The District Manager (14 page)

The darkness near the front of the Old Adobe beckons me as I stand surveying the line of crates against the wall. I’ve still got the flashlight in my left hand and my right index finger on the trigger.
I really think if I had to I could shoot whatever sick motherfuckers are doing this to these poor dogs.

I’m sweating profusely and am having a hard time seeing. I should have brought a hat or headband. The back portion of the open yard, where I entered, is closed off by a short wooden slatted fence, about chest high. The gateway is wide open. I now enter a foyer-like area that ends with a series of covered tunnels. One goes left, the other right. Both are black as ancient pitch. Both smell of musky mold.

I remove the gun from its holster. I cock the trigger.

Arriving at a door to my right, I check the knob to see if it turns. It doesn’t.

I continue down the stone-cobbled corridor. I come to another door, again to my right. Out from under it, a dim light glows, barely detectable;
like from a computer monitor?
The knob gives under the gentle torque of my wrist. I wipe the river of sweat from my face with my sleeve. I push the door open and drop, gun drawn, hitting a knee. And, there, just as I expect: a computer screen.

This small compartment, no bigger than a shed, looks to be an office of some sort. I step in so I can see what’s on the monitor. I wiggle the mouse.
What’s this, shots from surveillance cameras…?

My amateurism strikes me like a stray bullet.

But wait…

What sounds like the squeal of a plastic toy faintly at first, grows louder with each stilted second…into…the sound of rustling dogs!

Holy fuck!

The hallway I’m presently down, dead ends. I’ve only one way to go, back from whence I came:
The direction of the squealing, rustling dogs?

I take off running. I break out of the enclosed passage area. The sound of canines is only getting louder. I sprint towards the back gate where I entered, searching for anything that might be moving. I see nothing! I return the firearm to my belt so I can open the gate…but it’s locked! Again,
Holy fuck!
I turn around and spot a small pack of squatty dogs charge out of the darkened foyer! I’m rattling the gate…
why isn’t it opening!

With a loud armor-like thud, a large ladder drops to the ground from over the fence.

“Here ya go, kid! Git yer ass outta there—NOW!” a heavy Southern accent bellows from the other side. The dogs are no more than ten feet away as I clamor up the endless series of rungs, the length of which far exceeds the height of the fence I must breach.

“Jump!” a shadowy figure shouts as I stand in panic at the top. Below, it sounds like a chorus of chainsaws barking into wood!

I jump.

“No time for pleasantries. Move it!” the stranger screams. “Follow me—and git that goddamned flashlight outta my face!”

This previously shadowed figure now looks vaguely familiar. It’s the ghost of Bear Bryant.

A brittle crack just overhead breaks the seal of the black night air.
Are they shooting at us?

I have no idea who this man is or where he is leading me.

Racing into the void that is the woods, he stops and turns back towards the Old Adobe, which is now stirring with life.

“Turn that goddamn flashlight off!” Bear yells as he bobs his fedora-topped head like a scribble, trying to see around the wild foliage that surrounds us.

“It’s pitch black out here, man. How do we see where we’re going?” I ask, panting.

He pulls a pair of goggles out of what looks to be a binocular pouch. “Just grab onto my belt loop and try not to trip me,” he orders. “We got night vision, kid. We got to move it!”

“Who are you? How do I know you’re not with them?” I ask.

“Well, I ain’t with them. Way I see it, you got little choice, don’t think you want to stick around here and be dog food. I’m a friend. Now, let’s move.”

Bear removes his checkered hat and thrusts it at me. “Hold this,” he demands. He pulls the goggles over his eyes and fastens it at the back, then grabs the hat from my dirty hands. “Now, get ahold of ma’ belt loop.”

Running like this is not easy, and I’m not sure it’s entirely necessary as I can make out what’s in front of me for a few feet. But I’ve no time to experiment. This guy is the boss. It’s a bumpy ride and keeping my equilibrium is difficult. I’m tripping every other step, trying not to trip him. I just hope the bad guys with dogs don’t have night vision as well.

Are we on some sort of trail?
I feel brush against my pant leg. And snakes…At least the rustling of voices and the barking of dogs are becoming more distant.

Apparently Bear knows where he’s going, because he signals with his arms ‘left or right’ with each curt maneuver. I can barely see it, but for a waving smudge. For an old man, this guy is in shape. As for me, my side is splitting. I’m having trouble breathing. I can barely see through the puddles of sweat in my eyes. I don’t dare try to clear them for fear of eating shit.

I haven’t heard any more gunshots.

“Okay, kid, we’re gonna stop.” His statement is barely audible.

We stop. We’re both keeled over and breathing hard. After a short spell, Bear lifts up and takes off the goggles. I’m still cringing from exhaustion.

“Jesus, kid, you’re really out of shape,” he comments.

I rise. “My name’s Mason Dixon, not kid,” I retort. “And who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Russell Sturnhauser. Pleased to finally meet you, Mason Dixon.” He extends his hand. We shake.

“I recognize your name, Mr. Sturnhauser.”

“I bet you do, and call me Rusty.”

“Where are we, Rusty?”

“Not far from my brother-in-law’s house, near my car, and keep it down. We ain’t outta harm’s way yet.”

“You mean Jules Reynolds?”

“That’s right.”

“I guess you know he’s disappeared?”

