The Last American Martyr (25 page)

Though the weather was turning, it still wasn’t too cold to jog the logging road. All bundled up in a sweatshirt and the Bean jacket, with the sock hat back on my head, I went late the following morning. More than a little paranoid, my windblown eyes constantly scoured the trees on both sides of the deserted, narrow road. I also watched up ahead and turned around toward the Subaru often. Solace was in it. She never had the stamina to go the three miles with me, so I’d always left her at home. Now I refused to. I also didn’t like her being a mile and a half away by the time I turned to head back. But bringing her along seemed like the safest precautionary option. And everything went smoothly that first day.

The next day I decided to run only three-quarters of a mile beyond the Subaru; then turn around and head back. When I reached the car again, I’d proceed the same distance in the opposite direction. This way, after the first half of the run, if anybody came up the logging road, I’d see them coming and at least not have to worry about Solace. Plus, I’d never be more than three-fourths of a mile away from her. Though I felt awfully foolish for not thinking of this strategy the day before, I blamed it on the findings of another Nobel Prize recipient. After months of jogging this road, always doing it the same way, I’d been conditioned like one of Ivan Pavlov’s dogs. Nevertheless, I was very relieved not to be so far away from my own dog.

Jogging the first leg at a faster clip than usual so I’d get back quicker, I kept looking over my shoulder, making sure everything was okay. Then, when I took the very last look before hitting my new turnaround point, I saw something coming up the road. Raising dust in the distance there was a vehicle—making its way toward the Subaru. Though it was far away, and bright sunlight reflecting from its windshield made it difficult to see, it looked like a truck, and it looked black.

Instantly, I spun around and broke into an all-out run. Already breathing hard from the accelerated pace, I pumped my knees and fists as high and fast as I possibly could. My strides were long and my focus did not leave that vehicle. Soon my lungs were burning. So were the straining muscles in my legs as I pushed on. Feeling for the all but useless bear-mace holstered at my side, wishing it was the Glock, my heart pummeled inside its ribbed cage like the fist of a crazed gorilla. Cold as it was, in the mid-thirties, I felt perspiration rising on my forehead beneath the sock hat. The trees enveloping me on both sides of the road blurred green in my periphery, but my eyes, wrenching as if in pain, bore straight ahead.

Half the way back by now, there was no longer any question. Slowing down behind my car, towering behind it like an ominous black storm cloud, was the same Ford that had stopped in front of my driveway. I couldn’t yet hear Solace’s barks but knew she had to be going absolutely crazy. I was. It didn’t matter if the son-of-a-bitch shot me dead, I was going to do anything I could to protect Solace. I couldn’t make out his features or even tell if he was wearing a hat, but I did see somebody lean out the driver’s side window. Then, a few strides later, there was a shot.

I flinched but kept running—harder now. As if it were rocket fuel, a new dose of adrenaline rushed through my limbs, propelling me even faster. I started weaving—zigging and zagging like an all-star running back. Sure, the bastard might hit me, but I wasn’t going to be a sitting duck.

As I closed in on the truck, close enough now to hear Solace’s desperate barks—maybe a hundred and fifty yards away—I couldn’t believe my terrorized eyes. Not slowing down a bit, my chest totally in flames now, the truck started to move. The driver goosed the gas and the big rig lunged sharply to its left. He was actually making a u-turn. With the size of the pickup and the narrowness of the road it was a five-point-turn instead of a three, but it was a u-turn. And when he completed it, he took off so fast the dirt and stones his four rear tires peeled backwards peppered my Subaru like debris in a Category-5 hurricane. I could just imagine Solace inside, clawing at the glass, going even more psycho than before, as the stones pinged and dinged the back of the car.

Finally, the truck’s tires made better traction, and it hauled back down that road as if it was at Daytona. I slowed to a rapid walk, grabbed my sides, and struggled for every breath. With my heart still thumping harder and faster than it had a right to, I watched the Ford quickly shrink in the distance. Somehow, I quelled the urge to chase it down. Like I said, my pistol was in the glove box. I could have gone after the truck, tried to put an end to all this lunacy one way or another. But I didn’t. Whoever was in that Ford was toying with me. He could have ended me right there and then. I didn’t know if that was his ultimate intention, or he wasn’t quite crazy enough to go that far. There were a lot of blanks to be filled in and questions to be answered. But I did know one thing for sure, there was no doubt in my mind that I hadn’t seen the last of that truck.

