’t really look like the
picture. Whatever it is, it is wrapped in what might be that
netting from a fishing trawler. In the darkness, the item looks
about eight feet long and a couple of feet in diameter. I can’t see
it well enough to know for sure what it actually is, for all I know
it could be a mini sub or a chunk of space debris. Of course, before reality took it’s place, I had a vivid imagination.
An SUV driven by the blonde woman arrives with
the trailer from the RV hitched to it. She backs along the hard
ground avoiding the sand. Once in place, I expect them to start
manhandling the thing up onto the trailer.
I can see that they have worked together before.The way they individually move in harmony to accomplish each
task. Their actions meshing smoothly as they joke among
themselves. Who ever else they may be in their own lives, they
are at heart, Jack’s people.
There are handholds on each side of the thing and
through the tangled netting Jack, the young man and the football player easily lift the item onto the trailer. The woman herds the
hog-tied Chaos Brothers into the rear of the SUV. She has my
sympathy.
Watching them go about their assigned tasks, leaves
me nothing to do. I clearly no longer play a part in this. I will
likely never be allowed to know what came up out of the Pacific
Ocean snarled in netting or why it merited such effort. I have
only been a part of this by a fluke. A fluke which Jack and his
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people were clever enough to take advantage of. They have what
they wanted. What I wanted was my life back. I guess I have it
now, I’m just not sure.At the water's edge, the Pacific Ocean buries my
feet deeper with each wave, I feel abandoned and used. Jack is
no longer under any constraint to explain this business to me.
For four days, I've felt every heart beat, measured every breath.
Now that it's over, this must be what empty feels like. The sand
is up to my ankles, I think it's cold but I'm not sure.I have lost who I am. I knew who I was not long
ago, but that's not me now. I need time to find some answers, to
just be alive without fear or anger for a while. I want to stir
awake from this whole terrible dream. I want it all to go away.
Except Jack, him I'd like to be real. Just to confirm that there are
decent people who do the things that need to be done even theugly things. I couldn't ever be such a person. I lack the courage.
Behind me up on the beach, I hear Jack's people
finish cleaning up the area. Probably removing all trace of what
has transpired here. The SUV doors slam, the vehicle engine
cranks and fades away up the road. The silence they leave
behind is roaring. Just like that, it's over and I have no idea whatit was all about.
The sun will soon be coming up. It’s still behind
the mountains at this hour barely a glow in the east. If I start
home now, north up US 101, I won't be driving into that sun until
it's much higher. All I have to do is walk up the beach to the
RV, get in, close the door, turn the key in the ignition. The rest
of getting home is easy. Just walking up the beach, however, is
going to take some doing.
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I just can't seem to gather my wits enough to act.
This is probably some kind of shock that will wear off as soon as
I get moving. But I can’t find the motivation to act. So I standthere in the surf, an hour, a minute, who knows how long before
I realize that Jack is standing next to me. I thought he’d gone.
He has his shoes and socks off and his pants legs
rolled up having waded down to where I'm planted in the surf.
He looks down at my feet buried in the Pacific Ocean.
"You have sand in your shoes," he clues me in withthat grin that I've come to understand serves as a smile.
"You missed your ride.” I'm telling him something
obvious too.
"Yeah, I was kind of hoping you'd give me a lift.”
He risks my life repeatedly, lies outright to me without shame
and then has the nerve to beg for a ride!Ignoring my dulled internal warning system, I nod.
"Sure.” I'm getting myself ready to actually move now. I can
take him to the police station in town or wherever he’s meeting is
people, the airport most likely, and then I'll head east. "Where
do you want me to drop you?"
His hand has taken mine pulling me up the beachtoward the RV. He lifts his chin toward the rising sun.
"Minneapolis.” There is more than just a hint of enthusiasm his
voice.
Part 2—Eastbound
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Waldport, Oregon to Coeur d'Alene Idaho
550 milesLate summer dawns arrive cold and damp on the
northwest coast. This one finds me sitting on a picnic table…
again, waiting for Jack to check us out of the campground. I
can’t even begin to deal with the last four days. The table is
uncomfortable under me. The bench is splintery under my bare
feet. The cool morning dampness is biting at my skin. If I work
at it, I might be able to convince myself that I'm waking up from
a nightmare.
Focused on nothingness, I can feel myself mentally
drifting without purpose. The shock of quiet solitude must be
doing this to me. A rusty spot on the hood of a car parked at the
edge of the woods becomes a focal point just because it's there.
Like so much else lately, it's something to take in and either discard or store up to deal with later.
Jack shuffles back toward the RV and boosts
himself up onto the table next to me. For a few minutes, we stare
into the dawn. I guess we are adjusting to being out of harm's
way. At any rate that’s what I’m trying to do. In a few minutes
Jack is fidgeting. He doesn’t like inactivity.“You drive first.” I suggest. “I'll get some
breakfast going." I don't think he wanted to drive but I've eaten
his version of breakfast so I offer him no other option.
We head north and then east aiming for Portland.
By the time we are within shouting distance of Interstate-5,
breakfast is ready. Stopped in a rest area, we sit at the little tableacross from each other and eat without hurry or tension. Jack's
silence leaves room for the question I've been waiting to ask.
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"Was it a missile? Some advanced weapon? Was it worth it?"
Jack knows that I mean.
His answer isn't as much a lie as it is evasive. "Itlooked like a missile. But advanced? I don’t know. I was under
orders to retrieve an unspecified item which had become a matter
of interest to foreign nationals. A trawler had snagged it and
dragged it to where civilian divers took pictures of it. Once it
was identified it as an item of interest, well, that's where I came
in. It's not something I've ever seen before. I'd tell you if Icould."
He doesn't say 'if I knew'; he says 'if I could'. There
is a difference I've come to recognize.
"When do you have to be where ever it is you have
to be?" I'm not prying, just making conversation.
"I'm not due anywhere for several days. We can seethose sights we missed on the way out. How do you feel about
fishing?"
"Around here? You mean a stick and a string or
charter a boat and tie yourself to a chair kind of fishing?" I know
a loaded question when I hear it.
"No, not here. In Minnesota I have a little cabin,it's…" He begins to elaborate but is interrupted by knocking on
the side door. "Who would come over without calling and on a
Saturday morning yet!" Swinging the side door open, Jack grins
at his own brand of humor.
The man outside leans his aged shriveled torso
forward into the RV looking up at Jack. Time stops. I can't
move. I want to warn Jack, but the words are trapped in my
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throat. My panic is so complete that I can't even make myself
hear what they're saying.
The man backs away. Jack closes the door andturns back into the RV. He's back at the table, fork in hand
before I regain enough composure to make any kind of sound.
"I've seen that man before. In the RV park in
Spokane. He was parked across from us. I saw him when he
was up early walking his dog."
"Are you sure?" Jack doesn't want to believe me.I'm wondering why he would. I'd doubt it myself if I didn't
remember it so clearly.
Nodding and shivering are the best answer I can
come up with to that question. There are coincidences and then
there are coincidences. This is like the trip west.
"Do you know him?" I'm not going to play thesegames any longer. "I need to know the truth about at least this."
It's not a plea; it's a demand.
Jack's smile vanishes into firm lips. "I don't know
him, but I think I know who he is and if I'm right, we're going to
have to be very careful."
Reaching across the small table, I take a firm holdon his hand. "You've got to tell me what's going on. I'll walk
right over the edge without blinking if I don't know what to
watch for. I've earned the right to know. Someone somewhere
has put my life on the line without asking me. I don’t so much
mind that, it was probably unavoidable, but we're both in greater
danger when only one of us knows what's going on."
His eyes watch me move from the table to the sink
with our plates. The smile I have seen in them is gone. They are
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measuring me for a task I may not be suited for. I let him
measure without comment. If my safety is at stake so is his. He
has a right to size me up.Jack sits at the table long after I expect him to want
to be back on the road. He must be sorting through options. I
have seen him make instant decisions and act on them in split
seconds. This is the first I have seen him actually mulling
something over. He's deciding what to tell me. How much to
tell me and probably how much trouble he will be in for doing it.I drive. Jack thinks. We cover the distance to
Portland with him shifting and twisting, brooding over what he's
going to tell me.
A little east of Portland, I figure enough is enough;
he needs to get this settled. To share the information as well as
the danger. "I don't want to be nosy, but does this kind of thinghappen to you very often."
"What?" he sounds distracted, annoyed even.
"You know, dangerous people, odd doings in
strange places at all hours, weird items lost and found."
"Yes, often enough, but never before in strange
company. Usually I have a team working with me." Now it 's my turn to make a bad joke. "I'm not
strange; I'm not company; remember, I’m the one who actually
lives here."
