Pedestals of Ash (10 page)

He had been walking along the interstate for about
12
miles and could easily determine his exact location by coordinating the mile markers and his map.
The motorcycle was soon follow
ed by a family sedan
,
parked on
the shoulder of the roadway. Bishop approached cautiously, but there was no one around.
The four-
door family car
had Arizona plates and a shattered
driver’s side window. A large stone, no doubt picked up from the nearby desert
floor
, had been used to break into the vehicle. Bishop paused to take a pull of water and wondered about the occupants of the car. He couldn’t help his thoughts as they drifted toward melancholy scenarios. Had these people been on vacation? Traveling to see a new grandson? A college student on the
ir
way home?

He walked around the back of the car and noticed the truck lid was unhinged and pulled it open. Inside there was a box containing a quart of motor oil, a tire repair kit
,
and an air pressure gauge. He smirked at his sexist attitude after his mind declared the car owner to be a male. He continued around to the passenger side and opened the door. The glove compartment had been searched, but Bishop found the insurance papers on the floorboard. The car was owned by a Mr. Harland W. Jones of Phoenix
,
Arizona. The discovery caused him to smile at his detective skills. He returned the paper to its original location and gently shut the door.

So, Mr. Jones, you probably stopped outside El Paso to get gas, but there wasn’t any or perhaps the line was too long. You decided you had enough in the tank to make it to the next exit and continued on your way. Maybe that decision was repeated once too often
,
and you ran dry.

Bishop tried to envision the dilemma experienced by a stranded Mr. Jones. He looked both directions and
decided the man
would have chosen to start walking east.
Maybe some nice person stopped and gave him a ride. Perhaps his bones litter the highway a few miles from here. There is no way to know, so stop thinking about it
,
and concentrate on getting to Fort Bliss and delivering these letters.

As he progressed westward, the number of abandoned cars and trucks gradually increased. Again, this made sense to him because he was getting closer to El Paso and its large population. After clearing a small rise, Bishop paused and studie
d the roadway ahead. The topography
was becoming hilly
,
and his visibility was limited to the next valley. Below him, there were dozens of vehicles in both lanes
,
and he could tell
that
at least one of them had burned. He estimated he was now about 65 miles east of El Paso and would soon be approaching a series of small towns along the interstate. It was time to leave the comfortable path provided by the manmade road and branch off to the north.

Bishop moved about a quarter mile off the interstate and found what appeared to be a relatively flat route. The map indicated that I-10 also followed this general direction
,
and if he encountered terrain he couldn’t climb safely at night, he could always backtrack and take his chances on the freeway pavement.

Thirty minutes after leaving the roadway, Bishop looked through the night vision and studied th
e increasingly problematic topography
. The jagged r
ocks and thick parcels of spiny
bushes some
how looked less menacing in the
green and black world of the monocle. It was an illusion of tranquility. Turning an ank
le here would be easy. The thorn
and cactus wer
e nature’s own barbed wire and c
ould shred skin and clothing like razor blades. This was a harsh environment
,
and everything that lived here defended itself well. There were clear pa
thways that would have been easily maneuverable
in the daylight
,
but the moon had set an hour ago
,
and the darkness was showing off. Traveling at night might help avoid
some
problems, but pro
gress through this area was sluggish
. He plotted out 20 steps
,
lowered the rifle and began walking, keeping a small map of surrounding rocks
in his head. He was about half
way through the segment when he heard the noise of an internal combustion engine. Immediately he squatted down and scanned his surroundings, but didn’t see anything unusual. Where there was an engine, there were people. The sound was barely audible and quickly drifted away on cool
,
desert air.

As he continued on his route, the noise
faded in and out
several times, gradually becoming more consistent. After a
bout a
quarter
mile, he realized
the
sound’s
source was directly in front of him. His progress around another small rise revealed a glowing sky just beyond the next line of hills. There were electric lights ahead
, and judging from the illumination
of the sky, there were a lot of them. Someone was running generators to power those lights.

Bishop nimbly crossed the
small
ribbon of valley floor
in front of him
, before carefully working
his way up a hill toward th
e light. He had no idea what lay
on the other side, so he took his time, stalking from boulder
to outcropping to cactus bed. When
he neared the top, his progress became a slow crawl
,
as he didn’t want to silhouette himself cresting the hill. Keeping his back bent low, he began
to step forward when he fel
t a tug on his ankle, quickly followed by a brilliant crimson light engulfing
the area. Diving prone, adrenalin flooded his system
,
and his head snapped back and forth trying to figure out what just happened. It took a few seconds to realize he had just engaged a tripwire that was connected to some sort of flare. The entire area was i
lluminated by a pulsing redness,
and he could hear the spitting fizzle of phosphorous burning close by. Someone had set up an early warning device on this ridgeline
,
and that
same
someone was probably wondering who or what had just set it off.

