Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (11 page)

More side discussions followed, everyone smiling, excited over what was being said. One of the older drivers finally spoke up, “If this place is so fantastic, why did you leave?” he asked Bishop.

“We didn’t leave,” he responded with a smile. “We’re just on vacation.”

Cole couldn’t get to sleep, sitting next to the late night fire and pretending to study the map. Bishop had outlined a safe route earlier in the evening, which left only the task of computing how much fuel would be required to make it to Alpha, Texas.

That hadn’t taken long, the numbers running through his mind as if he’d only ceased his trade a few days ago. It was going to be close… very close, but he thought they had enough fuel to make it. If they had to walk 20 or 30 miles, so be it. That wouldn’t be the end of the world - they had suffered worse.

What really kept him awake was the anticipation of driving again. It had been so long, and he missed the feel of the open road almost as much as he missed Annie. More than once, he’d considered walking over to the Kenworth, firing up the big diesel and rolling straight to his home. As tempting as it all was, he’d dismissed the notion. The people of the overpass were as much his family now as anyone. He couldn’t abandon them. He’d seen their eyes before everyone started turning in. He imagined most of them were lying awake now, dreaming of a future – a future that hadn’t existed just a few hours ago.

He had to admit, part of his insomnia was also due to optimism as well. They were going to escape this place, break free of the trap they had all fallen into – a tar pit of despair and suffering that kept them fighting for life every single day.

Looking around, he noted the odd shadows cast by the dying flames. If his surroundings had been a forest, or canyon cliffs or even the open expanse of a beach, the play of light might have been inspirational. Here, the ebb and flow of illumination did nothing but outline the false walls and weak fabrication of life itself. He wouldn’t miss the overpass. For as long as he lived, he would never pass by one again without remembering this place.

Guilt squeezed his chest for a moment, an unwelcome embrace. Annie. Again, he pushed down the temptation to make a run for home. He had calculated that mileage and fuel requirement as well. There was enough.

No
, he thought.
It isn’t even the responsibility I feel to the people here. It is more than that.

Looking down at his droopy belt and then rubbing his gristly chin, Cole knew he wasn’t ready to go home just yet. He was rail thin, scruffy and unready to face his bride.
A few days won’t matter,
he justified.
I’ll get stronger and then go.
 

He remembered an old saying, “Can two drowning men save each other?” Grunting, he acknowledged the wisdom in the adage. “I’m drowning too, Annie. Let me catch my breath, and I’ll be able to save you. Just hold on a few days, darling. Just a few more days,” he whispered.

Finally feeling like he could sleep, Cole stood and stretched. He judged the fire would die in the next few minutes, and the wind was calm. It would fade away naturally, unlike the memories of the overpass.

Camp David, Maryland

July 28    

“Memphis is the key to all this,” announced the Colonel, closing the folder and meeting Spider’s gaze. “Bishop was spotted there by someone who ran a background check. Three days later, the massacre occurred.”

Spider scratched his chin, deep in thought. “How did he get from Tennessee back to West Texas? Unless he had a plane, that would be a difficult feat these days.”

“How did he get from West Texas to Memphis in the first place?” countered the Colonel. “He must have had transportation of some sort.”

Spider returned to studying the photographic evidence provided by the Army. He spread the pictures in chronological order, based on the time and date stamps. “Sir, in these early pictures, I’m sure that’s Bishop. He wears his knife in the same position as the man I served with, holds his weapon the same… hell, even his pouches are arranged in the same order. When you’ve spent as much time as he and I did in the field, you get to know a man’s habits.”

“Go on,” the Colonel replied, now clearly interested in Spider’s observations.

“The later photographs are after nightfall, and not nearly as crisp, but I’m sure it’s not Bishop.”

“How can you be sure?”

“First of all, Bishop wears his knife high on the torso, secured between the shoulder straps of his chest rig. You can see that here,” he said, pointing at a photo.

“But then, if you look at this shot,” Spider continued, pushing forward a different picture, “I don’t see a knife. I know it’s a little blurry, but if there were a sheath across this guy’s chest, I think it would show.”