Jack doesn't respond, so I let it go for the time
being. There will have to be a reckoning but I don't suppose it
actually has to be right now. Besides, I'm a lot more tired than I
thought and we need gas.
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The quiet rhythmic motion of the RV and too many
hours without sleep have begun to catch up with me. At the next
exit, I pull into a travel center and park. Jack is already asleep.The RV stopping doesn't even wake him. It must be genetic that
men can sleep sitting bolt upright in uncomfortable positions.
I’m wondering whose supposed to the be doing the watching and
being careful with him out like a light.
I lock the doors, close the shades and stretch out on
the bed. I should be too tired to sleep, too mentally wired todoze off and too afraid to relax. Normal no longer applies.
A swaying sensation and a change in speed jerks me
out of a sound sleep. The RV ran off the pavement onto the
shoulder and back. In the first moments of regained
consciousness, I recognize where I am, but don't understand the
motion. If I'm sleeping, how is it the RV is moving? Then, in awash of awareness, I remember everything.
Jack is driving. I settle into the passenger seat my
back to the window.
"A herd of elephants in party hats could steal you
and your rig and you'd sleep right through the best part." He's
back in form smiling and winking. He's made a decision of somesort about what he's going to share with me. I'll wait a bit longer
for him to volunteer before I face off about it.
"Where are we? How much trouble are we in
now?"
Jack ignores reality as long as possible. "We'll be in
Spokane in about an hour. How about some lunch and a
stretch?"
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If I didn't know our history, this would sound like
nothing more than domestic chatter. He's a survivor and this is
one way he does it. If I intend to survive, I just as well buy intoit too.
"I'm going to waste some water on a shower. Do
you think you can keep it on the road?"
Up out of the passenger seat, headed down the short
hall, I hear him assuring me that he can drive anything with
wheels or runners and fly anything with wings or…I'm headed for hot water. Jack is boasting. Male
bravado. There's no denying he has plenty of that.
Passing through Spokane, we stop at every fast food
restaurant. Picking up the bits and pieces of Jack's fancy menu.
"I thought we were going to sit down and eat, you
know, in a restaurant." I don't try to hide the disappointment inmy voice.
Restaurant? Harriet, I don't quite know you well
enough to ask you out on a date." His phony modesty makes me
laugh.
"No eatery with four walls will compare to the
grand location I have in mind. A great little place in Idaho. Youwait, you'll be impressed." Yes, he is in fine form. I could
almost forget that we are probably being followed but I’m
betting he hasn’t.
I'm becoming way too attached to this man. But, for
the better part of a week, I have been in over my head, why
change now. Soon enough this quiet will end, with Jack around
that's a given.
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About forty-five minutes east of Spokane, we are in
real mountains. The beauty of Coeur d'Alene National Forest
fills the landscape with slopes and valleys of tightly packedevergreens. I can't believe I missed this on the way west. There
have been miles and miles where nothing has threatened us. I
can almost believe that Jack's play for a domestic escape is
paying off.
He takes an off ramp, circles back west to a large
Interstate service area. The obligatory gas station, fast foodstore, shopping area and parking lot are lined up facing the
Interstate. Behind them, a strip of parking for layovers and a
wide tree covered picnic area. The complex slopes up at each
end amid harsh craggy rock outcroppings covered by brave
evergreens. A tree will grow anyplace Mother Nature plants it.
These seem to have been planted in tiny pockets of soil capturedfrom the wind. Every rock with a pocket of soil has a tree of
some size growing in it. There are paths up the slopes in all
directions. A true set of nature trails. The air is so heavy with
the scent of pine that I can almost feel it. Just breathing this air
would be a vacation for most people.
Jack takes over the RV kitchen to get his menuheated up. He sets up the lunch on the far backside of the picnic
area. I haven't been able to get much farther than the front
bumper of the RV trying to take in so much wildness at once.
Around Jack, lagging is occasionally permitted and
I'm taking advantage of that. He's sitting at the table positioning
utensils and trays of food trying to be patient with my nature
study. Finally his patience wears out and I'm hailed to 'get the
lead out' before everything gets cold. He's such a romantic.
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Considering the circumstances, it's a fine spread.
Considering the chef it's a miracle. Once I'm seated at the table,
Jack points toward the back of the picnic area. I hadn't noticed.The trees were so thick that I'd assumed they went on into deeper
forest. Not fifty feet from the end of our table, a wood rail fence
blends into the natural growth. Beyond that rail, between the
trees, as far as I can see, there is nothing. No trees, no
undergrowth, no pine-needle bed to walk on. We are at the edge
of a cliff. The immenseness of the view is calendar art at itsfinest. Jack was right; he did know a great little place in Idaho.
Those few travelers who were in the park when we
arrived have moved on and we have it pretty much to ourselves.
We are loitering soaking up 'normal'. Jack finishes his
description of fishing. We swap insignificant personal details. I
start clearing away the lunch and tidying up in the RV.Once it's past mid-afternoon, I'm thinking we could
get a few more miles behind us today. Jack is standing out at the
wood railing, hands buried in his pockets rocking heel to toe.
He's not thinking, he's dreaming. Maybe now he's ready to clear
up some of those details that I've been waiting to have explained.
Stepping outside the RV to call Jack, I see it. Thecar with the rusty spot on the hood. A hand covers my mouth at
the same moment a huge arm pins my own arms to my sides
lifting me off my feet. I don't have the reflexes for this but terror
sends me wrenching and twisting to be free. The arm around me
doesn't have a good grip and I feel a measure of freedom. There
is no plan. I just keep jerking and grabbing at him with the hand
I've freed. The hand over my mouth tightens leaving my
screams muffled. I can see Jack at the rail, his back to this scene.
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How can he not hear, sense, what's happening. My captor turns
toward the side of the RV. I put my feet up to keep from being
pushed into the siding. When I push back, straightening myknees, the man is taken off his feet. His bulk cushions my
backward fall.
The screaming I finally hear is my own voice but I
can't feel myself making a sound. When I roll onto my hands
and knees, I catch a glimpse of Jack. He's in a wrestling match
of his own. He's jerking his arm back and forth toward the rockyslope; looking directly at me. All I can make out is one word.
"Hide!"
If I can get to the rocks before the man on the
ground gets his wind, I promise myself to take up jogging. Legs
of lead hold back my progress. I can see the path and before I
start up slope I spot a place to hide; if I can get there without being seen. I want to look back, but fear of stumbling keeps me
facing up slope. There is a clump of trees on the left. That's
where I'm headed. My chest hurts with the unfamiliar exertion;
there is a hum in my ears and I'm losing sight of the clump of
trees.
I turn sharply off the path where I think the cover inthe trees is located. I'm not watching where my feet are; I'm
trying to spot the hiding place. A twisting jerk on my foot and
knee sends me hard to the ground. On hands and knees, I crawl
toward darkness not sure it's the place I'd spotted.
Millions of years ago, we were all animals of some
kind. When we are taxed to our limit by fear, millions years of
evolution gives way and we are animals again. I am crawling
without plan or reason, an animal, barely able to draw breath, my
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vision clouded by fear. Dark places are safe places. I roll off my
hands and knees into the dark gap between two rocky layers.
The darkness is comforting. Lying balled up in the crevice,reason returns. It's several minutes before I can control my
breathing enough to be quiet. I can sit upright in the dark but
can't stretch out without exposing my lower legs. I sit in a tight
ball, pressed against the rocky wall behind me, listening;
becoming human again. If I had been spotted rolling in here,
surely they would have fished me out by now, if they wanted to.If Jack didn't get away, I need to decide what I'm
going to do. I can't rely on him now. They were after him, I'm
sure of it. If they take him away, can I do anything to find him,
to get him freed? I don't even know how to reach his people.
They would know how to go about finding him. So many things
I don't know that I should. Fear blends into frustration.Frustration into anger. Anger into action, wise or not.
Shifting my position dangerously close to the front
of the opening, I can make out the parking lot below and the
white of my RV. There are three figures moving around it. It
moves on its springs when one of them goes inside. I can't see
Jack. Maybe he's inside. No, if they had him, they'd be gone.He must have gotten away.
There is no telling how long I sit crouched,
watching the RV, trying to think. I need to be able to reason out
a plan. It comes to me that the reason they want Jack has to do
with that thing that came out of the water.
Everything that has happened has centered on that.
A rustling sound near the opening sends me sliding
a few feet back to the rear wall. They have found me. I'm too
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angry to be scared. Angry enough to be determined they aren't
getting me out of here without suffering some damage. I'm
ready to jam my foot into anything that pokes itself through thatopening.
"Pizza man." Whispered in a hoarse voice that I
recognize. "Harriet, it's me, Jack. Are you in there? Please
don't hit me, I'm already pretty banged up."
Finally, I'm getting the hang of how Jack survives.