Bishop remained motionless and unsure of what to do for a few minutes. His mind was moving a thousand miles an hour
,
trying to figur
e out his next move. Whoever was in charge of
the electric lights just over the ridge in front of him wa
nted to know if someone were approaching that position
. The device looked to be a common roadside flare like the police used to warn traffic around an accident. Rigging such a flare to a tripwire would have required some skill. The position of the wire further indicated someone who knew what they were doing.
Was there a sniper s
canning the area for
trespasser
s
? Was a bullet going to slam into his body any second now? Was a team on the way to search the area, or was everyone’s attention simply drawn to the flare?

The sound of voices floating over the hill answered his questions – a team was on the way. The random beams of flashlights cresting the hill soon validated that fact. Bishop slowly backed away from the crest and retreated back down his original path. He made it to the bottom of the hill and turned to his right, scanning through the night vision looking for some
place to hide. The light from the flickering flare wasn’t as pronounced this far down the hill
, and
he needed the night vision to find a narrow gap between two formations of rock. Bishop squeezed his body between the rough stone surfaces, drew his pistol
,
and waited. If they found him here, there wasn’t room to use the rifle.

He had managed three or four deep breaths before the voices became clear. There were at least three men chec
king on the tripped booby
trap – maybe more. Bishop was perplexed by the casual approach to the area as the men were using flashlights and talking at normal volumes. Those actions didn’t match the professionalism and field craft used to set the wire.

The
words, “I
t was probably just anoth
er fucking deer,” followed by, “W
ho knew we had the clumsiest rabbits in
w
est Texas
around here?” solved the puzzle.
Bishop exhaled and re
laxed. The men had evidently investigated
so many false alarms they no longer took the flares seriously. His reprieve was short lived howe
ver as one of the voices announced in a serious tone,
“Hey! Is that a boot print over here?”

Footpr
ints? Oh shit, did I leave foot
prints?
Bishop held his breath and waited to hear the answer from above, but everything had gotten very quiet. That wasn’t good news at all. The reaction team had gone silent, which meant they thought someone was within earshot.
Not good – not good at all.
 

The sound of crunching soil nearby told Bishop the area was now being searched and without flashlights. Bishop’s thumb was on the pistol’s safety, his figure holding off the trigger. Without thinking, he tried to squeeze a little further back into the rocks.

After
10
minutes, a whispered voice broke the silence. The men were surprisingly close by. “I ain’t no fucking Indian tracker, but that sure as shit looked like an indentation from a boot up there. What do you think?”

The response almost made Bishop laugh out loud. In a very good impression of John Wayne, someone responded, “Well
,
pilgrim, I reckon we needed to check it out. Ya never know when them redskins might be get’n ready ta bushwhack us.”

A third, more authoritative voice found no humor in the situation at all. “Would you two ass-clowns shut
your pusses
and finish the damn sweep?”

“There ain’t nothing out here
, S
arge. I haven’t seen any other sign – it was probably another deer. Besides, I just cut the hell out of myself on one of those damn thorn bushes. Let’s reset the wire and head back. My shift is about up
,
and I’m beat.”

Evidently
,
the men turned around because the voices became muffled
,
and Bishop couldn’t make out any more of the conversation. He remained hidden in the crevic
e for what seemed like hours, finally exiting
his hiding spot when his leg started cramping. Bishop slowly moved across the valley floor until he found a good place to hole up for the day. An ancient stream had eroded a glass smooth indentation a few feet into the side of a shallow canyon. The overhang would keep the sun off of him and provide good cover. He pulled some dead bundles of scrub and blocked the view of anyone casually patrolling the area. It was a huge relief to get out of his gear and boots. He sat up the solar battery charger and switched to fresh night vision cells. After a quick field cleaning of his rifle and pistol, Bishop scarfed down a cold meal, took a long drink
,
and made a pillow out of his pack. He took his survival net and folded it into the shape of a bed. It wasn’t very thick, but it provided some cushion. The cool sensation of the rocks underneath him was a welcome relief after hours of sweating in a cocoon of body armor and chest rig.

He entered REM before the sun broke over the mountains to the east.

