Buzzard Bay (4 page)

he still had the ability to turn men into jelly and used it if the need arose. “Barry looked very nervous,” she thought as he explained that unless Bob could come up with more collateral or some type of security… he left it open for her to respond.

“You mean a cash injection from my father,” she said. “Well, I think Bob’s made it pretty clear that that won’t be happening. Do you have any other suggestions, Barry?” she asked. She saw the lust come into his face.

“No, Bob,” she said to herself, “you’re going to have to get yourself out of this mess.” There’s no way I’m going to bed with this man. She stood up, gave him a provocative look, and walked out the door, never saying a word. Barry had broken into a sweat, and he felt his cock slide down his leg. Never in his life had he dealt with a women like this before, but somehow he felt that he had been gotten the best of.

Bob walked up to his mother; she was working in the garden. “Mom,” he said, “I think we should have a talk.” Once he started, everything poured out of him.

When he was done, it was his mother’s turn to speak.

“I know exactly what’s happening,” she said. “July and I talk about it all the time! I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. This thing has been killing you a little at a time. Your father warned me that this might happen, but he wanted me to let you control your own destiny. If we had held you back, you would have always resented it. It’s not your fault.”

he went on, “You did everything you could to make it work, but there were too many things against you, too many things you had no control over. Your father would be very bitter against the system but never against you.” She went on to say that his father, although not good at investing money, was good at saving it.

“He was downright cheap,” she laughed.

“He left me comfortable,” she said. “That, and he made sure some of the land is still in my name and secure so don’t worry about me. I am worried about you, though.”

Her tone changed. “You have your father’s silly pride. I know what people are like around here. They can’t wait for someone to fail, especially someone that they’re envious of. Learn to live within your means, they say. Well, there’s nothing wrong with living within your means, but people who do usually have very limited imagination and never go very far in life. It’s the people who stick their heads out in life that motivate this earth!”

Bob was surprised to hear her say this. He felt so much better. He’d never known his mother to have so much insight.

“That’s why I hate the soaps,” she said smiling, referring to the afternoon shows on TV. “They’re watched by people with no life of their own. This is a very limited world here, Bob. Don’t be scared to move on.”

It was a year later that Barry showed up in the field to tell me that it was over. No one likes to fail, and it takes a long time to get over it. The important thing was that July and I were still together. We had survived it, and now we would continue on together. It was 1988, the beginning of our interest in the Bahamian project.

FIVE

1997

I
REALIZE AS I
break through the bluff that surrounds the little farmhouse that my mind has wandered. It is a shack actually, a small one-story structure with an addition built on the side. The building is reminiscent of the many abandoned farm sites in the area. Settlers had built them and then moved on as farms got larger, or people just left, tired of tough times. This one is still used in the summer months, so hopefully there is some form of heat inside.

“I’ll burn it if I have to,” I think, and then remember that I have no matches. I notice that] I am staggering a bit as I approach the door.

“I have to get warmed up,” I warn myself. The door is locked.

“Now what do I do?” I kick myself. Here you are freezing to death, and you’re worried about other people’s property,

I take the rifle from my shoulder and walk around the side of the building. With the butt of the rifle, I break a window and climb through. The moon is still bright but gives little light inside. Vaguely, I make out the outline of a stove. It seems colder inside the house than it is outside. Heat, I badly need heat! I head for the stove; my knee striking something hard. The rifle goes flying, and I end up face down on the floor. I’m having trouble getting up; don’t seem to have any strength.

I’m in worse condition that I thought but the all-consuming need of warmth motivates me to get up. I reach the stove; it’s electric. I turn it on. Nothing! Nothing’s happening! I feel drained. “Maybe if I just go to sleep,” I think.

The breaker; where in the hell is the breaker box? I begin following my way along the wall looking for it.

My eyes are becoming more used to the darkness, and I see a doorway heading to another room. I follow the wall until I reach it. The room is actually a porch, a storage room by what I can see of it. I go in and continue following along the wall. That’s it! I see it!. It’s the old fuse type, but the fuse has been removed. I panic and start to feel desperately around for a fuse. Ah, there it is on the ledge next to the panel box. My fingers are so cold that I can’t seem to screw it in, Finally I get it.

I feel like I just won the World Series, all those little successes keeping me going. I grope my way back to the stove. This time it’s easier. I can already see the little red light on the panel. I crank the burners and oven on full blast.

I now see it’s a chair I fell over on my way to the stove. I pick it up and set it in front of the oven door. I open the oven door, and already I can feel some heat. I sit in the chair, putting my feet right inside the oven. I place my hands over the burners. I feel like falling asleep, but my hands begin to sting, then my feet. The cold coming out, I realize.