“Yeah, I know. Look, we got to take this conversation elsewhere.”

I follow him back to his car where it’s hidden under a profusion of growth. I’m not sure, but it seems to be in the proximity of where I stashed my car the last time I visited the rodeo arena—the day I discovered that piece of Jules’ cap.

“Sweet ride,” I remark as we’re getting in.

“Thanks, she’s a classic: Gold Pontiac Firebird, same one used on the
Rockford Files.
You’re probably too young to remember that show, I would guess.”

“Rockford Files.
Hell yeah, I’ve seen that show—James Garner.”

“I’m impressed, I thought people your age only liked to watch shit like that
Big Bang Theory,
or whatever it’s called, the one with all those wimpy nerds,” he comments as he fires the engine.

“I dig the old school shows, too.”

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, only a crazy son-of-bitch with nuts as big as medicine balls would pull that stunt you just pulled tonight. Look, we gotta git!”

Rusty puts the Pontiac in reverse and hits the gas. The tires spin a little, and for an instant, it appears we’re stuck in the mud.

“Goddamn it, I didn’t expect to come back to an ongoing Noah’s flood. When I left Texas last, ya’ll was in a drought!”

After spinning furiously, the tires break free. Rusty throws it in drive and guns it. We tailspin back and forth a few times before she straightens. I’m not timing him, but he probably gets up to eighty in just a few seconds. The engine rumbles like a rocket.

The trail we’re on looks familiar, it’s the road I used when I last visited the rodeo arena.
Seems Rusty and I think alike.

Once on Bowers Highway, I’m hit with a revelation, “Shit, my fucking car! I can’t believe I forgot about my fucking car!”

“I didn’t. I know a back way to get where you parked ‘er.”

“How do you know where she’s parked?”

“Kid…”

“Mason.”

“Mason, I’ve been shadowing your every move pretty much all month. And goddamn, as if I hadn’t ruined my baby enough parking back in those woods. Now I’ve got to do it again.”

“Why would you bring such a badass ride to a gunfight like this?”

“The plates: if anyone runs ‘em it will bring up a corporation in my daughter’s married name. I’ve got a side business back in Alabama—a hobby really. I buy and restore classic cars. Mainly seventies muscle cars. It’s a passion of mine. This here Pontiac was the only one in the garage that I thought could handle the full trip. She’s completely brand new under the hood.”

“Sounds unreal,” I remark.

“Purrs like a cat, a big fucking cat,” Rusty adds, pressing the gas.

We turn off down one of many unmarked trails. Rusty makes a few sporadic turns and before I know it, my car appears. He kills the engine and the headlights.

“Alright, get in—and follow me. Do not go back the way you came in.”

“You think it’s safe?” I ask, getting cold feet.

“I don’t know. But we can’t leave your car here. I’m just hoping they haven’t already found it and run your plates. You got a gun, so use it if you have to. These people you’re messing with…I don’t think you understand how brutal they are. What they might lack in smarts they make up for with sheer unadulterated savage will.”

“Who are…?”

“Go, kid. Now! We can talk about this once we’re outta here for real!”

“It’s Mason.”

I lurch out of the Firebird and take off in a sprint towards the Expedition. I follow Rusty out of the thicket without incident.

Rusty hits his turn signal and veers into a gas station when we get back near the main interstate, where the burbs start cropping up.

He’s pumping gas when I appear from the store with a bag of chips. Why are people looking at me strangely?

“Nice make-up job,” he says as I approach the pumps.

Shit, I forgot I’ve got camo makeup smeared all over my face. I pull some paper towels out of the squeegee station and start scraping it off.

“You need to keep one thing in mind above all else, kid,” Rusty addresses me as I finish wiping.

“Mason.”

“Mason, you need to keep one thing in mind above all else.”

“What’s that?” I ask, popping open the bag of chips.

“Always assume someone is following you.”

“Why, because of tonight?”

“Of course, because of tonight, but in general, even before tonight.”

“I discovered a surveillance room in the adobe. Do you think they could recognize me?”

“Not unless you walk around looking like a goddamned zombie all the time.”

“Why should I be worried about before tonight?”

“What do you say we go get some dinner and a few drinks somewhere? You game? We can talk there—where ever there is.”

“What time is it?”

“Shit, you’re right. It’s damn near eleven. Any bars around here?”

“Yeah, I know a few places.”

“Has anyone told you, you look like Bear Bryant?” I ask Rusty after we order our drinks. We’re sitting at a table in the back of a patron derelict, local sport’s bar. Neon nonsense throbs around us. A jukebox plays bad modern country music.

“What do you think?” he asks sarcastically.

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s like these Texan’s that travel outside the state. They don’t get duded up until they’re across the state line or ‘cross the big water.’”

“Hell, I’m impressed—and you’re right. I only dress up like the ‘Bear’ when I leave Alabama. The man’s a personal hero of mine.”

“So why did you leave Alabama?” I inquire after the waitress delivers our drinks.

“I had to get Ella, Jules’ wife, to the hospital. She called my wife—her sister—and explained what had happened and I knew I had to get out here, no matter the danger.”

“The danger that got Jules—if that’s what happened to him.”

“Kid…

I raise an eyebrow.

“I mean Mason,” he corrects himself with a stained tooth, wrinkled grin, “there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. But yes, partly because of what happened to Jules. And let me say, I think he’s probably dead.”