When I got home twenty minutes later, I entered the trailer Glock first. Like a detective entering the home of a dangerous felon, I crouched low while peeking in the doorways to all the rooms. After finishing a thorough investigation—under the beds, inside the closets, behind the recliners—I may have felt a little foolish, but this was far from a joking matter. For two years I’d been living like a runaway slave, and now I’d finally had it. Sure, the months in White Pine had been peaceful, but all that time I’d been forced to live like a scared animal in a burrow. Bad as that existence had been, I’d made the best of it. Now, even that was over.

The only two options left were to put the gun to my head or come up with yet another plan. I didn’t know what the right thing to do was. Not having a clue, I rushed into the bedroom, picked up Elaina’s urn from the dresser, lay down in bed with it, and only hoped she could give me guidance.

After a long, long time in that bedroom, I’d finally devised a plan. I didn’t know if there was enough time to enact it, but it was my only chance. After working out the very last detail, I kissed the urn and placed it back on the dresser. Then there was a knock at the front door.

I picked up the pistol, tried unsuccessfully to quiet Solace down, then made my way to the living room and peeked out the window. It was Jake Snow.

“Whew,” I said, “hello Jake. Come on in.”

“Holy God, what’s going on, Tom?” he asked, after he slid in the doorway and saw my face and the gun in my hand. “What’s wrong? You look terrible, like you’ve seen a closet full of ghosts.”

Extending my hand toward the chairs, I asked him to have a seat.

We both sat down, and after I rubbed my forehead a few times, I told him, “Things are not good, Jake.” Then I filled him in on everything, beginning with the truck stopping outside the driveway. By the time I finished, the concern on Jake’s face had deepened and he said, “Damn it, Tom, I hate like hell to have to tell you this, but I have some more bad news. Take a look at this. It’s the only mail I’ve got for you today.”

He then handed me a post card; a plain white post card. Atop of my address on the front, scrawled in red ink, it read, Mr. Thomas Soles c/o Darius McClure.

Immediately, a mortifying sense of doom dropped over me like an immovable steel net. The realization that I had been found again, and all the consequences that would surely follow, were undeniable now.

“Son of a bitch,” I said, sitting there, staring at the card. Then I turned it over. In all caps it said, LEAVE OR DIE!

This wasn’t a request. It was yet another demand. My life was all but over. In a skipped heartbeat, the few scraps of hope I’d had left evacuated my soul. At that moment, I knew I’d never again experience the peace of mind a sense of normalcy allows. For as long as I might go on, no matter where I flee to, if I was to live at all, it would always be minute to minute. Although I’d been forced to make many painful concessions, I’d at least been fortunate enough to flirt with contentment while in White Pine. Even that had been a tremendous relief after what I’d lived through. Now even that was gone.

I laid the postcard on the table between Jake and me and just looked at him. There wasn’t a lot either of us could say as the thrust of devastation and helplessness sank deeper inside us both.

After a moment or two of disturbed silence, Jake drew a long breath. As he let it out his eyes rose slowly. I don’t know if he was looking at the pines and blue sky outside the window or the Times article hanging alongside it, but he said, “What the fuck is wrong with people, Tom? All you ever did was tried to help. You shed some light on all the unfairness out there—let people know just how royal a screwing they’re getting—and what happens? You get
death
threats!”

“Unfortunately, Jake, there are people in this world who love their misbegotten wealth far more than anything else. Right or wrong doesn’t matter to them. If they feel their fortunes are being threatened in any way, more than a few of them would kill to protect their stashes. Do you think my life means a damn thing to people like that?”  

“It certainly doesn’t seem it does to the son of a bitch who sent you that card. Christ, Tom…what’re you going to do?”

“Listen closely,” I said, “Before we get into all that, I need to tell you a few things…things that are very important to me.”

“Sure, go ahead. I’m all ears,” he said. But the tone of his voice told me he was having trouble dismissing his anger.

“Please, forget about all that for now. Let it go for just a few minutes, Jake.”

