In The Absence Of Light (20 page)

I could practically hear him smile.

“You should come visit me sometime.” Rubio said. “Meet the grandkids.”

“You have grandkids now?”

“Four of them.”

“You only have two daughters.”

“And now two sets of twins.” His sigh conveyed so many things. But gratitude was the loudest. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’m not even sure I should ask. Like you said, they’re baiting me.”

“True, but you still called.”

Because that night, half frozen, up to our necks in saltwater, about to go our separate ways, he’d put his hand on my cheek. The happiness in his eyes couldn’t be concealed by the shadows.

Instead of thank you, he’d said, “Call me when.”

There was no explanation needed. I knew what he meant. When you need me, when you know something, when either of us needs to watch our back.

I hoped to never make the phone call, but there I was.

“Yeah.” I exhaled the frustration building in my chest. “I should have never kept the documents, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. We could have needed. We still might need them.”

“Not sure which risk is greater now.”

“I am. You did the right thing, Grant.”

“Only now it could blow up in our faces.”

“And we could have died a dozen times over that year, and yet, here we are.”

We were. And so were a half dozen families, including Rubio’s.

“The documents need to disappear, but they’ll be watching me and any of my contacts.” Except for a man I knew as Rubio Venice. He was dead. Only Rubio knew who and where he was now.

“Is there anything else of value in the storage building?”

There was. Monetarily at least. “Nothing I can’t replace.”

He laughed. A thick rich sound with only a hint of his place of origin. Some country in the darkest corner of the world, where people survived on nothing, and sold their daughters and sons in order to survive. When they didn’t sell them, they were taken. Then the family didn’t even get compensation for their loss.

Rubio had lost four daughters to human traffickers and a son. We were able to save two of the girls. The boy lived too, but I’m not sure if we really saved him or not.

“Do not worry. I’ll take care of it,” Rubio said.

“Are you sure?”

He laughed again, only this time it was softer and even sad. “I think that is my line, my friend.”

“Maybe, but you’re the one who’s putting their life on the line.”

“It isn’t worth much anyhow.”

“Now who’s stealing whose lines?”

The sound of waves in the background filled the silence.

“Rest easy, Grant. Be well. And again, call me when.”

He hung up.

I stomped the cell phone into the gravel on the shoulder of the road.  When it was in enough pieces to make it impossible to use, I kicked them into the creek running through the drainpipe under the blacktop. It was still swollen from the recent rain, so the remnants would be miles away from there by morning.

Getting out of the business was supposed to have made my life easier, not complicate it.  But that was the FBI for you.

The scar on my chest ached, and I rubbed it.  How come none of the other reminders from my past ever did?

If I had to guess, it was because I’d gambled with more than my life with Jeff.

And I’d lost.

********

I pulled into Morgan’s driveway at five till. He leaned against the post on his front porch. Dressed in ragged-out jeans and a T-shirt, he resembled one of those barely legal models for those high-end clothing stores.

Which of course made me feel like a fucking pervert all over again.

A few days ago, it would have sent me running for the hills, but I’d had my hands on his body, felt his mouth on my cock, been buried inside him, and I’d watched what this beautiful man could do to himself.

The memories alone were enough to make me hard.

He came around to the passenger side and got in. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the complication currently occupying my jeans.

“You’re late.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Three minutes after.”

I looked at my watch. “Says I’m right on time.”

“Then your watch is wrong.”

“I just set it.”

“Still wrong.”

“According to who?”

Morgan held up his wrist. “Mine says three minutes late.”

“Then your watch is wrong.”  After all, this could work both ways right?

“My watch is atomic, yours is digital, mine sets itself according to USNO.”

“What?”

“The United States National Observatory Master Clock.”

Of course he’d have a watch synchronized with Department of Defense. How silly of me to think otherwise.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

“We can go now.” Morgan opened and closed his hand next to his temple.

“You sure we have time? After all, I’m late.”

“Don’t worry, told you seven, but we didn’t need to leave till seven thirty.”

“Then why did you tell me seven?” I held up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

The truck stuttered as I reached the end of the driveway. “Right or left?”

Morgan pointed left. “That way.”

I turned, and the road took us farther into the backwoods of Durstrand. “I would have thought a drive-in would have been closer to town.”

“We could have taken Apple Lane and cut behind the rec center, but then you have to go all the way around Newman’s farm to get to it. This way will be a straight shot, and we won’t have to dodge the cows.”

I wasn’t about to ask him what he meant. When we got to our destination, I didn’t need to.

A narrow dirt road led to the manicured patch of land surrounded by barbed wire and cows.

Lots of cows.

Lots and lots of mooing cows.

There were more cars than I expected seeing; the place was in the middle of… well… a cow pasture.

“What the heck possessed someone to build a theatre out here?” I found a spot as far from the bovine choir as possible.

“Newman’s got money. Likes movies. Decided to build a theatre.”

“You’d think he would have built it closer to town so it was easier for people to get to.”  I cut the truck off.

“He built it for the cows, not for people.” Morgan opened his door.

“You’re telling me some farmer put up a movie screen for a bunch of cows.”

“Why else would he put it in the middle of a cow pasture?” Morgan got out. “C’mon, while the hotdogs are fresh.”