The Colonel was skeptical. “The knife could have fallen off. He could have used it for something off-camera and forgotten it. That’s not proof enough in a court of law, son.”

“Oh, I agree, sir. But trust me on this; Bishop would never let that knife out of his sight. Then there’s the shooting position. Whoever is depicted in the video and this sequence of still frames doesn’t shoot like Bishop. This guy’s right arm is sticking way out, and Bishop always tucks his arm in tight to his chest. I know, sir, I’ve seen the man fight more than once.”

The Colonel studied the pictures indicated, still not convinced. “I don’t know, Spider. Men will change their stance if they’re moving or under fire. I see what you’re saying, but it’s still not enough.”

Spider nodded and then smiled. “I know, sir, but here’s the clincher – that’s not the same rifle. Whoever was doing the shooting has a different gun.”

“What?”

“Bishop isn’t carrying an M4 in the early shots. While it’s true that he had a rifle case when he arrived, we don’t know what or if anything was inside. But here and here… right before he’s ready to move out, that’s not an M4. It’s a Remington ACR by the look of it. Later on, after the attack started, the shooter is using an M4.”

Again, the Colonel studied Spider’s observations. “I see what you’re saying, Spider, but we are both men who know weapons. Doubters are going to say he pulled the M4 out of that case at the last moment. I’m sold, but keep in mind we have to prove our case to some very, very skeptical people.”

“I’m not a lawyer, Colonel, but like you said, Memphis is the key. If we knew what Bishop was doing there, it would sure help with the timeline. Don’t all of those legal eagles look for a motive? We might find it there.”

“I agree,” responded the Colonel, flashing a sly grin. “I’ve already scheduled a trip to the Volunteer State.”

Chapter 7

Texas – New Mexico border

July 29

Dawn broke with clear skies, promising another cloudless, hot day. The air was thick with excitement and anticipation as the residents gathered with all of their earthly belongings. Old suitcases, plastic bags and even a laundry basket were scattered around the milling throng.

“This reminds me of Christmas morning,” observed Terri as Hunter enjoyed his breakfast. “They’re like a bunch of kids waiting to open presents.”

“Here comes Santa Claus,” nodded Bishop, observing Cole strolling toward the gathering. His clothes looked clean, and he had shaved.

The Texas couple watched with smiles as Cole approached each neighbor, hugging, reassuring, and sharing the moment. When he’d finished, he moved toward the Kenworth’s cab and started the big diesel.

Letting the motor warm, he then climbed down and moved to the flatbed, helping each passenger load luggage onto the trailer’s flat surface. Someone had installed half-height side rails to keep people and belongings from falling off.

When his last customer was loaded, Cole held up a single finger as if to indicate, “Give me a minute,” to his counterparts and then trotted off for the bridge. Pulling a wad of rags and dry grass from an opening, he ceremoniously held up a disposable lighter borrowed from Bishop.

The audience on the flatbed cheered, hooting and hollering for him to do the dirty deed. Flicking on the flame, he bent and ignited the kindling.

Again, shouts and applause filled the air, over 20 faces watching with eager anticipation. Cole turned and bowed to the crowd, the exaggerated move causing more than one chuckle.

“They shouldn’t do that,” Terri observed. “What if his truck breaks a few miles down the road? They won’t have a home to come back to.”

Bishop grinned, “They’re not coming back. No matter what, they’ve had enough. I think every single one of them would walk to Texas even if the truck stopped running. They’re through.”

The fire spread quickly, open flame expanding throughout the structure in a few minutes. Black smoke billowed into the air, yellow flickers of the blaze licking up the sides of the concrete bridge. Cole and his neighbors stood silently and watched with blank expressions, neither sad, nor happy.

Returning the lighter to Bishop, Cole extended his hand and announced, “We’re off, and in no small part thanks to both of you. I wish you the best.”

Terri smiled and said, “We’ll see you all soon in Texas. Our vacation won’t last forever. It will be a happy reunion.”

Bishop reached inside the pickup and handed Cole a folded sheet of paper. “When you get to Alpha, please find a big, gruff fellow named Nick and hand him this note.”

Cole looked down at the paper and nodded. “Will do.”

