Gone Forever (Jack Widow Book 1), page 8
And all of this because I needed a ride west. No, I was better off heading back to Interstate 278 and walking until someone pulled over and offered me a ride.
I began walking out of the lot and back to the interstate on-ramp.
As I walked out, I saw an old fuel truck of medium size with faded symbols along the side. I could make out the writing as the truck crossed between the pumps. It read, “Jackson West Airfields—Caution Jet Fuel in Tank.”
Far from Jackson, I thought.
I shrugged, passed the old fuel truck, and didn’t give it a second glance. I continued onto the interstate.
The on-ramp was steep and short. Walking up, it was a short workout, like stair climbing. At the end, I headed north so that I could turn on the cloverleaf and go west. I hugged the shoulder of the overpass as best I could. It wasn’t very wide, not wide enough for a car anyway, which I thought was supposed to be the point of a shoulder.
As luck would have it, I only had to walk for two more minutes because just before I turned onto the loop that took me to the westbound lane of Interstate 278, I heard a horn behind me. I turned to see the fuel truck from the gas station. It had caught up with me. The truck slowed to a stop a few yards behind me. There were no cars behind it, so the driver hadn’t even bothered to pull over onto the diminutive shoulder. He just stopped in the middle of the lane and honked his horn.
I walked back to the passenger side, conjured another smile, and eyed into the window.
The guy behind the wheel was an old, white-haired man in a bright-red cap and gray overalls, like a mechanic wears. There was a faded blue patch on the upper left breast of his overalls with writing on it. I couldn’t make it out from this distance, but figured it was probably his name stitched into the fabric.
Sitting in the passenger seat, at attention, was a black-and-white border collie. It was old, with hints of gray hair showing through the black in its fur.
The dog didn’t growl or jump up when I leaned against the window. It simply waited for its master to speak. This was a well-trained dog. They were quite the pair—must’ve been together for years. The dog was probably his age in terms of dog years.
The guy was ancient, well beyond the age of retirement, probably a great-grandfather with a dozen grandkids running around somewhere, maybe spread out all over the state, maybe the country.
I grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open. It squeaked loudly, as if no one had ever opened it before. The first thing that hit me from the inside of the cabin was a musty smell. Not bad but not great either. It smelled like he had been living in his truck, which was entirely possible.
The bench seat was made of old, worn leather. I didn’t know what color it was supposed to be because it was so old that the shade was indiscernible. I guess it might’ve been light brown originally.
The dog’s fur was all over the place. It was a longhaired border collie, which was a medium-sized dog. This one was maybe forty-five pounds. Not a small dog, just smaller than I thought a border collie would be, but then again, I’d never seen one in real life.
The guy spoke first. He said, “Howdy.”
His voice was squeaky, and I immediately knew why. His incisors were gone, and the rest of the teeth he had left were rotting so badly that they were a brownish color. He needed to see a dentist, and soon. The inside of his mouth looked like the remains of a bombed city just after the bombing had taken place, and it was still smoldering. His breath hit me like a gas grenade. Didn’t anyone ever tell this guy how bad it smelled?
A thought occurred to me right after the smell of his breath swept across my face. I thought, How the hell does he eat? He must be on a soup-only diet.
I made a mental note that if I was going to be hitchhiking, I’d better start carrying gum or breath mints or Tic Tacs. At least that way, I could offer some to whatever driver picked me up. I could ask, “Would you like a piece of gum?”
Polite conversation. No one would think it meant anything, and most people wouldn’t turn down a free stick of gum. It would spare me from having to endure the stench of bad breath. I imagined it was going to be a long ride with this guy, if all I could focus on was his breath.
I said, “Hi. How’s your day going?”
“It’s going pretty good so far—nice weather. So, you need a ride?” he asked. There was a kindness in his voice and in his face. Now I knew exactly why no one had mentioned his bad breath to him—his demeanor was such that it immediately made a person look right past his flaws. This guy glowed like an angel, just the way you would expect a loving old grandpa to glow.
I said, “I would surely appreciate one.”