I followed him to the concession stand, which of course was nothing more than a miniature barn.  The guy loading the kernels into the popcorn machine was old enough to be my grandfather.

“Morgan.” He came around the corner and gave Morgan a quick hug. “Been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“Seventeen days.”

“See, too long.” There was a jewel-encrusted cow on his ten-gallon hat. “Who’s your friend?”

Morgan’s shoulder twitched, and he tossed thoughts. “This is Grant. Grant, this is…”

“Mr. Newman.”

“Why yes, I am.” He held out his hand, and we shook. “You must be the fella that bought the old Anderson place. I was sure it would fall in before someone rescued it.”

“It almost did.”

He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder hard enough to rock me on my heels.

“So what will it be?”  Mr. Newman tottered back around the counter.

“Two hotdogs, a drink, and a couple of those.” Morgan pointed to the brownies among an assortment of baked goods inside the glass counter. “What do you want?”

I had no idea. “The same, I guess.”

“Be right up.” He went to the rear of the shack. The scent of cooking meat and hickory permeated the air.

“Fresh hotdogs and homemade brownies, I’m impressed.”

“Wait till you taste them.” Morgan reached over the counter and grabbed two drink cups. “Here.”

The soda fountain faced the outside. I was putting a lid on my drink when Newman reappeared with a tray of hotdogs decked out in every assortment of topping one could imagine. He even gave us forks.

“Do you want ice cream on the brownies?”

“Yes, sir,” Morgan said.

Newman opened a floor freezer next to the popcorn machine.

I reached for my wallet. Morgan put a hand on my wrist and shook his head.

Newman returned with our ice cream covered brownies. Morgan added them to the tray.

“Enjoy the show. And don’t be a stranger, Morgan.” A teenage couple stepped up behind us. Morgan ushered me toward the truck.

“We need to pay.”

“He doesn’t charge.”

“What?”

“You should have your ears cleaned out. You always ask me to repeat myself. Wax build-up can make it difficult to hear.” The preview screen came on, giving me enough light to see the coy smile Morgan threw in my direction. “Of course at your age, maybe you’re just going deaf.”

“I’m not going deaf.”

Morgan beat me to the truck and put the tray on the dash.

Ah, the advantages of a thirty year old truck.

“You realize if we eat all this, we’re going to be sick.”

“Nah.” Morgan dug into one of his hotdogs with a plastic fork, and I did the same. I have no idea what was on it that made it spicy, sweet, and rich, but damn, it was good. Thank God they came in bowls.

“I’ve never had a hotdog like this before.” I polished off the last bite.  The movie screen turned blue. When the opening credits began, I rolled down the window and took the speaker off the pole. The hook barely fit over the door. I adjusted the volume, but it didn’t put a dent in the static.

“They’re good. Everyone says that Betty, his wife, was the one who came up with the recipe. She had a café across the road from the hardware store, but Mr. Newman closed it after she died.”

“Must have been a while ago.” The hardware store had a lot of age on it.

“Almost fifty years.”

“She was young.”

Morgan switched out his empty hotdog bowl for the brownie and ice cream. “In her twenties, I think.”

I did the same. It took a lot of will not to moan when that brownie hit my tongue. “What happened to her?”

“Not sure. Unlike you, that was way before my time.”

I glared at Morgan over the edge of my fork. His bangs moved to the side enough for me to catch a hint of a smile.

“But, from what I’ve heard, she died in childbirth.”

Which had to be one of the top tragedies for a young couple. It didn’t seem like dying in childbirth would be possible this day and age, but medical knowledge had changed a lot in fifty years. In Durstrand, it was unlikely they had the meager advances available at the time.

“That’s why he has the cows.”  Morgan caught a glob of ice cream on his thumb and licked it off. “She was raising a baby calf, and after she died, Mr. Newman kept it. It had baby cows, and then there were more cows…”

As if they knew they were being talked about, the cows mooed.

“Every year, Mr. Newman has this great big cookout and the whole town shows up.”

I choked on a bite of brownie.

“Free hamburgers, steaks, it’s really good, best hot dogs ever.” Morgan nodded at the empty tray. “You need to make sure you go next time.”

“Wait,” I cleared my throat. “He eats the cows?”

“What else would he do with them?” Morgan put his empty brownie plate with the rest of the trash.

“I thought he had the cows because of his wife.”

“He does.”

“Then how can he eat them?”

“What do you think they were going to do with the first cow?”

“I don’t know, I just thought, well… I don’t know what I thought, but it sure wasn’t grinding them up and making burgers. That just seems wrong.”

“Why?”

“They remind him of his wife.”

“And she ran a restaurant. C’mon, Grant, this is real life, not a Hallmark movie. Man’s gotta eat.”

On the big screen, a horse trotted around a track. Music played. Well, sort of. Thanks to the crappy speaker, it was more like a scratchy record.

Playing a scratchy record.

“Is this Seabiscuit?”

“Probably. He usually shows animal movies or musicals. Says it makes the cows happy and they taste better.”

Great. Happy cows make better burgers. Sounded like a bad slogan for a fast food chain. Although if the hotdogs were any hint as to how good the cookout would be, I definitely needed to go.

I propped my elbow on the window and watched the screen. “I think this is Flicka, not Seabiscuit.”