And then the driver mounted the cab, shifted the big rig into gear and off they went, rolling toward Texas and a second chance at life.  

Bishop and Terri watched them go, the sounds of the dying fire and smell of smoke providing the backdrop for their escape.

“Are you ready to mount up and blow this pop stand?” he asked.

“Ready when you are, my love.”

With Hunter freshly changed and strapped into his seat, Bishop handed Terri a map with a route highlighted in yellow. “I want to head west for a bit. We’ll cut to the north before we get to Albuquerque, and keep going that direction until we are above Santa Fe. That is mountainous, beautiful country up there. We’ll cut west again and go across northern New Mexico into Utah.”

Terri studied the chart, pointing at the center, “It says some of these mountains are over 13,000 feet. Is that right?”

Bishop shrugged, “I guess. I went up this way once with my dad on a hunt. They sure looked like awful big mountains when I was a kid.”

Terri grinned, “When you were a kid? But that was a long, long time ago. I’m sure time has eroded them since then.”

“Funny,” Bishop replied. “You’re such a funny girl.”

Terri had discovered Hunter’s tickle spot. As she handed the map back to her husband, she touched the baby’s ribs with her free hand. The infant let out a happy squeal. “Hunter thinks it’s funny, too.”

Bishop, amused at his son’s vocalization, nodded his head in mock disgust. “That’s all I need – you two ganging up on me. A man doesn’t have a chance around here.”

“Get used to him siding with me on these matters,
Dad
. You aren’t equipped with breasts, and Hunter knows it,” Terri joked from the back seat.

“But I have all the cool guns,
Mom
. We’ll see how long your treachery and manipulation dominate once he figures out who controls the firepower around these parts.”

Terri put her index finger against her lip and with a twinkle in her eye replied, “We’ll see.”

The remote, featureless terrain allowed for a worry-free transit along I-40. They passed a few exits, the mid-day sun sparkling off the sea of cars and trucks filling the lots of gas stations and fast food joints. Once, a small column of smoke, like that produced by a campfire, was visible behind one of the buildings. Other than that single fire, they didn’t see any sign of human beings.

Given the wide-open spaces, Bishop decided to play some music. Terri picked the first CD and spent several miles entertaining Hunter with her dance moves – at least as much as she could gyrate in the confines of the crowded back seat.

Bishop’s mood was lightened by the display, her smile and rhythmic movements reminding him of when they were dating. As he drove through eastern New Mexico, he recalled several Saturday nights when they would go out and cut a rug. It all seemed like a world away now.

The terrain began to change as they progressed westward. The flat desert morphed to show feature and undulation, dark mountains appearing on the horizon. The GPS, preprogrammed with a route that avoided population centers, signaled it was time to leave the big road.

The exit selected was nothing more than a two-lane state highway, crossing the interstate without fanfare or a single business. Bishop guided the truck to the north and began searching for a place to camp. He wanted to catch four or five hours sleep before continuing their journey after dark. Despite the music, Terri’s yawn from the back seat reaffirmed the need.

His search began in earnest after leaving the interstate 15 miles behind them. Despite not seeing another living soul all morning, Bishop knew the paved artery would be the route of choice if there were people around.
People are always the problem
, he mused.
Avoid people.

Scanning for some place to hole up, Bishop noted the vegetation was changing as much as the elevation. To his left, or west, the foothills of some mountain range were evident. He even spied trees in a few places. To the right was nothing but open desert, and the dichotomy wasn’t lost on him.

He almost missed it. Other than a gravel lane leading west into the foothills, there wasn’t any other clue. After intersecting the narrow path, he noticed the green information sign posted for traffic heading the opposite direction. He slowed, reading the letters in his review mirror. “Perilous Falls State Recreation Area, next right.”

“Falls? As in a waterfall?” Terri asked from the back seat.

“I guess. It’s not on the map, but that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think this chart lists state parks.”

“Do you think anybody would be back there?”

“Hmmm… tough call on that one. I would think water would attract people. But on the other hand, there aren’t many folks around here during regular times.”

Terri was obviously excited by the prospect. “Let’s check it out. I’ve not seen a waterfall for years.”