"Mister, if you don't have pepperoni, you better think twice aboutcoming in."
He rolls through the opening much the same way I
had done earlier then twists around in the tight space to be facing
the opening; in position to study the parking lot. "How many
have you seen?" He assumes I've been watching. Takes it for
granted even.Since I have actually been watching. I make my
'report'. "There are three of them. They have been milling
around walking back and forth between the RV and the car from
the beach. One of them is the old man from Spokane who
stopped by during breakfast."
Jack takes his eyes off the parking lot. He leanstoward me, his eyes slit and he almost growls, "What car from
the beach?"
"That car over there at the end of the parking lot.
Back under those trees." I explain.
I'm not quite sure how to react to his tone, so I let it
pass.
He presses me, "How do you know it's their car?"
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This grilling is losing its charm. "That car was
parked at Waldport. I recognize the rust spot on the hood."
Jack growls rather than speaks; "When the manfrom Spokane came knocking during breakfast, that's the car he
was driving. Why didn't you tell me about the car? This means
that those three over there and the two who hijacked you are part
of a bigger organization. We are up against something we aren't
going to be able to outrun on our own."
Now it's my turn to grill him, "They're after youaren't they? You stole that thing that came out of the water. It
belongs to that old man, doesn't it? It's his and you took it, he
saw your people take it and he wants it back." I can't keep the
accusation out of my voice. I have come to the uncomfortable
belief that Jack and his people may be thieves.
Jack's back is up and in self-defense I get a piece of the explanation I've been waiting for. "Okay, the thing that came
out of the water was invented by that old man. It isn’t a weapon
but it can do a lot of damage to a lot of people if he gets it back.
When we, the good guys by the way, had a chance to get it away
from him, we couldn't ignore the opportunity to keep it out of his
hands just because a civilian, had become involved. Thecivilian, that’s you.”
"My being involved has nothing to do with what’s
gone on! This thing was in motion long before I became part of
it. And so were you I’m betting. You have stolen his property
and he wants it back and only your perception of danger justifies
what you’ve done.”
His voice is hard and steady telling me something
he isn't free to fully explain. "No, it doesn't make it right, but if
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the scale of potential harm is great enough, that can turn 'wrong'
into 'necessary'. When I can't do what's right, I do what's
necessary, that's my job."“What danger? What do I have my life on the line
for?” I whisper wanting to know; yet not wanting to know.
“The Centers for Disease Control believes that thing
houses a hemispheric delivery system. Delivery you understand
of any pathogen man or nature can design. That old man can
hold entire continents hostage or kill millions outright!”The breath goes out of him. He has betrayed the
confidence of others. I’m guessing it’s not something this man
has ever done before. Having heard that much, I can put enough
of the rest of the puzzle together to wish he’d lied to me again. I
live in a black and white world, which occasionally touches the
gray areas. Knowing this sort of technology actually exists andthat only determined human beings keep people like me safe is
something I’d rather not have to acknowledge.
Jack hears volumes in my silence and he changes
the angle of this discussion. "These people are from a subculture
so dark that we don't have the luxury of thinking in the familiar
terms of right and wrong, black and white, we can only think interms of necessary…safety or danger."
Jack goes on when he might have ended the
conversation with silence. ”Right now, they want me, thinking I
can be forced to tell them where the device is. That failing, they
will want you as a hostage to use against me. There is too much
at stake, we can't let them know anything. We can't let them
have it."
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There is no comfort in discovering that I was right
about most of what’s gone on. He has only added another layer
of fear. I have walked into harm's way just by being in thewrong place at the wrong time and I have only Jack to follow if
I'm to walk out alive. “What will they do next?”
"I don’t know. But we may be certain that having
come this far, they aren’t going to give up and just go home
empty handed.”
The unfamiliar strain in his voice tells me that this isthe real Jack talking, not the one with the odd sense of humor
and an ever-ready irreverent joke. "So we just stay alert? Is that
all? Can’t your people stop them?”
Jack doesn’t have time to answer. Down in the
parking lot, two of them group at the front of the RV and raise
the hood. It's too dark and too far away to see what they aredoing. The third is in the driver's seat working under the dash.
Jack and I both whisper at the same time. "Hot
wire."
I'm remembering something about the RV security
system. "Do you have the key?"
"Huh?" It's a noise Jack makes more than a word.It seems to mean nothing in particular, just an acknowledgment
of some sort. Often as not, it's a stall.
"Jack! Do you have the ignition key to the RV?"
He begins hunting in his pockets. "Of course I have
the key. Now what?"
"Once I read the owner's manual, only once. Right
now I'm glad I did. That the RV can't be hot-wired without
activating an alarm with a sound that will level Idaho. The
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remote on the ignition key will shut it off but nothing else will.
Once they activate it, even unhooking the battery won't shut it
off…and the RV it won't start with the alarm activated.""So they aren't going anywhere in the RV." There is
real joy in Jack's voice. "All we have to do is wait."
"For what?" I just want to know what the plan is.
"They'll give up and leave knowing that we'll most
likely come down only when they're gone. They'll wait for us on
the highway someplace. Track us until another opportunity presents itself to snatch us. We wait. Right here."
Jack begins rooting around; there is no other way to
describe his movements. He's like a gerbil making a nest. That
turns out to be exactly what he's doing. No predicament is ever
so bad that Jack doesn't find a way to adapt.
"We may have to be here for a while, so lets getcomfortable." We're not dressed to spend the night outside in the
mountains of Idaho. I'm cold and I say so. Jack advises me that
his version of comfortable involves, but is not limited to,
absolutely no rocks or twigs underneath him and as much leg
room as possible plus a beer.
"Two outta three ain't bad." he doesn't sing well atall.
Tensions wind down. Leaning on each other for
something softer than rock walls, we settle in for the duration.
"You sure know how to show a girl a good time.
You did say we were going someplace quiet didn't you?" I'm
practicing Jack's technique for surviving a tough spot. Ignore it
as long as you can, don't deal with it until you have to.
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"Wait till you see me at my best." He's not just
mouthing words; he really means everything he says.
With no new purpose in mind, we are watching thethree men. Jack thinks it's somewhere around two o'clock that
morning when we notice the old man becoming agitated. He's
railing at his henchman. Really raking them over the coals. I'm
looking right at him, so directly that I'm surprised he doesn't see
me even in the dark.
His anger vented the old man hobbles away from hishenchmen.
Jack’s next words are delivered in an incredibly
calm tone. "They'll leave now. The old man is tired of waiting
and has changed his plans. As soon as they leave, we've got to
get to the RV. Get in and the doors locked. We've got to get on
the highway as fast as possible. Speed is our only protection. If we can move faster than they can, we have a chance. They will
be on the highway waiting for us. They may think we won't be
along until daylight…or they may be waiting for us in the bushes
and give chase. A chase we can’t win. We are taking a risk
whatever we do, but with cover of darkness, we have a better
chance of putting some distance between us if we act faster thanthey suspect we might. Get past them while they're still waiting
for us to cruise past."
He's right, they crowd back into their car. We don't
spend time watching them leave.
We are running on legs cramped by hours curled up
in a hole. Clumsy doesn't describe our progress down the slope.
Circling through the darker woods, we avoid the better-lit
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parking lot until the last minute. Jack scrambles into the driver's
seat and I fall through the side door. The engine comes to life.
Jack jams the gearshift clashing into reverse. Theninto low. His full weight on the accelerator, he works up to
fourth gear. We are doing about eighty when we reach the end
of the ramp. There better not be anything in the way.
Like a well-rehearsed chorus we announce at
maximum volume and in perfect unison. "We're goin' west!"
Stopping a boulder rolling down hill is a measure of how hard itis to stop five tons of RV when it gets up speed. We plow on
westward looking for an exit to turn around. We have lost
valuable time.
With no headlights and moving at eighty miles and
hour, I figure I'm just as safe in the passenger seat as I'd be
hiding in the bathroom. Besides, without the headlights, roadsigns are on us and gone before a driver at this speed in the dark
could make them out. I study the roadside hoping to get a
glimpse of an exit in time for Jack to slow down for it.
He is working on a plan. He does a lot of fidgeting
when he thinks and at high speed he's not in a position to split his
attention. He is slows down and turns on the headlights. I let goof the dashboard. He's got a new plan. I'm waiting to be let in
on it. He doesn't say a word.
"What?" I'm still waiting.
"I have to let them take me."
"Take you, take you where. Are you crazy." It
occurs to me that he might be. For lack of sleep, I'm a little nuts
myself.
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"When we come to an exit, we'll get off. You’re
right, we're going to need help. I’ll call my people. They can set
up a trap for those three…if they know where to find them. Wehave to let them find us, follow us, let them corner us in the RV."
