Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (39 page)

The smaller items fit inside the rucksack which he tightly wraps, first in the ground mat, then the tent, producing a bundle that resembles an oversized cocoon. With one of the tent cords, he fastens it to a branch of the same tree where the bike’s hanging by its state-of-the-art locking cable.

Sooner or later someone will find it all and maybe puzzle over it. Unless it’s found sooner. Then they’ll know it was him right off. But they won’t know right off which direction he took. And by the time they figure that out it’ll be too late. Too late, as it almost is now.

The thing deciding it was now or never, was the flow of traffic on a road that’s far off the beaten track, as they say, and doesn’t go anywhere but to the rock star’s spread—or, if you really had your signals crossed, to the neighbor place with the horses and chickens.

Keeping an eye on that traffic day and night, stayed his mind from dwelling on hunger and thirst and the other ills wearing at him. And memorizing a few of the number plates to write down for comparisons, busied his mind those times when all it wanted to do was sleep.

The third full day of watching cars, vans, and trucks go by at fairly regular intervals got him thinking the parade had to be a security patrol of some kind, and they were trying to make it look like something else. And what jackassed-fool would believe a neighborhood with only two homesteads could have need for service calls and deliveries in such high number? Or believe the passenger cars were filled with special interest groups on the lookout for ancient burial grounds instead of special agents on the lookout for the disappeared Hector Sandoval?

Whatever kind of mockery it was didn’t show signs of slackening off—not even after nine days—so the decision to go forward was made.

While scattering what’s left of the brush that concealed his bivouac between the roots of the bicycle tree, Hoop prides himself for having stuck to the vigil this long; for having rationed out the rainwater collected in tin cans and the now used-up food supply; for going without shelter and sleep for the most part.

Still dressed in the hooded rainsuit that spared him the worst of last night’s heavy rain, and the flannel shirt and jeans he’s worn all along, Hoop sets off for the place where he saw the rooster squeeze under the fence. If his timing’s as good as he thinks it is, he’s got a few minutes before the next patrol comes by. Staying to the very edge of the road, ready to dive for cover at the slightest alarm, he’s within sight of the open area of fencing when an engine sound reaches his ears.

He takes cover in a stand of something like sumac—maybe it is sumac—where he realizes the reflector stripes on the jacket and pants of the rainsuit stand him out like a namesake crow in a flock of doves. Fine for when he didn’t want to be mowed down by a reckless rock star; not so fine for hiding from the rock star’s hired police force.

The engine sound comes from a tractor that trundles into sight at maybe ten miles an hour. Waiting for it to pass, he’s given extra time to think through the plan, if he can even call it a plan. It all depends on how much rain fell during the night, if it was heavy enough to be the gully-washer that’s needed to get him squeezed under the fence.

The tractor disappears from sight and he settles down to outlast the usual parade of traffic. But it doesn’t show up and he can’t hear it in the distance. Instead, he hears horse’s hooves coming at a clip and sees two riders gallop by, a man and a woman.

Is this their idea of putting one over, luring him into the open by making him think tractors and horses aren’t part of the deal? Like if he suddenly sees hikers and motorcycle riders he won’t suspect they’re all on the lookout for Sandoval? What kind of jackassed-fool do they take him for, anyway?

He spends the anger on ripping off the rainsuit that he ties into a tight ball by the jacket sleeves. Heedless of what all else may be policing the area, he plunges out of the underbrush and makes for the chosen spot where the wheel ruts have indeed been deepened by last night’s rain. They aren’t deep enough to admit him, but they could be.

Before he does an estimate of what it’ll take to make them deep enough, he steps back and throws the balled raingear at the fence as hard as he can, daring an alarm to sound. Nothing happens, so he retrieves the missile and throws it overtop of the fence, again daring an alarm to sound. Again nothing happens, so he steps up to the fence, drops to his knees in the mixture of gravel and mud there and starts digging with his hands. That’s when he finds out the underlayment is nowhere near as workable as the top layers of soil and fine stone. It’s almost like there was a paved road under there at one time.

He breaks fingernails and bloodies knuckles scrabbling at fragments of brick and rock. He stops only when it sounds as though discovery is close at hand and dives back into the sumac just as an electric cart buzzes by on the other side of the fence.

If he had the habit of thanking his lucky stars he would now—that the driver of the cart didn’t slow down or stop, because the balled-up rainsuit is over there in plain sight and that could have brought notice to the digging.

The close call comes with a fresh supply of caution. He does a slow count to a hundred, then edges out of hiding one step at a time. But when he does resume furrowing, he goes at it with more strength and purpose now that his nerves are ajangle.

He has to stop again when he hears something coming on his side of the fence. This time it’s a medium-size transporter hauling a front-end loader on a flatbed. Watching it go by from deep within the undergrowth, he marvels at the idiot lengths they’ve gone to with this fakery. That would be laugh-out-loud funny if it didn’t add insult to insult.

Ten minutes later, an interruption comes from one of the vehicles he’s seen before—a commercial van marked with the name of the home security outfitter and that could be a ruse too. That could be their way of advertising the place is burglar-proof without going to the bother of electrifying fences and stringing trip-wires. Kind of like those folks that stick up guard dog notices without owning a dog. He’s convinced of this when two light-duty box trucks marked with the same company name go by in the other direction.

Fakery. Plain ordinary fakery. What kind of lockout devices need trucks that big—need two trucks that big? Who are they trying to kid? Hasn’t he already proved no alarms will sound if he goes under the fence? Or over it, for that matter?

All is quiet at the nine o’clock hour when some sun starts showing through the clouds. This extra measure of exposure hurries him to complete the digging. Early morning mist was more to his liking and another downpour wouldn’t trouble him at all.