“Alright, alright. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“I’d like to give you a key to the place, in case something happens to me. If it does, I’d like for you to send my manuscript to Denise Solchow, my publisher in New York. Would you do that for me, Jake?”

“Hell, I don’t want to hear this stuff. But yeah, of course I will.”

“Okay,” I said, tapping a cigarette out of the pack on the table, just fumbling with it as I went on. “The hardcopy you’ve read will be on the top shelf in the bedroom closet. As you know, it’s not quite finished yet. The laptop over there,” I said, pointing to where it sat on the sofa to our right, “that one’s up to date. As a matter of fact, I’m writing in the present now. All of it has been in retrospect, but now it’s up to date. What will go into it next is as much a mystery to me as it will be to whoever might read it.”

With resent and resignation hanging from all his words now, Jake rushed them out as if they were soil on his tongue, “Yeah, okay Tom. Where’s her address, your publisher?”

“They’re in the closet, too; on top of the manuscript. If the one in the computer isn’t complete, send them both to her anyway. Okay?”

“No problem,” he said.

I then lit the cigarette, drew on it, and went on. “Alright then, there are two more things. One I have to ask you and the other I have to tell you. First, if something does happen, will you take care of Solace for me?”

Without hesitation he started to say, “Sure, I…” But I held up my hand and interrupted him.

“I know she’s a difficult animal. She has her issues. If you don’t think you could handle her with the kids and all at home, just try to find her a good home. That in itself wouldn’t be easy, but please try. You know her now. You know that beneath all that aggression and…”

Now it was Jake’s turn to interrupt, “Forget it, Tom. Don’t give it a thought. Solace would stay with us. That’s something you never have to worry about. Now, what did you want to tell me? I’d rather get on to something else, like what you’re planning to do next.”

Relieved that that was resolved, I stubbed out my cigarette in the glass ashtray, swished it around a few times, and looked back at my friend. “Jake,” I said, “I know you’re not going to like this, but just hear me out, alright?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve put in my will, which, by the way, is in a metal box next to the manuscript, that if I should pass on, the trailer and property will be yours.”

“No, no, no!” he said, straightening up in his chair, looking at me as if I’d done something totally irrational. “I could never accept…”

“Yes you could, Jake. I have no heirs in waiting. There are no kids, no … no wife, there’s nobody.”

“You could leave it to a charity.”

“I’ve done a lot for charities already. If the memoir ever takes off, all the royalties would go to charities also. It’s tough out there, Jake. There would be nothing wrong with you and your family receiving a small windfall. You could do whatever you want with the place, sell it, rent it, that’s up to you. My concern is that you have a little something behind you because, and mark my words, as bad as things are they’re probably going to get worse.”

Hunching over on the edge of his recliner now, elbows to his knees but still looking straight at me, he said in a resigned tone, “That’s damn nice of you, Tom. Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much. But let’s not talk about this anymore, alright? Can we move on to your plans now?”

And that is what we did. We talked about my next move, which was to just sit and wait. I’d decided not to run anymore. Cold as it was getting, there would be no more jogging for me. I’d go on like I had been. I’d dig in for the winter and only leave the trailer for my monthly supply runs. Whatever would happen would happen. I’d keep the Glock close by and not think twice about using it if I had to. And it looked like I would, because just before Jake left, we checked the Soleswatch tracker page. A new update showed I was in White Pine, Maine, driving around in a maroon Subaru. It had been posted only an hour earlier.

That night, lying in bed with all my fears and dead hopes, I called Julie Dubois. I did not beat around the bush. Like I had with Jake, I told her everything that had happened. I told Julie we could never be together again, and that the time had come for her to look for somebody else. She argued and argued, but I wouldn’t relent. My life story may be destined to a cruel, premature end, but there was no way in hell I was going to let it happen to hers. Lying there in the darkness, I eviscerated both our hearts with that cell phone. But it could be no other way. I had to be firm. I was not going to endanger her life, or tie it up any more. But Julie was Julie. Sweet as she is, she could be every bit as firm as the age-old mountains alongside her cabin. Her last words were the very same ones she used when I left her in Montana that day. Again she insisted, “I’ll be here, Tom… for as long as it takes.”