I don’t quite make the connection between being
captured and being freed but it has to be enough that Jack knows
there is one. He's nodding to himself, smiling and fidgeting. I'm
wondering how he can be so eager to plunge into disaster.
Probably because that's the only way he knows to find out if his plan is any good.
We couldn't miss it. The small gas station-
restaurant-motel-convenience store all-in-one is lit like daylight.
Not a single dark corner where sensible people being chased by
bad guys might safely hide.
Jack says the place is perfect and puts his plan intoaction. While I'm filling fuel tanks drained by ballistic travel, he
wanders around in the bright light of the gas station making a big
show of being there. Kicking rocks, waving his arms, strutting
back and forth between the store's front and the pumps, he's
giving a loud running commentary on Minnesota's beauty.
No state ever gave birth to a more dedicated citizenthan did Minnesota to this man. Not only does he tell anyone out
there in the night exactly where we are, he has to aggravate the
local people with his Minnesota travel log.
When I've finished pumping southern Idaho dry, I
head inside to settle up. Jack follows and heads for the pay
phone on the back wall. As loud and annoying as his outside
performance was, his inside phone call is hushed and lacking
animation.
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I'm headed his way wanting to get in on the
conversation but he's hung up. Rubbing his hands together and
sporting that delighted grin, he has obviously worked out a planwith his people. He's in heaven. I'm wondering if he's ever truly
alive unless there's a plan in motion. The more dangerous it is
the more alive he is.
Changing his tack, he wants to be seen but not heard
so he speaks just above a whisper, "Harriet, this thing may be
going down bad. I want you to stay here. I'll take the RV sothey can find me. When it's over, I'll come back.
"What! No way!" I'm shouting at a whisper,
straining to keep my voice down. I can't believe what I'm
hearing.
"First, this RV is my home, it isn't going anywhere
without me; west, east, the bottom of the Grand Canyon, I'm on board. If you try to leave me here or anyplace else, I'll have
enough highway patrol after you, you won't be able scratch
without being seen." I'm a little excitable when it comes to the
notion of watching my home go off without me.
He's watching for them, scanning the area outside
the window and then the inside of the store. He scarcely hearsme.
"Second," I've upped the volume just a little; "This
is my home. You have to understand that it's been violated. It
won't be a place of refuge like a home should be if I just let you
go off, fix everything then come back."
Home. That means something to Jack. I can see it
register in his face.
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"And, for all that you're obviously trained for this
kind of stuff, you need me along. You can't see 360 degrees; but
I'm more than another set of eyes. I can be a distraction in a tightspot. Get them to look the other way."
There is that little sideways smile. Jack works it up
when least expected. I think it must be there when he sees
something in a larger context than others do. If nothing ever
works in my life again, this has got to. At my full height, I'm
almost at Jack's eye-level. If I can keep my voice steady, he willget the message.
"I've watched you do your thing and I'm betting
you're good at it. But I'm something you'll probably never be.
I'm mean. Maybe not as mean as these people we're dealing
with. Certainly not as strong or as agile and not good with my
hands. Just mean. The only difference between them and me isthat they enjoy it and until now, I never have. I've always taken
pains to deny it."
His eyes snap to lock on mine; I have his attention.
He isn't shifting from foot to foot. His head isn't tossed back in
fading patience. His features are moving in the way they do
when he's dealing with a tough decision. He is evaluating.I press on willing him to understand. "I'm past
scared, I'm way past polite anger, I've had enough of being used.
I want these people out of my life, out of my home, gone from
my world. I intend to see that happen."
I hear the words, but his lips scarcely move. "Let's
go."
They are here. In the convenience store. As we
move away from the phone in the back toward the door in the
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front, they see us. My instincts are better than I thought. That's
the only reason I know not to re-act them. When Jack doesn't
seem to notice them either, my instincts are confirmed…for themoment.
Coeur d'Alene ID to Bismarck ND
900 miles 14 hours
It's a little after three that morning when we pull
away from the gas station and get back on Interstate-90. This
time eastbound.
I begin this leg sitting in the passenger seat. We are
settling in for a drive that could be far from leisurely.
The dark of early morning is never as soft as the
dark of midnight. Something happens to the sky or to human
perception after midnight. Three o'clock is a cold hour wheredeep emptiness is likely to bury any warmth left over from
yesterday. The hours between midnight and dawn spent on the
highway have always been depressing hours for me to be
traveling. That I'm not alone now helps a little, but not much.
A dozen or so miles pass without conversation. I'm
waiting for Jack to tell me the plan.He chooses his own subject. "Back at the gas stop,
you said this RV was your home?" Jack is asking a question
rather than making a statement.
"It is."
"So?" He can make one word serve for paragraphs.
Silence is a very good interrogation tool. Jack isgood at it because silence comes naturally to him. His question
hangs for lack of another topic.
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I don't want to be the topic. "Minnesota, is that your
home?" I know he can't resist talking about Minnesota.
"Yes. Minnesota--I was born and raised. I have afishing cabin on a little lake. The fish are huge, the air is so
clean you can't see it and the quiet is…well quiet." I hear more
about Minnesota than I'd want to hear about any place. Jack is
an expert on it.
"You?" He puts the conversation ball in my court.
"This RV really is my home. I follow the weather mostly. Reserved spots in a few scattered locations serve as
places I can settle for a few weeks or months at a time,
depending on what else is going on."
Jack doesn't comment so I add a little. His silent
interrogation technique works even when I know he's using it.
"When those two ruffians hijacked me, I was on myway from a summer stop on the North Carolina shore to Kansas
City to renew my tags and spend July 4th with friends."
I'm waiting for him to tell me how he came to be in
that abandoned mall in Minneapolis. He doesn't pick up the
thread of conversation. His attention to the highway becomes
exaggerated. He isn't going to let the hour and the road lull himinto idle chatter.
Instead, he changes the subject. "It would seem that
they intend to just follow us. Probably as far as we go thinking
our destination is where they will find the device without having
to deal directly with hostages. Why don't you get some sleep, it
doesn’t look like much is going to happen. In a couple of hours
we'll trade off and you can drive for a while."
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I don't want to sleep right now. I want to know the
plan, but I know when it's time to act I'll probably be the last one
to recognize that the plan is in motion. "You haven't slept either,what's going to keep you awake?"
"Trust me, if I know you are back there snuggled
down sleeping, that will keep me awake." I'm tired enough that I
buy whatever he's saying and head for the back suddenly too beat
to care about his plan.
Jack is in a fog of some kind, I can see him clearlyat first but now he's becoming fainter and harder to pick out of
the haze. Terror and my own voice wake me. Jack is with me,
holding me. I'm not alone in the fog. The nightmare and reality
fuse together to create a lingering sensation of disaster.
Jack shakes me until I'm fully awake. We are
stopped just off the highway. I'm sitting up on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding in fear, tears on my face, hanging onto
him. He's drying my face with his thumbs and shushing me.
"You're going to be a big help in a pinch if you can't handle a
little nightmare any better than this." He delivers this sarcastic
bite with a flat smile and a wink.
We remain stopped on the shoulder while Jack makes some coffee and I have a chance to shake off the
nightmare.
"Where are we?" I'm trying to orient myself.
"About fifty miles west of Missoula. I don't think
they’re behind us, probably up ahead watching for us. Do you
feel like driving, you were only asleep for a couple of hours but
I'm beat." Jack has been without sleep longer than I have but he
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seems to be in better shape. No matter, now would be the best
time for him to catch up.
I take the driver's seat.Jack hesitates. "Can you stay awake all right? I
could ride shotgun, keep you awake and still get a nap in."
"I'll wake you at sunrise."
The remnants of the nightmare continue to fade but
their source is something in my own mind and that leaves me
unsettled. I don't know anything about Jack. Almost a week inand out of incredible situations and all I know about him is that
he could be the entire Minnesota Bureau of Tourism.
"I've driven thousands of miles in this RV or one
like it. Most of them alone. I'll stay awake. There's enough
going on to keep my mind churning for days."
Not ten miles down the road and a check in themirror shows me Jack tangled up in the blanket sound asleep.
He had told me as long as he knew I was sleeping, he would be
able to stay awake. I didn't know what he meant then. I do now.
Past Missoula when the sun begins to come up, I
am still winding through mountains. Jack is still sleeping. I
don't have the heart to wake him. I have a feeling that before hesees Minnesota again he's going to need every minute of rest he
can get.
Bozeman, MTWe are within a few miles of Bozeman when Jack
comes too. He wakes up starving and ready to kill and eat any breakfast food that comes within reach. As we pass through
Bozeman, Jack picks up breakfast the way he picked up lunch in
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Spokane. An item here and item there. We gas up and just east
of Bozeman, in a rest stop, we spread out his bounty and stuff
ourselves. There is no sign of the car with the rusty hood. Wetalk about the chances that they have changed vehicles. Jack
says it doesn’t matter. All we have to do is stick to the plan his
people have laid out.