“Hop in. Let’s get goin’. And don’t mind Link. He won’t bite. Move over, Link.”
The dog moved over. It didn’t bark or snap or dismiss his command. It was perfectly obedient, truly a good dog.
Link moved to the middle of the bench, making the effort seem like a great struggle. Then he curled up and rested his head on the seat. He didn’t pay me any more attention, not even a sniff. This dog had this “if it’s okay with my master, then it’s okay with me” attitude, like his master’s approval was gospel.
I got into the truck, closed the door, and grabbed for the seat belt, but it was not there. I grinned and tried not to look like it was a big deal, which it wasn’t.
The old guy noticed the move and said, “Sorry, son. Dere is no seat belt. I hope dat’s okay. I promise dat I’m a good driver.”
“No problem.”
I believed the old guy. Grandpas were usually excellent drivers, until they got too old, lost their reaction times. Slow and safe was a statistical reality about old guys, so I didn’t doubt his claim. I was more surprised that he hadn’t replaced the seat belt, especially considering that he was dressed like an airplane mechanic. I guess airplane mechanics and car mechanics had different priorities. To an airplane mechanic, a seat belt at thirty thousand feet was completely unnecessary, more of a placebo to give the passengers peace of mind than to save their lives. When a plane drops out of the sky at thirty thousand feet and plummets to the ground, the last thing that’ll save a passenger’s life is a seat belt. A car is a different story. Cars don’t reach speeds of hundreds of miles per hour and travel tens of thousands of feet above the ground, and cars barely deal in gravity when compared to airplanes.
He said, “I’m really not supposed ta pick anyone up. Insurance BS. But ya looked lost out here, and I got a long drive still. I’d sure like da company.”
I figured that the old guy didn’t have many passengers. He had a kind of loneliness about him. His voice hung on the word “sure,” and it came out with a slight whistle at the beginning. He grinned wide. That was when I realized that one of his bottom front teeth was broken, not chipped. It was broken in half, and he’d never fixed it.
The air produced by his windpipes must’ve hissed right through his missing incisors and then scraped across his broken tooth, creating a distinctive whistle, especially with his pronunciation of the letter “s.”
I was having quite the luck with drivers today. My first had been an old man missing his teeth but in good spirits, and now I had another old guy with messed-up teeth, again in great spirits. I wondered if this was the life of a drifter.
I looked over at him and said, “I appreciate you stopping.”
“Son, where ya headed?”
“West. To a place called Jarvis Lake.”
He smiled at me, wide, and chuckled. He said, “Well, I’ll be damned. I’m headed dere. It’s about twenty-five miles west. I’m going to da little fishing town next to it called Black Rock. You can ride with me all the way if ya want.”
“Thank you. That’s fantastic. What a stroke of luck.”
“Where’s your bag?” he asked.
“What?”
“Luggage? Doncha have a bag?”
“No bag. Just me.”
He asked, “Where do you keep your toothbrush?”
A quick burst of laughter flung out of my mouth. I had to stop myself. I laughed because; it seemed to me; a toothbrush was the last thing on his mind.
He said, “What is it?” and smiled.
I shook my head and said, “Nothing. I just realized I forgot my toothbrush.” That part was true. I’d have to get one.
He didn’t ask any further about it. He just hit the gas, and the fuel truck picked up speed and slid over to the truck lane. He wasn’t a slow driver; that was for damn sure. That had been a large miscalculation on my part. He pushed the ancient truck as hard as it would go. It wasn’t struggling with the gas pedal’s sudden request to jump forward, but it didn’t quite jump to life like Jill’s Ford Fusion had.
He repeated Jill’s question and said, “I tought hitchhikers always carried a bag. Ya know, with camping gear or a sleeping bag or somedin’. So ya can sleep out under da stars. Ya don’t look very prepared if ya don’t mind my saying so.”
He hung on the “s” sounds in “saying so,” and the whistle followed.
“I’m new to this. I just rolled out of the military. Guess I didn’t really think it out that far ahead.”
He nodded. He didn’t seem surprised, but then again, I doubted that much of anything surprised him.