I have frozen some parts of my body. I smell something, smells like burned rubber. I pull my feet from the oven. I must have dozed off, because my boots are smoking. They’re so hot I can hardly touch them to pull them off. I’m warmer now; the air in the house is still cold but with my feet warm, I feel warmer all over. I find a small stool to prop up the over door, place a chair at each end of the open door, and lay across the front of the oven.

“What if they come after me?” I start to think, but I’m just too tired to cope with it. I fall asleep.

It was a fitful sleep. I remember getting up to look out the window and listen for any movement. I pull the blind over the broken window. At least this might hold some heat inside the building. It’s hard to be comfortable with one side of you freezing and the other side too hot. By morning the place begins to warm up some, making it more bearable. The winter sun rose late, but I was way ahead of it. I first check for frostbite on my hands and feet. The pain has gone away, and there is an odd white spot on my foot, but not as bad as I had first feared.

I can now see the little shack consists of the main room I am in, one bedroom to one side and the porch where I had found the breaker box. I explore a bit, finding in one of the cupboards above the stove a can of beans, in a drawer, a can opener and a pot. It is a shame I had to turn down one of the burners to cook my beans.

Having no water, I step outside with another old pot. I fill it with snow to melt it on the stove. As I come back in the door, I notice a thermometer hanging on the door frame. It’s registering -15; it’s warming up, I think, that usually means a storm or at least snow. After eating my gourmet meal, I begin looking for any treasures I might find around the shack. There isn’t much, but I do find a pair of coveralls that will help to keep my legs warm and a pair of work gloves. By the porch door hung a couple of hats. One even had fold down ear flaps. Dressed to kill, I smiled. My smile quickly faded as I realize this might be true.

I go outside and begin to check around the yard. There are three old buildings in the yard besides the shack. The first one I check contains a small tractor.

“Not much good to me,” I think.

The second shed provides something interesting, an old Ski-Doo. It is covered in dust, indicating that it hasn’t been used for a long time. I lift the cowling to inspect the engine. It appears intact. I pull the starting rope, and it turns over. Now I’m really interested. I pull the starting rope until I’m out of wind, but it won’t fire. Well, I’m not going to give up yet. I know that old fuel usually makes these small engines hard to start. They must have oil mixed right with the gas if they are to run and I have no oil. I turn the machine on its side, dumping most of the old fuel out of its tank into a pail. Then I go over to the tractor with another can and drain some gas from it.

Next, I mix some of the fresh gas with the old gas/oil mix from the snow toboggan. I put this new mixture into the snow toboggan’s tank, hoping I didn’t dilute the mix too much. On the third try, it fires, and on the fourth pull, it starts. I get more gas from the tractor and mix it down with transmission fluid I find in the shed until I have a full tank.

Now I have transportation, but where do I go? Better warn Bill and Hania, I decide. They live about a quarter of a mile on the other side of town. It consists of about five thousand people and is the main town in this area. I’m looking at about a six-mile ride or a good hour away with this old machine considering some of the terrain I have to go through. I’d stay away from the main roads until I hit town… should be safe there. I am not sure in my mind if I should go to the police.

“There’ll be time for that,” I think.

By this time, I had talked myself into believing that the people trying to kill me would not follow me. They’ll wait for me to show up some place. I’m sure they think I’ll go to the police. Then they’ll try to get me on the way there or they’ll watch the neighbors. I really didn’t know what they would do or what I would do in their case.

I go back into the shack to get my rifle. It is too damned heavy to carry around all the time. I check the box of shells in my pocket, five left. Well, the gun will hold five with one in the breach. I load the gun and walk back out into the early morning light. Snowmobiles! They were close, and I instantly know it is them.

Damn it! Instead of screwing around, I should have been moving. They have followed my trail, I figure as I climb on my machine and take off. They are very close, just on the other side of the bluff. Maybe they will think I am still in the shack. That would hold them up for a minute.

I still have it in my mind to head for town. The first three miles are across open fields broken only by what we call runs. These are natural ditches that were formed by the snow melting and running down these depressions. The land gently slopes toward the river valley. These runs had never been broken, so they were lined with trees, the banks being too steep to farm. They are usually about one hundred yards across, sometimes less, snaking across the terrain for miles. The first field I come to is about one mile across until I hit one of these runs. I figure if I can make it across the field and through the run, they could not see me. They would find my track all right, but would be worried that I might wait for them in the run. They would be cautious, giving me time.

My heart sinks; I am only halfway across the open field when I look back and see them. There are three toboggans gaining fast. My old machine will only do about fifty miles per hour at the best of times. If their machines are new, they could do eighty or better. I am in serious trouble. The trees are getting closer now and so are they; if they catch me here out in the open, I’m a dead man. Anyways, I’m too damn scared to turn and fight now. I just put my head down and keep going.