Pete woke
before first light,
as usual. Th
e modest
apartment
,
located in the back of the bar
,
had been
one of the building’s biggest selling points
when he first arrived in Mera
t
on a few years back
. Recently divorced, he
didn’t want or need a lot of living space to
keep clean
and relished the thought of a simpler life
.
The only belongings he had brought with him from back east had fit in th
e back seat and trunk of his Nissan Altima
.

Pete shifted his legs over the edge of the single bed and stretched his arms high over his head. As was his habit, he congratulated himself on making it thr
ough another day. He
rubbed the
sleep from his eyes
,
while
his mind was already
running through a mental
checklist of the day’s priorities
. There was a fresh batch of rye aging in the still
,
and soon he’d need to
barter
with old man Johnson
for another load of fir
ewood
. While the bar’s glasses had been washed and neatly stacked after closing last night, his personal dishes still needed attention. He wondered if Betty had finished his laundry and smiled at how she didn’t want anyone knowing she enjoyed a little nip now and then.
Being a bartender is a lot like being a priest,
he thought,
sometimes people confide their deepest secrets
,
and you can’t violate the trust.
Betty
did Pete’s laundry e
very week in exchange
for a covert canteen
of his bathtub gin.

His eyes still closed, Pete
reached his hand over the nightstand, locating
the part
ially used book of matches resti
ng there.
A luxury for
most
folks now
, he purchased two cartons of them in celebration of the grand opening of his new establishment. Each brightly colored b
ox displayed the words “Pete’s Place
,” inscribed in a
fancy
scri
pt generally associated with
old West
saloons
and
matched
his street front signage
.
He still had several boxes left, a
nd they were no longer
used as
giveaway
s
to loyal
customers. The little packages
of cardboard, phosphorus and gelatin
were simply too valuable now.
He carefully scratched one
stick
across the emery board on the back of the cover and ignited the small flame. A few moments later
,
a
votive
candle restin
g on a saucer illuminated
the dark bedroom.

After pulling on a pair of well-worn jean
s, Pet
e padded barefoot into the tiny
bathroom, carrying the candle with his hand cup
ped
in front of the flame. He brushed his teeth using a bucket of water brought in fresh the night before. A couple of handfuls of the cool liquid quickly smoothed what
remained of his hair. Pete headed
to t
he kitchen and readied
his wood-
burning stove
for making breakfast
. There were two
five-gallon
buckets nearby, one containing dry kindling and the other cured splits of pine. The stove had
originally been a metal box constructed
to store mail while it was being transported across
the
country. Evidently
,
Pete’s Place had once housed the Meraton Post Office, because he had found three of the old containers when he bought the
building.
Roberto
,
down at the gas station
,
cut and welded the heavy
,
steel box, converting it to a perfect kitchen sized heat source. That little job had
cost him six beers, and he
never regretted the
investment.

Pete grabbed a bit
of kindling and tore off a small scrap of paper
,
which he ignited in the candle’s flame. In a few minutes, a small smoldering fire provided a warm glow in the kitchen. Pete opened the makeshift chimney and watched as the smoke was drawn outside. He felt a sense of pride at having accomplished his morning routine while using only one match. He thought it
probably
would be a while before any salesman visited Meraton and tried to sell him more.

Coffee was the next order of the day. While that first cup of hot brew was one thing he looked forward to the most, lately it had been a little depressing as well. His supp
ly of coffee was running low. His storeroom normally held
about
twenty pounds
back-
stocked for the bar and fortunately just
recei
ved
a shipment on his last regular order
. There hadn’t been any
more deliveries
, and he was down to the last
,
precious canister
. That was a problem he would have to solve later
,
after his brain was functioning a
t
full speed.

He grabbed a small iron skillet
in one hand while he dipped a
finger into a cup of baco
n grease sitting on the back of the stov
e. A year ago, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near t
he cholesterol-lad
en stuff. Now, cooking seemed to depend on lard, and he happily smeared the surface of the pan with the slippery substance. A brown chicken egg quickly followed the grease in
to the pan, and was soon popping and
sizzling above
the open flame
. Pete rubbed his eyes again
, adjusting
the coffee water and frying pan so each got its fair share of heat. He liked his egg
with
his coffee.

He sat down at the small dinette and waited on his breakfast to cook. Glancing over at the sink, he was reminded of the forgotten supper dishes, and stood up quickly to wash and dry the few items there. Glancing at the now
steaming coffee water, Pete strode
out back and refilled the kitchen bucket from a
five-gallon
cooler resting on the back porch. He paused when a hoot owl sounded off to the north. He waited a bit to see if it had attracted a mate’s return call, but heard no response.
Don’t sweat it none
,
pal
, he thought,
I’m in the same boat
,
and we’re both probably better off
.