When the gully appears deep enough, he empties his pockets of the lawyerwoman’s diary and the rock star’s folding picture case—brought along for luck—and his wallet, which now holds nothing but a few bills and the plastic-covered address card. Reluctance slows the removal of his belt and the knife sheath attached to it that he’d rather not be without for even the few minutes it will take to skinny himself under the fence.

Next, he takes off his shoes that could add to his bulk and gives serious thought to taking off his jeans for the same reason—and because pocket openings and belt loops could catch on the fence wire.

In the end, it’s only the sneakers he shoves under the fence along with the other items. And a good thing, because when he submits to the muddy trench, belly down, the fence wire gives his heinie a vicious raking right through his jeans. But he doesn’t get hung up, he makes it through with enough time to gather his belongings—including the tossed rainsuit—and scramble for cover before the next patrol comes by.

The nearest cover is little more than a wildness of weeds and rhubarb behind the barn and its queer silo attachments. From there, he can still see the road and the entry place. Should he tempt fate by going back to fill in the gully he deepened or tempt fate by leaving it the way it is? A no-win argument that gets settled by the sudden roar of heavy machinery.

The front-end loader he saw on the flatbed truck—and wanted to laugh at—is lumbering down the slight grade to the open area of fence with its bucket full of crushed stone. The electric cart seen earlier, is bringing up the rear. This time there are two guys in the cart and they’re carrying shovels and rakes. The workers don’t look his way or seem to notice anything unusual when they set about filling and leveling the washed-out dug-out area.

This takes thirty minutes that Hoop spends shivering from good fortune as well as the cold and wet clinging to him. He wants to crow like the rooster that showed him the way; he wants to holler out every saying that talks about patience being its own reward and timing being everything; he wants to chant those reminders about turning garbage into gold and learning to make your own luck—those reminders that kept him from giving up when he hit bottom back in New Jersey.

His teeth are chattering when he dares stir from the makeshift hiding place and look for a better one. He pockets the smaller items, slips into his shoes, and straps on the knife without running the belt through the belt loops. Alert the way he’d be crossing a trestle with the train overdue, he grabs the balled-up rainsuit, edges around the barn and ducks into the first opening he comes to.

While Anthony completes a vocabulary quiz, Laurel jots down what’s recalled of a bedtime story from nearly a week ago. Short, no more than a single verse, it wasn’t one of Colin’s best and not really worthy of inclusion in the collected works of Jeremiah Barely-There. Not worth remembering at all, except for the nagging feeling there was more to its message than first thought.

Before she’s gone far with a reinterpretation of that message, Anthony finishes the test and agitates for release from her north wing office, which now serves as his classroom. Finding significance in a throwaway verse will have to wait until she’s assigned his homework and heard his standard argument that homework’s redundant if you’re already at home. He’s putting too fine a point on it, but he does get extra credit for using the word “redundant” in the correct sense.

“We’ll see,” she says to his hope that she might lighten up on the extra work. She really ought to; he’s hardly bellyached at all about discovering that getting what you want isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be—that homeschooling can be just as much of a grind as traditional school. In that respect, he’s way ahead of her; she’s groused more than once about getting what she wanted—a secure environment that sure as hell’s not everything she wanted it to be.

“If the ground ever dries up we’ll play croquet later. How’s that sound?” she offers.

“Without Simon?”

“Without Simon,” she promises and sends him on his way.

She’s checking the quiz for errors when Colin announces himself from the doorway. “Good
lord.
” She looks up from the task and reacts to his condition. He’s sweaty, shirtless, and barefoot; his jeans are wet to the knee and mud-spattered to the waist. “What on earth were you doing? Jumping in puddles with Simon?”

“Riding the fences with Sam and one of the gardeners. Filling in the washouts from last night’s rain. Bad one over by the oasts, had to dip into the crushed stone intended for the pond project and call in a front-end loader. Lucky one was available on short notice.”

“So this wasn’t sheer volunteerism. You just wanted to play with the heavy machinery.” She pretends ignorance of the real reason he lent himself to the maintenance crew.

“Do I look like I was remote from the job? High and dry from the actual work? I’ll have you know I was down in the trenches with shovel and rake. Hands on, I was—oh what the fuck—I was desperate for something to do—
anathing
to do—that would take my mind off this bloody endless waiting.” He steps all the way into the room and lowers his voice, “How’s number one sprog holding up? Lesson’s going okay, he getting stir-crazy too?”

“I think he’d rejoice at going back to traditional school, but his work’s holding up and he hasn’t broken any of the new rules.”

“Which doesn’t mean he won’t.” Colin approaches her desk, examines the vocabulary quiz, and takes in her jottings. “What’s this?” he says of the scribbled Jeremiah verse. “You can’t be gonna include this in the collection. Rubbish, this is.”

Under his critical assessment the message suddenly makes itself clear. “Very telling rubbish,” she says.

“What are you talking about? Telling what?”

“It’s a metaphor for pulling a disappearing act—making a run for it. Just listen to what you said:
Accordion to what I’ve heard
,
the Concertina was deferred
.
The band was struck with Sousaphonia
,
and meandered off to Transylvania
—no, it was Trans
begonia
. Not that it matters because it’s all there—the postponement, the sudden malady, the wandering off into the unknown.”

“Coincidence.”

“Subliminal urge.”

“The only subliminal urge I’ve got is the one I’ve had all along. And it’s not so subliminal anymore.” He leans over her desk, gives her a good whiff of his not unpleasant animal smell. “Isn’t the dry spell about over? Wasn’t it three weeks ago when you said it would be three weeks?”

“It’ll be three weeks Monday and please keep in mind that was only an estimate, the doctor will have the final say. And you might want to remember it’s not as though you’ve been
totally
deprived. I don’t recall hearing any complaints when you suffered through the alternative.”