I see an opening in the trees and head for it thinking, “I’m going to die. July, I’m going to die in the snow. You know how I hate the snow. God, what I’d give to see you one more time.”

I hit the opening in the trees full blast; the bank of the run is almost straight down. I bail off, landing in the snow, rolling. My mouth and face are full of snow; I come up spitting. I pull the rifle off my shoulder just as the first machine hits the edge of the ditch and comes flying in. I just point the rifle in its general direction and fire. A pain goes up my arm as I watch the cowling explode on the machine. There are pieces of metal flying everywhere, and I feel tiny pieces embedding themselves in my face. The machine seems to twist in the air. The rider disappears then the machine lands and starts to roll, rolling right over the driver and continuing to roll until it piles into some trees, hardly recognizable. I lay there stunned; I am sure the man lying in the snow will get up, but he just lays there half buried. There is a pain in my hand,the rifle must have broken my finger.

“Where are the others?” I think. My legs are shaking so badly I hardly have the strength to climb the bank of the run and peer over. The other two machines are sitting back about one hundred yards, facing me. They are apparently waiting to see what happened.

“I know I can get them,” I think, bringing the rifle to my shoulder and not thinking about anything else until I look through the scope. Nothing shows up. Full of snow, I quickly realize trying to clean it. I fumble around for what seems like forever; my finger’s so sore I have trouble using my hand. I am amazed that by the time I line up again, they are still there. Using my middle finger, I pull the trigger. I can’t believe it! Through the scope, I can see nothing happens. I missed! How could I miss? Must have screwed up the scope, I think, not believing that I could just miss.

What’s that? Get down! Roll! A barrage of bullets fly all around me, one of them pings into a tree right beside my head.

“They definitely have rifles now,” I think.

No more gunshots. I hear the machines start to move. I scramble back up the bank to watch the two snowmobiles head for the trees along the run farther up. They weren’t wasting any time, the riders staying low. I can see however that one machine has two riders.

“No use shooting,” I think, “only three bullets left.” More important is what we all do now. Do what they don’t expect you to do. I instantly had a plan.

Don’t even think about it not working, just do it. “They’ll hunt you like an animal,” I think “just like the guys talk about pushing deer.” They’ll split up, each coming down opposite sides of the run waiting for me to make my move. Well, I’m making it now. My old Ski-Doo is still running. It had smashed into some trees; the cowling had popped off, and one ski was bent straight sideways, but it was still running.

I rev up the engine a couple of times, like I’m taking off and then jamb a stick into the throttle, letting it roar at full blast, and then I start running as fast as I can back in the same direction the men on their snow machine’s had gone. I have it in my mind that they’ll position themselves and then start back toward me. If they don’t hear a machine they may even walk, but if they hear my machine take off, they’ll follow me in a hurry, and that’s what I’m hoping. I run as far as I think I dare and then crawl into a thick bunch of willows just at the edge of the run. I don’t wait long; he is on me quicker than I thought.

Another few seconds and I would not have been ready for him. He is coming along the edge of the trees in a hurry, coming right at me, never suspecting that he is only fifteen to twenty feet away when I fire. The windshield disappears, and his helmet seems to explode. He goes flying back almost as if someone kicked him. The machine has so much momentum that it sails by me coming to a stop, purring quietly in the open field. I watch a few seconds but do not see anyone else coming.

“Get on that machine and get the hell out of here,” is all I can think of. I start to move, but my legs buckle underneath me and I go down. I start to vomit.

Got to keep moving. I get the rifle over my shoulder and crawl to the running machine. I just sort of lay on it and take off, fearing I’d be gunned down by the other riders. The wind blowing in my face is terribly cold, helping me to clear my head and settle my stomach. This machine is a beauty: independent suspension, hand warmers, all the bells and whistles.

For the first time I look back, they’re following me all right. I remember there are two of them on that machine.

“I should be able to lose them,” I think as I open my machine up to all it will do. I have to put my gloved hand in front of my face as the air is freezing my skin. I gain for a little bit, but the cold air is forcing me to slow down. The windshield is completely shot away, no way to protect my face. They’re gaining fast with their face masks and snowmobile suits protecting them. I pull my hat down low and pull my coat up as far as I can over my face.

“Head for town,” I think, “I can lose them there; they won’t follow me into town.” I cut across the countryside and then for the last half mile, I follow the highway ditch into town. At this speed, it doesn’t take me long.

The town mainly consists of a long main street with the residential parts surrounding it. The highway turns into Main Street for about two miles through the town and then turns into highway again on the other side. Most of the main street has a divider about five feet wide running down the center. This is banked with snow from cleaning the street.