He begins without my prodding for information.
"We are two hundred an fifty miles from Billings. We need to
be in Fargo exactly between noon and one o'clock tomorrow.Fargo is six hundred miles from Billings. How fast is the train
traveling when it reaches the next crossing?"
For a minute I don't get it. Jack thinks he's funny
and then when I don't get it right away, he's absolutely delighted
with himself.
"You need to get some real rest. I'll wake you whenwe get to Billings. We'll see what kind of shape we're in and
how much distance remains then we’ll decide whether to go on
or lay over."
I'm not about to argue with that. I have enough of
the plan to know where we are headed. Fargo. I'll find out the
rest later.
East of Billings, MTWhen I wake up, we are east of Billings. Jack is no
better about waking me and taking turns than I am. With a little
lunch and section of open highway, we are making good time.
Jack is keeping a running calculation of where we should be andat what time so that we'll get to Fargo on time. I still don't know
on time for what, but I'm going to find out.
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Running to his schedule, it dawns on me. "How
will your people know where we are at any given time? Is there
a big red X on the roof?" It was meant to be amusing, not agenuine question, only amusing. But Jack isn't smiling. I have
hit a nerve.
"Harriet, you were right. If only one of us knows
what's going on, that puts both of us in danger. I knew that from
the start, but I was sure that the less you knew, the less you might
unintentionally reveal."I think I'm finally going to get details I would have
been happier without.
"These men are not the bumbling stumblers your
kidnapers were. The old man is a discredited physicist. He's like
a god to those two thugs and they wouldn't hesitate to let
themselves be killed to protect him. They will kill withoutconscience if he orders them to do so. That kind of reverence
makes them dangerous to anyone who gets in the old man’s way.
To both of us."
He gives me only a minute to absorb the incredible.
"Now you know all I know. My people will have
set something in motion at Fargo at noon tomorrow. They didn'tknow what; they were just able to pick a place and a time. We
will just have to be on the look out for them and for these three
from the park. You'll see the danger at the same time I do."
I wanted to know. I had to know. I should have left
well enough alone. Oddly, for once, I believe he really doesn’t
know what will happen next. It doesn’t matter Jack says because
what they are devising probably won’t be what happens anyway.
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He does share his own plan. "If you are as
determined to be rid of these people as you have told me you are,
you'll not need cues from me to know what to do or when to doit. You'll act on your instincts and I'm willing to trust that you'll
be effective. Men who are angry are often just cruel without
design. Women who are angry are apt to be subtle and much
more effective. In these circumstances, I'll trust your mean
streak over years of special training. Just do what has to be
done. You can deal with the consequences later."Jack can't resist adding a twist. "However, being a
naturally cautious person myself, I'll be a little leery of turning
my back on you, but I've been warned." The smile that comes
with this oddly gives me a confidence I didn't know I had.
We are half way to the North Dakota line and Jack
has been driving since Bozeman. I offer to relieve him. "Letsstop for gas and swap seats. I need to be busy at something,
anything, and you've been at it for quite a while."
Before I finish the sentence, Jack is headed up an
off-ramp. We are trying to watch everyone and everything going
on at the travel center. There are just too many people and too
much traffic. Jack pumps, I'm standing with my back to himtrying to be casual and not appear to be studying anyone in
particular.
Jack talks to the pump, sure that I'm listening. "If
they snatch me before we get to Fargo, get back on the Interstate
going west. The people monitoring the locating signal will know
that something is wrong. They won't know what has happened
but they will know that something has prevented us from arriving
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in Fargo on time when the RV makes a U-turn. They will catch
up with you before your next gas stop."
“So there is a big red “X” on the roof of my rig.” Ishould be surprised, but I’m not.
“Not exactly, just a GPS transmitter put in place
while we were in that little restaurant near Fargo the first
morning after I was taken.”
Before I have time to ask where the device is
located, I see the rusty hood. There they are. Just pulling out of the service area.
Jack is sure they have seen us. "As long as they
know where we are we're okay. If they lose us, we won't be able
to end this at Fargo. They will go on being out there waiting for
the right moment and we won't see it coming. I can't figure out
how they know where we are. How did they know we'd behere?"
I think I know. “The GPS transmitter.”
Jack shakes his head. “They couldn’t lock onto that
signal.”
When we leave the service area, I'm driving, Jack is
thinking. This arrangement seems to be working pretty well.When Jack thinks he does a lot of moving around and it’s not a
good idea for him to be in the driver's seat and thinking too.
"What?" I want to know what's going on in his head
now.
"Pull over." It's not a request, it's a command
delivered by someone who is used to giving orders. I don't even
blink before I work several tons and thirty feet of RV off the
pavement onto the shoulder.
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"Pop the hood."
He's outside and around with his head under the
hood and back inside in a matter of seconds. "They weren'ttrying to hot wire the RV, they were placing a tracking device.
As sophisticated as the one my people are listening too.
He mumbles on half aloud to himself. "They don't
intend to capture either of us, never did. They will just follow
along. They must think we're headed for the place where the…"
I've gotten back on the road and up to cruising speedwhile Jack has been going over this new puzzle. I hear him
break off short.
"You going to explain it to me?"
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Gee whiz Jack, after all I've seen this last week, I'd
believe you if you told me you were a secret agent with a licenseto kill and Jack wasn’t your real name. What the hell can be so
hard to explain?"
Hands spread silently pleading for relief, he leaves
the passenger seat in favor of stretching out in the lounge chair
behind it.
I'm waiting for an explanation I've about decidedthat he can't give. "If it's something you aren't allowed to talk
about for some reason why don't you just tell me it's secret stuff.
I can understand that. At one time, I did work that I couldn't talk
about. It wasn't like this work you're doing, but because of that,
I'd understand."
With Jack, silence is a form of conversation, an
exchange of ideas that are understood…he thinks.
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By the time we cross into North Dakota in mid-
afternoon, his feet propped up, he is asleep in the lounge. We
have covered over seven hundred miles in the last twelve hours.According to the Jack's schedule, we are on track.
Bismarck, NDAbout suppertime, we hit Bismarck. I take a wrong
exit when I should have been paying closer attention. Winding
through Bismarck to get us back onto Interstate-94, we passthrough the city with going-home traffic.
Something that should have taken twenty minutes is
taking nearly two hours. Just when I think I'm found, I'm lost
again. The stop-and-go wakes Jack. He's grumpy and
disoriented. I'm not keen on this kind of travel either.
It's enough that I'm angry with myself for missingthe easy straight route, but Jack won't let it go. I hear him
gearing up to remind me how important it is for us to be in Fargo
on time. I'm just not in the mood to be reminded how much
danger I'm still in.
Since I'm at the wheel and he's standing, arms
crossed glaring down at me from the deck one step up…well, itlooked like the perfect time to swerve into the right lane to be
certain of the ramp to I-94. I don't even have to look to know
that he is off his feet on his rear with arms flailing and nothing to
stop the tumble.
I rattle on as though Jack crawling around is normal.
"I know we need to be on time, but we have about eighteen hoursto travel two hundred miles. What's your hurry?"
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On all fours, he climbs into the passenger seat in
time to see us regain the Interstate. "I'll just sit here and be very
quiet for a while."I'm too tired to do anything but laugh.
"At the next service area, we have to have gas and
I'm thinking there ought to be room in that schedule for a hot
meal. I'm willing to endure almost anything, but I have to eat.
Don't you think we can ease up a little?"
Jack doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no either.His casual, "I'm just saying…" is designed to allow
him to say 'I told you so' later if we miss the timing at Fargo.
Ten miles past Bismarck there is a service area and
a small park. We gas up then move the RV to the edge of a large
parking lot. The area isn't crowed; we can easily see there is no
one here we recognize.In the small restaurant, we sit like civilized people
having dinner. It is a strange sensation. Jack has his back to the
wall and, sitting across from him, I am his excuse to study those
who are coming and going.
"We know they don't have to see us to know where
we are, why are you even bothering?" Sometimes I just don't getit.
"If they do see us here, we still need to appear to be
on the alert. Sure, they know we're aware of them. I'm thinking
that the old man may be getting tired of this follow along game.
By now they have convinced themselves that we are heading for
where ever their property is stored. These aren't the kind of
people who would ever consider something happening that didn't
relate to them. It's an ego thing."
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As much as I wanted a hot meal, I find it's difficult
to enjoy with Jack twitching at every wisp of movement behind
me. It does occur to me that this might just be his version of pay back. He does seem to be enjoying himself.
We stroll back to the RV in darkness.