“I don’t know,” Bishop hesitated.

“Oh! Come on now. You said this was a vacation,” she prompted.

“Okay, but I’m going to scout it out first,” he declared.

“Of course you will,” Terri mumbled, determined not to let her husband’s paranoia ruin the prospect.

Bishop backed up slowly, mindful of the patchwork hitch now securing the camper. He pulled even with the sign, cut the motor, and hopped out.

“What are you doing?” Terri called from the back seat.

“Just covering our tracks,” he casually replied.

A few moments later, he appeared with a rope in hand. Tying one end to the sign and the other to the tow hitch on the truck, he backed up slowly until the sign was pulled down into the overgrowth of roadside weeds.

After retrieving the line and storing it back in the camper shell, he again was behind the wheel.

“What was that all about?” Terri asked.

“I would have passed right by this place if it wasn’t for that sign,” he said. “We might end up staying here for a few days, and I don’t want any company.”

He negotiated the gravel lane and soon regretted the decision. Even at the slowest pace, a cloud of white dust rose up from behind them, signaling anyone for miles that a vehicle was traveling this way.

“Smoke signals,” he commented, glaring in the rear view mirror. “We might as well send up flares.”

“Chill out, Bishop. We’ve not seen a single soul for over 50 miles. If gravel dust rises over the plain and no one’s there to see it, does it still send a signal?”

“Yes. And that tree in the forest, without anyone there – it still makes a sound. Sound is a mechanical vibration created by the transition or exchange of energy. The tree striking the ground is an exchange of energy.”

Terri grinned, happy she’d diverted his worrying. “Well Mr.
Smartypants, where were you when that debate was hindering the progress of mankind? Huh? Discovering fire? Inventing the wheel?” she giggled.

The path meandered for over two miles, snaking deeper into the foothills. Plants and trees preferred the area, the vegetation actually dense in a few spots. Bishop decided to skip scouting ahead on foot, any observer having plenty of warning of their approach. Still, he chambered a round in his pistol and made sure the sidearm was handy.

They rounded a small bend, and then the lane ended in a wide parking lot. The space was empty with the exception of a single, heavy-duty pickup, complete with a huge fifth wheel camper set up nearby.

“Shit,” Bishop exclaimed when he saw the other occupants, his head pivoting as if he expected someone to start shooting at them any moment. No one did.

Throwing the truck into park, Bishop was out of the cab with his rifle in a flash. The opening and closing of Terri’s door indicated she was doing the same. After scanning the area and uncovering nothing, he rushed toward the occupied campsite ready to dive prone at the slightest hint of movement.

He was halfway across the lot when he began to relax. The windshield of the pickup was thick with dust, a few cobwebs sparkling in the noon sun. Dried, windblown vegetation covered the camper’s steps. No one had been around the two units for some time.

He called out, “Hello in the camper. Hello there! Anybody home?”

No one answered.

Terri soon joined him. “What do you think? Looks abandoned.”

Bishop shrugged, “Go ahead and bring up the truck. I’ll check it out. You stay with Hunter, but cover me if you can.”

He watched his wife hobble back to the pickup, her uneven gait reminding him that she had just been in a serious wreck a few days before.
What a trooper
, he thought.
Playing with pain
.

Once he was sure Terri was back with their child, he proceeded to explore the campsite.

It quickly became clear that the owners of the huge camper had occupied the space for some time. Someone had set up a BBQ grill, complete with long-handled fork and tongs hanging from the rail. There was also a fire pit, the thickness of the coals and ashes indicating scores of burnings. Both the Webber and the stone-encircled ground fire were cold.

The evidence of a long-term occupation continued to mount. The camper had its dark-water sewage line snaking off into a nearby ravine. There was no obvious odor. A long handled shovel and well-used axe were leaning against the open tailgate of the truck. A considerable stack of firewood had been collected.

Someone had even taken the time to arrange potted plants and a tablecloth on the picnic table. Were it not for the layers of dust, sun-blanched material, and windblown debris, the site would have looked identical to any one of thousands of such locations scattered throughout parks and forests on a holiday weekend.