Returning to his egg, Pete flipped it over and waited a few moments until it was perfectly golden on the edges and still soft in the mid
dle. Wrapped in a kitchen towel
and sitting on the counter was a small loaf of bread
,
recently baked by one of the local women. Her husband had a taste for moonshine
,
and Pete liked her bread. The barter had been one of the easy ones. Pete sliced off a hunk of the crumbly loaf and poured his coffee into a well-used porcelain cup. He returned to the dinette and
tasted the first mouthful of his
hot, fresh meal. The hoot owl had reminded him of his ex-wife and despite how the woman had treated him, he couldn’t help but wonder for a moment how she
had managed after the collapse. His attention shifted as h
e lifted his coffee cup and glanced at the faded emblem on the side. The golden badge of a Police Detective, City of
Philadelphia adorned the old mug
. Pete remembered the celebration when his promotion had been posted. The coffee cup was one of many gifts of congratulation that had followed the event. As far as he knew, this
memento
was the only reminder
he had left from that happy day. The real shindig had been when he was promoted to a district captain. Pete smiled at the memory while thinking
,
“
N
ow that was a serious party.
” 

It was all behind him now. The marriage, career, retirement to the Jersey shore
,
and fishing with the pensioned cops who flocked to the area in droves – it had all vanished into thin air. Pete looked down at his egg and sliced off another bite.
Now
,
Pete
, he thought,
you’re probably better off than any of those people back in Philly – you have eggs and bread.

Leaning back in his chair, he thought about those last few months on the force for the thousandth time. He had been a rising star, ma
king captain by
age
32
. In five short years, rumors started spreading that his name was under
consideration for commissioner
. Pete hadn’t believed the rumors at the time, but one of his rivals had. Pete had always been an honest cop. He had never taken a bribe or performed a favor for anyone. There had been times where he had c
ircumvented the system or manipulated
a few rules in order to achieve ju
stice – but never to benefit
his family
or himself
.

One morning while driving into the station, he noticed a black car pull out and begin following him. The Philly police were really putting the pressure on several drug gangs operating in the city at that time, and Pete stayed more vigilant than normal during those operations. The same black automobile reappeared on his trip home, again following a few car-lengths behind him. Calling the station for backup, Pete drove around for a little bit until he spotted the two patrol cars
approaching the sus
picious sedan
from behind
. Pete stopped right in the middle of the road and got out of his ca
r with weapon drawn. To Pete’s surprise,
the sedan contained two Justice D
epartment investigators. Pete’s name had been mentioned in the wrong circl
e
s by the wrong people, and the f
eds
had placed him under surveillance.

Pete took another sip of
coffee;
his gaz
e lost in the space of the diminutive
kitchen’s yellow
ed
walls. Two days later
,
he was arrested on federal corruption charges, and his life unraveled almost immediately.

When the headlines
hit the newsstands the next day, he had already been released and warned by the federal judge not to leave town. Over the next few months, Pete was susp
ended without pay, his wife moved back home with her parents,
and every single one of h
is friends seemed to abandon him
. 

It took almost a year to clear his name
,
and during that time things looked pretty dicey more
than once. For twelve and a half awful
months, men he had served with si
nce the academy avoided
him. Phone calls and emails weren’t answered or returned. The favorite watering hole, frequented by dozens of cops from his district, was suddenly empty, a replacement having been chosen without his knowledge.

When he did
run into a co-worker, the response was frequently
polite to his face but vague in commitment. “Let’s get together and have lunch Monday,” was often answered with, “I’d love to have lunch sometime Pete, but can’t Monday. I’ll get back to you once my schedule clears up.” They never got back.

The worst of it all was his wife of twenty plus years. Despite his repeated assurances that he was completely innocent, she couldn’t handle the social poison created by the incident. Halfway through the ordeal
,
she left him withering in the storm by himself. Their divorce was finalized three months later.

Pete
absent-mindedly swallowed
another fork’s worth of egg. Despite all of this happening over three years ago, he couldn’t help but relive the past now and then. There was so
me good news – it had been four
days since he had thought about it last. The gaps between these little, bumpy trips down memory lane were growing longer over time, and he concluded that meant he
was healing or whatever the
politically correct
psycho
-
babble was for the healing of his spirit.