Jack takes the wheel. The engine struggles, the
warning light comes on and the engine dies. It does not respond
at all to Jack's second attempt. We sit like idiots, looking out the
stationary windshield waiting for something on the order of magic to occur. Jack is quicker than I am.
He releases the hood and from out under it, I hear a
little profanity, not Jack's usual but genuine profanity. This is
enough out of character that I understand that we aren't going
anyplace right away. The deadline at Fargo is in jeopardy.
I don't have the faintest idea what I'll be looking at but I get out to give Jack moral support. "What's up?"
He's off the ground, his arm buried to the elbow in
the workings crammed together under the hood with the engine.
When his arm retracts, the hand comes out grasping the frayed
end of a long belt. I don't know what it's called but I know
where the profanity came from."Was it cut?" the first thing that occurs to me. I've
become so suspicious of everything.
Jack takes the offending item off to a pole light
some distance from the RV. He takes his time examining both
ends of the belt and comes back trailing it on the ground behind
him. There is hurry in his steps and relief in his voice when he
reports that it's just worn.
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I protest, "I'm very good about regular maintenance.
Nothing has ever broken or quit working before."
"I'm sure you are but the fact is we have been pushing pretty hard and that takes its toll even on the best
maintained equipment. The belt just wore out."
"Can you fix it?" I somehow have the idea that if he
could fix the brakes back in Montana last week, he ought to be
able to take care of this.
When Jack's plans are in jeopardy, so is his sense of humor. "Harriet, for crying out loud, look at it, it's broken. Who
do you think I am MacGyver!"
Reacting before thinking I lash back. "I mean, if
you had a new one, would you be able to put it on. There is no
point in getting snippy with me."
His ruffled feathers settle just a little. "Yes, inreally good light, with the right tools and enough time, I could
put a new one on. Are you saying you have one?"
"It could be in one of the storage bins, I'm just not
sure which but there is one here. There are tools in the side
storage next to the reservoir."
There are about fifteen bins in the RV wheresomething I might never need could be stored and this belt is
probably buried. I begin the search in the back. Emptying
drawers and pulling out boxes of all sizes, dumping everything
on the bed.
I find spark plugs and Band-Aids, a new thermostat
and a box of clamps, a headlight lamp and a taillight lens.
When Jack comes in to help look for the belt, I run
him off telling him this is a one-woman job in these cramped
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It's nearly midnight and we are two hundred miles
from Fargo and twelve hours from freedom. Now that we have a
new belt installed, we don't have to hurry; we have time to kill.In the RV's shadow created by the distant light pole,
Jack slides to the ground. He braces himself against the siding,
his knees drawn up to rest his head.
Inside, I'm reclaiming the bed. How so much clutter
could fit into such limited space always amazes me. I am good
at stashing but I'm going to have to impose some strategy on it.My next thought, 'When this is over.' calls my attention to the
fact that Jack hasn't come inside.
He's still on the ground in the shadow of the RV. I
quietly ease down next to him thinking he may have fallen
asleep. Even I know that in our present circumstances, this could
be risky. Just when I'm about to stir him and tell him he shouldgo inside, he raises his head and a very greasy arm draws me in.
"I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking."
I have to smile at that, when Jack thinks he's in
perpetual motion.
Begging for a break, I apply for mercy. "Can't we
stay here until morning? If we get to Fargo too early, won'tmilling around waiting for your people just serve to alert those
men that something is up?" I'm glad I understand the plan.
By way of agreement, Jack shrugs. I take the shrug
to mean 'Why not.'
We sit in the shadow for a time quietly gathering
dust. Eventually I ask, "So?" It's my question.
Jack can change the subject even when the
conversation doesn't seem to have one. "What do you do?"
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I'm taken short, Jack can shift gears way too fast for
me. "What do you mean?"
"Your work, when you work, what do you do?" Ican't tell if he's evaluating again, it's not like him to simply be
sociable.
"Different things. Mostly just travel. What do you
do, besides rescue kidnapped people from really bad guys?" I
suspect that this will end the conversation.
"That’s what I do, rescue people." He's sincere.Jack always seems to believe everything he says. "Right now
I'm a tired dirty guy who needs to get cleaned up and get a
decent night's sleep." In spite of his good intentions, he doesn't
move.
I decide to take advantage of the moment. "Who
are you? What do you really do, for work I mean?"His head is down, I know he's talking to me, but he
seems to be telling himself the same things. "Who I am, what I
do, what you have seen is pretty much the description. Anything
beyond that isn't important right now. Any additional
information might just get in our way."
To my surprise, he goes on. "When we're safe fromthese people will be soon enough to answer those questions. I've
already told you more than I should have because I think you
need to know what's coming. There are other things I'd like to be
able to tell you but I just don't know how. You’ll have to give
me time.” He's telling me to back off and in polite language yet.
Now, it's my turn to change the subject. "The RV
carries thirty gallons of water. That should be enough to take off
some of that grease. I cleared off the bed. You are welcome to
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it. If you put your things in the washer, you can even have clean
clothes in the morning. Just leave some water for it."
He struggles to his feet. Going inside, he leaves mesitting alone on the ground outside in the quiet darkness. When a
chill finally sends me inside, I find Jack stretched out on the bed
virtually unconscious. I start the washer and with only the night-
light burning, sit in the driver's seat remembering long trips and
the hundreds of generous, open people I’ve met on the road and
wondering where I'll be twenty-four hours from now.The washer is done. I load little the dryer. Nothing
is going to wake Jack.
Morning comes with a burst of lightening and a
typical mid-western wash of rain. I'm out of the driver’s seat and
on my feet without really waking up. Wobbling; reaching for the
seat’s back for balance, for a confusing moment I don't knowwhere I am. Once oriented, I remember the importance of today.
Jack is sitting at the table sipping coffee, going over
a map he's found. I am covered with the cobwebs of sleep,
cringing in yesterday's clothes, dull and bleary eyed. There sits
Jack well rested, groomed to the nines, alert with bright clear
eyes, I stumble to the table and fall into the other chair
motioning at the cup.
"None for you until you've had a shower. We have
a busy day planned, let's start it right." He thinks he's funny. I
don't. I think about telling him so. I don't usually get up grumpy
but I'm not usually blasted out of bed by a thunder clap overhead.
"I found the hose and re-filled the reservoir. Nice hot water.
Go."
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The smell of ozone is so strong in the back of the
RV that the strike must have been close. It occurs to me that
running water might not be a good idea in an electrical storm,then I remember something about rubber tires. To get coffee
right now I will risk being struck by lightening. I go.
A hand holding a coffee cup reaches around the end
of the shower curtain. "Hurry up, we've got company coming!"
It takes less than five minutes for the two thugs to
struggle across the flooded parking lot carrying the old man. Theside door is yanked open. The barrel of a gun comes through
first, followed by the tallest man I've ever seen. The ceiling is
between six and seven foot and he is stooping. Jack is at the
table with his hands half raised. The old man pushes in out of
the rain and takes the passenger seat. The gun motions Jack into
the driver's seat to make room for the third man. Built like alocomotive, the RV's springs still dip when he steps in. I don't
want to desert Jack but the shear size of these men ups the odds
against us; I'm frozen to the front of the refrigerator.
The old man turns in the passenger's seat to face
Jack. "My name is Armat.” I swear he bowed. “You have taken
something of great value to me. I have come to encourage you toreturn it." His voice sounds strained through a synthesizer of
some kind. Cancer of the larynx is my first thought. My second
though is a silent plea for Jack to just please, please give him
what he wants. But I've been warned that isn't going to happen.
I'm terrified. Jack is flip.
"Armat? Don't think I've heard of you. Your
friends either. Thing One and Thing Two I presume." They
ignore Jack's comments. But they don't ignore Jack. The
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locomotive, Thing Two Jack called him, takes two steps forward
and in a single motion pulls Jack out of the driver's seat and
throws him toward the back. A little more open space in the RVand Jack would have been airborne clear to the rear window.
The narrow hallway stops him at my wet bare feet.
Jack pulls his way up just in time to be shoved down
the hall by the locomotive. The taller man, Thing One Jack
named him, is motioned to the driver's seat by Armat.
The new belt works fine.Off and on for over two hours, Jack is assaulted and
questioned by Thing Two and by Armat himself. He is
threatened with horrible tortures that will leave him broken if not
dead.
Jack remains flip and casual. We are racing toward
Fargo. I'm waiting for him to do something besides sass them. Idon't know what, but something. I can't believe he's afraid. If
he's a coward under all this bravado, we are in big trouble. He
must be waiting for something. Whatever he's waiting for, it
can't be Fargo. We are headed in that direction so fast we will be
there long before noon.
What was it Jack said about plans going awry.These three don't seem to be afraid that Jack will take them on.