We continued to drive down the interstate. The old guy was fast, but he wasn’t heavy-footed because he kept the truck at a steady seventy miles per hour, the maximum speed limit.
Some of the other vehicles on the road drove faster, and some drove slower. At one point, we got stuck behind two eighteen-wheelers. One drove in the fast lane at a slow speed, and the other drove in our lane at the same slow speed. I thought it was the responsibility of the truck in the fast lane to speed up, pass, and then move back over to the truck lane if he was going to continue to drive slowly. But the driver of that truck seemed not to be concerned with such formalities.
We drove in silence for about twenty minutes until I finally broke it. I asked, “Is there an airport nearby?”
The old guy said, “No. I work at a small airstrip outside Jackson.”
“Are you headed to Jarvis Lake for business or pleasure?”
“Not exactly either. It’s fer work, but I plan on doing some fishin’ while I’m dere.”
Another whistle.
The old mechanic looked back over his shoulder behind the seat to a narrow rear cargo space between the front bench and the back wall. It was an area that was too small for a back seat, but it was unusually wide for a single-cabin truck. It was as if this truck was specially designed or customized.
I leaned back and peered into the cargo space. A worn metal tackle box and a couple of fishing rods were folded up against the rear wall. It looked like he was prepared for some major fishing on the lake.
“What kind of work will you be doing on a lake?”
“Flying boat.”
“Flying boat? You mean a seaplane?”
He shook his head, and then he said, “Common mistake, son. Everyone calls dem seaplanes. A seaplane is a plane dat can land on water. I mean, technically yer right dat dat’s what I’m going dere fer, but dere are two types of seaplanes. Da one everyone dinks of is basically just a seaplane or a floatplane. And da second is like da plane dat I’m goin’ ta work on. It’s a flying boat or a super scooper. It’s one of dose water bombers. Ya know, fer fighting forest fires from da air. Dey are da large planes. Da fuselage on dem is shaped like da hull of a boat. It’s a boat dat flies. Sometimes dey’re fer transporting cargo, but mostly nowadays, ya usually see dem as water bombers.”
I nodded. Of course, I already understood the difference between a seaplane and a water bomber. I’d seen a water bomber once when I was stationed in South Korea.
He said, “Anyway, I’m meeting a guy wid a flying boat.”
“Why’s this guy flying a water bomber to a lake in Mississippi? We don’t have any forest fires.”
“It’s some rich fella. Probably oil money. Maybe flying his buddies out ta a remote lake fer some fishing. I’ve never had anyone fly a flying boat out ta a lake before, not fer recreational use, but a seaplane, sure. Dey’re probably carrying a small boat stored in da hull, or da guy has a big crew dat he’s bringing wid him. Dese planes can usually hold two pilots, one jump seat, and maybe eight passengers on a bench in da back.”
“So why does he need you to drive to the lake?”
“Look at dis vehicle. I’m driving fuel out dere for da plane. No available fuel in Black Rock for da rich guy ta use ta refuel da plane. I dink he’s flying from da Gulf or somewhere. Gonna need fuel ta return.”
I nodded. It made sense. The rich guy needed to refuel, so the old guy was meeting him there.
Then the old guy said, “My name’s Hank, by da way. Hank Cochran. I was in da Coast Guard fer twenty years; den I retired. Now I work as a mechanic at a small airstrip in Jackson. Dat’s my story. So, who are you?”
I said, “Widow, first name, Jack.”
Hank gave me a wide smile. The sight of his missing teeth and the smell of his bad breath rushed out at me again, but his smile was full of warmth. And we continued on.
8
Jarvis Lake wasn’t a place that I’d ever heard of before yesterday, at least not that I could remember, but it echoed in the chambers of my mind. I looked out the window of the fuel truck, and my lips moved inadvertently. I whispered, “I’ll find who did this to you, Chief.”
“Did ya say somedin’?”
I turned, breaking free from my thoughts of revenge and said, “Thinking out loud.”
“I do dat all da time. Well, actually, I talk ta ole Link here, but he don’t say much back.” Hank let out a chuckle, and Link looked up after hearing his name.