They don't even tie him up and frequently turn their backs on
him.
About an hour out of Fargo, Jack is sitting on the
edge of the bed with a gun pointed at him. More threatening
words and growls are followed by slaps so hard they knock him
over. He takes his time recovering. This is the same technique
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I've seen him use before. There is little comfort in recognizing
that this beating might be routine for Jack.
They have paid no attention to me until I am asked,in a nearly civil voice, to prepare something to eat. Before I can
protest, Jack calls in his order for toast and coffee. I begin the
process of getting a meal ready. I can't believe I'm going to feed
these people. Why should I put anything fit to eat in front of
them? My next thought becomes a plan… 'I don't…have to put
anything fit to eat in front of them.I can't talk to Jack about what I'm going to do. I just
hope I don't get in the way of his plan. I don't like what I'm
planning so I go through the motions not thinking about it. Jack
said do what needs doing and deal with the consequences later.
This is the time to take my life back. Maybe get a
little even for the peaceful world I will never again enjoy. Under the sink, between the brake fluid and the coffee, is the first aid
kit?
When this is over, I might need to know where it is.
Actually it's an old candy tin. I'm talking to myself avoiding
even thinking about what I've decided to do. There are
dangerous things in a first aid kit. It shouldn't really be keptwhere food is stored. I busy myself to an exaggerated degree
making coffee and other breakfast items.
I thought I might make eggs. The skillet is one of
those heavy cast iron things grandmothers have. It takes me a
long time to do because I keep dropping utensils and misplacing
things. This is a page from Jack's book. But there is no way we
can use up enough time to prevent our early arrival in Fargo.
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The only thing they want from Jack is to know
where he is headed. When they ask me, I tell them I'm just along
for the ride; make a suggestive motion and hope they can see meas that kind of woman. When I turn away from Armat, I'm
looking directly at Jack. His eyebrows are up; eyes opened over-
wide and mouth dropped open. I shrug my shoulders at him and
turn back to the kitchen.
I set two places at the table by way of getting the
two of them together. The one working on Jack comes eagerly.The driver waits for his master's permission to pull over and go
to the table. When the RV has come to a full stop, I am headed
toward the passenger seat with a plate and a cup. Armat takes
the plate and waves me into the driver's seat. I hand him the cup
without meeting his eyes. It never crossed my mind that I would
be able to get them into position so easily. When it works I amdumbfounded.
As though hauling eggs, I creep back onto the
highway. Behind me I hear sounds of eating and drinking
coffee. I'm trying to keep the smile of success off my face.
Well fed, the two men take their time at the table.
Jack is sitting on the bed watching me in the rear view mirror.I'm not afraid. For the first time in days, I am really not scared.
Catching Jack's eye, I nod and wink trying to convey to him that
a full-scale distraction is on the way. He can’t have any idea
what’s in store and yet he smiles back with a nod. How he has
come to trust me is a mystery but it gives me a heady dose of
confidence. He's ready.
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Now, all I have to do is have the reflexes of a
mosquito and the precision of a laser. Lacking these skills, I'm
trusting in luck.There it is, the hollow sound of ipecac laced coffee
at work in Armat's belly. He puts his window down ignoring the
rain; he has the good grace to put his head out to vomit. I hit the
window's locking lever on the driver's console and then jam my
fist onto the up button.
It seems to take an hour for the window to beginmoving up. Armat's distress slows his reflexes just enough to
give the window on the rise the advantage. Once he is pinned by
the neck, I should have eased off on the up button. I bear down
on it; steering with one hand not daring to look at the figure
drawn up out of the passenger seat.
Days of terror that had blended into one horror nowfade into a strange delight. The window stays up, rain peppers
the face of the man whose life I have deliberately taken. Jack
said do what needs doing and deal with my conscience later.
There will surely be a reckoning for this, but not now. I don’t
look at the speedometer, I think I must be doing eighty.
The old man's guardians jump to his aide. I knowit's too late; I felt and heard the sound that crushed the life out of
him. Somehow, it's not like I did it. It just happened.
The frantic motion that brings them up from the
table jerks me back to the moment. I hadn't figured out what
might happen next but once they turned their backs on Jack, he
takes his toll.
I suspect that two against one is usually just right
for Jack, but these are close quarters with little room to
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maneuver. He hits the taller man, Thing One, from behind with
the skillet. When Jack drops the vibrating skillet, I feel his hand
grip on the back of the driver's seat for balance.A week of RV experience has taught him one of the
finer points of motor home travel, the art of balance. The bulky
man turns on him just in time to be caught by the swerving
motion of the RV. It takes Jack a hair too long to get into any
kind of defensible position. Thing Two is able to take him by the
throat. What I can see looks more like a dance than a fight.I'm debating about stopping. The window at Fargo
isn't for several hours. There is no way that the plan is going to
work now so I pull over. On my way out of the driver's seat I
step into the skillet Jack used earlier. Out of habit I pick it up not
knowing what to do with it other than put it back on the range.
Jack and Thing Two are off their feet in the narrow hall. Theman is so big that there is no room for Jack to draw a fist back
far enough to do any good. I don't want to get near them. First
one is up, then the other. I'm sure I would hit Jack by mistake so
I do nothing.
Standing with my hand on the skillet handle
watching Jack struggle keeps me from noticing that the man Jack laid out earlier is beginning to come to. The first I know of it, he
has one arm around my neck. I don't know where his other arm
is. My hands would be free to fight if I didn't have hold of the
skillet. I don't have a plan; I just want to breathe. With both
hands on the skillet handle, I raise it up over and behind my own
head as hard and fast as I can. The crack of contact with bone
sickens me, but the arm at my throat relaxes.
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Jack has not weakened the big man. They are still
in a tangle on the floor in the hall. I watch unable to think of any
way to help. Jack works his way to the top."Make a U-turn." He gasps.
I don't understand. I stand fixed to the floor at the
table. When I don't move, Jack twists his head and shouts.
"Damn it Harriet, make a U-turn."
My feet start moving before my head gets the
message. The engine is still running. I have a fleeting image of the RV lying on its side across two lanes of Interstate-94. I begin
the turn once the RV is moving along the shoulder. Some things
you just do for lack of options. The wheels are cramped to
screaming but it makes the left shoulder then the median and if I
don't floor it and I resist the temptation to turn the wheels we
may not be stuck in the soaked ground of the median strip. Withwestbound traffic honking and swerving, the RV completes the
turn. Ten minutes out of Fargo, we are headed west.
Jack's struggle has moved into the kitchen area. He
is holding his own but I'm wondering how long he can do that. I
take to the shoulder and slow the RV to a crawl. I've finally
remembered that a U-turn was a signal for Jack's people inFargo. No sense getting too far out of their reach so I creep
along the shoulder.
Traffic backed up by the U-turn moves around us
and then thins out. I'm watching the mirrors. I can't bear to
watch what's happening to Jack.
With its lights flashing but no siren, an ambulance
comes up behind us on the shoulder. Behind it two North
Dakota highway patrol cars. The side door opens and Jack's
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This sudden wave of indecision has left me unable
to act.
When Jack's people turn to leave, he strolls back tothe RV, hands jammed down in his pockets. At the open
passenger door he leans in, "They will take care of the
paperwork, we won't have to testify or anything, unless you want
too?"
"No, I'm thinking your people will put them where
they won't be able to hurt anyone." Coming in contact with themagain is not something I want to do for any reason.
"You still taking me to Minneapolis?" The ordinary
question should seem out of place in this violence, but it doesn't.
"Sure." The decision I didn't think I could make—
what to do next—turns out to be an easy one…and one that a
part of me must have made some time ago. To trust a man Idon’t know and to believe that good people can, and often do, do
terrible things.
This close to Minnesota, Jack radiates excitement.
"Okay if I drive? I know the way."
"Sure." I need to think.
Jack drives and acts as tour guide. "My people hadarranged for a road block at the state line at noon. They would
have stopped us and taken Armat and his henchmen off. We'll
probably get stopped by the roadblock but I figure we can stand a
little excitement."
He is wound up. "About an hour over the
Minnesota line is a little town called Elizabeth. I have a place
near there where the fishing is great. We can kick back, rejoin
the human race. You can take a little time to get back to normal.
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Then we can go on to Minneapolis tomorrow and get my truck
back…if you want to."
I can tell by the thrill in his voice that there will beno point in trying to change this plan.
Every inch of the highway between Fargo and
Elizabeth brings out the tour guide in Jack.
Elizabeth, MNOff the highway, up a blacktop strip, down a dirt
road around the edge of a small lake and Jack is home. Before
the RV is at a complete stop, he's out making a great show of
breathing the air and checking out the surrounding area.
Whoever he really is, it is plain that he belongs here. He is part
of this place. I have watched him for three thousand miles at rest
and in danger and the expression on this face here is nothingshort of total excitement. A child turned loose in a toy store
would have the same expression.
While Jack checks to be sure that his lake is still
there, that all his trees are still standing, that his fishing dock will
still support him, I try the cabin door. Oddly, I don't expect it to
be locked. It swings open.Jack has completed his outside inventory and on the
porch behind me explains that, "There's nothing worth stealing in
there, and besides not many folks know it's here. If they want
something, they can have it. So long as they don't scare the fish
away, no problem."
In the cabin, there is a clutter of fishing gear onevery surface and in every corner. There are flies stuck on the
walls and fishing line wrapped around almost every manner of
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tool. "It doesn't look like anyone has taken anything." I think
I'm funny; Jack thinks I have no concept of proper tackle.
He picks up a rod and reel and waves me permissionto choose any of the others lying around.
"I need a little more time to adjust to all this peace
and quiet." I beg off fishing.
"Fishing is the best way to shift gears." He
practices this psychology on himself.
Back in the RV, I practice my own psychology. I begin to put my house back in order. The tumbled disarray from
the morning's event has made hash of my attempts to keep order.
For nearly an hour, Jack sits out on his dock moving only to cast
lazily at his fish.
I decide to take a couple of sandwiches out to him.
My timing is terrible. Jack pulls in a very respectable fish just asI arrive carrying my lack of confidence on a plate. He looks at
the snack, at his fish, back at the snack, then tosses the fish back.
The sun is still above the trees. There is time
enough before darkness to finish putting the RV back in order. I
have time to sit on the dock and do nothing for a while.
The fact that I won't see Jack again after tomorrowdrains away some of the beauty of the spot. The time is coming
when he will be out there doing whatever he does and I'll be back
parked in my summer spot. I live in a world of black and white.
Jack works in the gray area; I don't know which world he lives
in.
I have been sitting for almost three thousand miles;
it's pure relief to be able to lay back on the dock. It's low, just
barely above the water's surface. I can hear and feel the water
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lapping under it. No wonder Jack can sit here for hours at a time.
It's like a drug, the water and the small sounds of dry rustling
grass. It's so quiet you can hear the pine needles brush againsteach other in the wind.
The sun is against Jack's profile. I have noticed that
when he is sorting out something difficult, the muscles in his
face work and his eyes squint up. Watching him work out a
problem is exhausting. It's as much a physical effort for him as it
is mental. He's working something out. All plans should have been completed at Fargo. I can't imagine what's bothering him
now, but for sure there is something nagging at him.
He drops his hand down reaching; his fingers just
brush my arm. "You don't have to go tomorrow. You can stay
here." The sun is behind him; I can't see the expression on his
face.It's so unlike Jack to be this serious about anything.
But I believe that he genuinely cares whether I'm going to be
able to deal with all that I've seen and endured. He knows that
what we've been through qualifies as a nightmare to me.
"You mean stay here…with you?"
"Sure." It's one word spoken casually. Toocasually.
In spite of all that we've been through, this is the
hardest thing I feel I've had to do; deny what I feel because it
doesn't make sense. "Jack, I've known you less than a week. In
that short time, I've despised you for a coward, cherished you as
a companion, hated your violence, been comforted by your
concern and trusted your strength. If I don't get away from you
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soon, I may cross the line into deeper feelings that won't be so
easily explained."
He's listening. I know he's listening because in hisembarrassment at hearing these things, he's studying the ripples
kicking up on the water, the planking of the dock, the reel on his
rod. Everything nature has provided for him to avoid looking at
me.
I get between him and the water. It takes my hands
on his face to get him to look at me. "Do you understand that Idon't know enough about you to think that's a good idea. When
you want to tell me about yourself it will be different, but you
aren't going to do that are you?"
How can so much be in his eyes and so little of it
find voice? Everything he wants to say is there in plain sight but
only for a second."I'm just saying…" He's back, recovered from what
must have been a scary trip into human emotions.
The ripples on the water have become aggressive
waves under the dock. A line of clouds scatters across the sun.
Behind a biting wind, huge drops of rain break the spell this
conversation has cast.Jack grabs his fishing gear and we head for shelter
at a pretty good clip. On the porch, he stands looking at the dark
rows of clouds banking up in the northern sky. I dive into the
RV.
As he turns to enter the cabin, I'm leaning out my
door looking at the same threatening sky. One quick glance
toward me; there's that little sideways smile of his. Then he
lowers his head and steps across his threshold. For only the
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second time in my life, my heart has been broken and this time
I've done it to myself.
The storm outside lashes the forest. Treessilhouetted against an eerie gray sky are twisted and bent by the
angry wind. An RV is not a safe place during this kind of storm.
The rain and wind go on for almost an hour. I
should be at work cleaning and straightening, but I'm pacing; at
first unaware that I'm deliberately touching things Jack touched,
sitting where he sat. I'm trying to overload my emotional circuitsenough to burn them out quickly.
The force of the storm doesn't seem to be playing
out. When lightening strikes a tree so near the RV that I can
smell it burning, I can't delay getting to shelter any longer. I
grab a jacket and jump from the RV to the porch. The door is
still open. I close it behind me.There's a struggling fire in the fireplace. When my
eyes adjust, I can see Jack in the fire's light; sitting, watching me.
With one hand extended and that same crooked smile, he finds
the right words, and forms them into a gentle whisper. "It’s
warmer over here."
Elizabeth, MT to MinneapolisThe ride from Jack's cabin in the morning doesn't
take more than two hours. I watch the landscape, count the
bridges and do anything I can to avoid accepting the coming
moment of separation. I keep thinking Jack will make a joke
about this short ride. Jokes are how he's diverted painful or serious encounters over the last several days. Where are the
jokes now when I really need the diversion?
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In answer to the unspoken plea for refuge from this
pain, Jack covers my hand with his. "Harriet, you’re right, you
can't take every brown-eyed stray that befriends you. You've gotto have some standards."
I want to laugh so badly that I'm willing to be
amused by his effort.
"I know," I hear myself enter the spirit of the idea,
"but I would never just kick one out or drop him off in a vacant
lot."This exchange goes on long enough to get us to the
abandoned Minneapolis mall and out to Jack's truck. The black
finish on his truck is a dusty gray from a week of open weather
and neglect. Jack groans at its condition the way a child whines
over a damaged toy.
I pay tightly focused attention to him. I'm hopingthat magic will get me past the moment of separation. That Jack
will be gone before I have to face the fact that I don't know
anything about him and that this is by his choice.
He pulls the RV to within a hundred yards of his
truck, stopping at an odd angle across two parking spaces. I
don't understand why so far away, but at his invitation, "Letswalk," I get out.
He takes my arm and we slowly pace off the
distance between my world and his. I have no place in his and
he can't stay in mine. He opens his truck doors to let the inside
cool before he heads out. Letting down the tailgate, he makes a
place to sit.
I'm not leaving until he's ready to go. I can't, I
know I can't. It will be hard enough to leave here when he does,
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but there's no way I could drive away and leave him sitting
alone.
In self-defense and to eke out another moment withhim, I take a place on the tailgate. There's nothing more to be
said. There are no promises to make; no invitations to issue and
no future to mull over. There's only the recent past and we are
too close to that to be nostalgic.
For twenty minutes we sit close but not touching.
I'm practicing being apart from him. Trying to get used to theidea. Wasting those few moments remaining to me.
Finally, it's time. Jack slides off the tailgate and
rounds to close the open passenger door. At the same time I
touch ground I begin walking toward the RV. The truck begins
to move. This is it, the moment when it ends. I want to look
back, but I don't dare. If I look back, I may not care what kind of man he really is; I may never leave Minnesota.
The RV is waiting to get me back where I belong.
Eventually, days will pass when I no longer fear for my life; days
that pass without remembering Jack will be a long time coming.
I am alone, but where I belong. Just as I reach the front bumper,
the dirty pickup truck grates to a stop behind me kicking up parking-lot gravel. The driver's side door swings wide and Jack
lurches out. Between heartbeats his arms pin me to him and his
lips stop my breath.
Before my heart beats a second time or I can speak
he puts something in my shirt pocket and is back in the truck and
gone.
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I'm smiling at everything or maybe at nothing, but I
am smiling. The tears that were so close have moved off. I
climb in, ill-prepared for the drive ahead of me.It's lonely without Jack riding shotgun. I don't
dodge the tears for long and somewhere north of Des Moines
they catch up with me. Fishing in my pocket for a tissue, I bring
out the card he’d put there. On it is a phone number with an area
code I don't recognize. On the other side he has scrawled a
message. No signature, just a message.We’ve seen the west. Call me when you go east.
The End