“Good boy, Link,” Hank said.
The dog wagged his tail.
I gazed out across the horizon through the front windshield. The land was mostly flat and covered with tall pine trees. I calculated we were getting close to the off-ramp for Black Rock.
I stared out above the trees. Portentous, dark clouds filled the sky, foreshadowing terrible events ahead.
Great. It looked like those clouds would turn into a thunderstorm.
It was the month of May, and Mississippi was a rainy place in late spring and through the summer. It was a part of the hurricane belt and experienced a lot of rain from the Gulf.
The old guy stared out at the horizon. He squinted his eyes, and then he said, “Whew-wee. Looks like a storm rollin’ in.”
I stayed quiet.
“Son, good ding ya ridin’ wid me ta Jarvis. I’m stayin’ in a nice cabin on da lake while I wait fer Mr. Caman ta arrive.”
“Caman?”
“Da rich fella wid da flyin’ boat. His name is Caman. He won’t be arrivin’ till tomorrow or da day after dat. I’m headed dere early so I can get in some fishin’. I wanted time ta use his cabin. I’ve never stayed dere before, but he said it would be okay. I saw it on the internet. It’s two stories wid four empty bedrooms, so I’ve got plenty of room. You could stop in wid me and stay until da storm passes. I can’t imagine dat he’d object ta dat. He’s a foreign fella, but he sounded real nice on da phone.”
I thought for a moment. A home base would be advantageous while I started to get the lay of the land.
“Link and I’d be happy ta have some company. Dese storms usually only last a night. In da morning, dere will be some good fishin’. You could help me reel some in. I got an extra rod.”
I looked back out at the clouds. A silvery lightning bolt flashed across the underbelly of one of the bigger ones, and the thunder cracked a split second later. It echoed with plenty of sound and fury through the sky, like a ripple through the water.
I looked back at Hank and said, “Sounds great.”
He smiled.
We saw the off-ramp to Black Rock and took it. We drove about two miles through a heavily wooded area. Magnolias grew on both sides of a dusty old road. It wasn’t a rocky road—the drive was smooth enough—but I could tell that it hadn’t been blacktopped in over a decade. The road ended in a fork less than a mile from the southeast corner of the lake, where the lake branched off from the main body and snaked inland for a half mile.
To the right-hand side and up on a hill, there was a sign that read, “This way to Jarvis Lake Houses.” To the left-hand side of the fork, a sign read, “Black Rock/Jarvis Dam.”
Up on the right-hand side past the signs, there was a small compound, like one of those I’d seen on the news whenever the ATF or the FBI or the DEA was there and gearing up to raid the place. It was a series of scruffy mobile homes and crumbling buildings bunched together like a giant wagon train, with no fence and no signs of life.
The mobile homes perched way back and away from the street. Past them, farther east and toward the trees, there was a new-looking white brick house with hunter-green shutters. It looked like it could have been the headquarters for the whole thing. In the back and sloped way down about forty yards from the house was a large, freshly painted white barn. It was brand new, like a recent addition to the compound, and there was a long dirt track running up to it from the road. The barn had shiny new motion sensor lights installed high on the corners that glimmered and reflected sunspots like flashes from a distant handheld camera or sniper scope.
The most striking part of the compound was an enormous Confederate flag flying high above the trees, right in an open field near the track. It was attached to a gigantic steel flagpole. It looked as if the people living here had spent their life savings on it—and no money on their mobile homes.
The flagpole was massive, soaring above the magnolias, pine trees, and even the heavy oaks. The steel was polished to a shine that glimmered with or without sunlight. It was the most majestic flagpole I had ever seen, and I had seen plenty of them on bases all over the planet.
“Da lake is dammed up on da west side. We’ll be drivin’ across it if we go inta town, but we’re headed dis way ta da cabin,” he said and pointed to the right-hand side.
I nodded.
He turned the steering wheel and headed up the hill on a road that was paved but falling apart. It had been pushed up and cracked all over the edges by the roots of a patch of enormous oak trees growing side by side.
