The Legend of Safehaven (5 page)

God! This kid hardly has more than peach fuzz on his face!

“Douglass, every state cop, no matter where he or she is assigned…”

Castle mentally sighed at the thought that females actually were state troopers now—but some of them were damned good ones!

“Every cop should be acquainted with the neighborhood he—or she—patrols and the people in it. Sometimes the routine calls can be the most dangerous.”

Just as he spoke, he spotted Caddler’s old pickup truck parked by the road near the entrance to the lane up to the top of the mountain.

“Shoulda known,” Castle muttered.

Just then the radio squawked out, “Sixteen-oh-eight, sixteen-oh-eight.”

Ben grabbed the microphone.

“Central, sixteen-oh-eight. Go ahead.”

“We have a ten-fifty-seven, vicinity of Mountain Vista Lane. See Mrs. Edison.”

“Central, sixteen-oh-eight, approaching scene,” Ben replied and gunned the big Ford’s motor as they shot up the driveway.

“What’s the story, Sarge?”

Douglass was fully alert now—nervous even.

Castle kept his eyes on the winding road, as they approached the summit.

“Here’s a classic example, Lachlan.”

The younger man relaxed at his superior’s use of his first name.

“See, down at the bottom of the road I spotted Lem Caddler’s truck. He’s a born troublemaker and a drunk to boot. Gets mean when he’s had a few. Now, some pretty good people live up here, three retired folks, a doctor and an electronics guru and his wife who’s big on Red Cross work. Got three adopted children, too.”

“So, Private Lachlan Douglass, you understand now why Caddler’s truck at the bottom of their driveway spells trouble? Add to that the gunshots report and we’re maybe walking into a real problem!”

The younger man nodded sheepishly, as they slid to a stop in front of the house. Nancy ran out to meet them.

Galen’s face was flushed with anger. He stood over the man he had flattened, who still lay spread-eagled on the ground.

“This is protected property, Caddler,” Edison said. “No hunting allowed. It never will be on this mountain!”

“Remember that the next time you get drunk,” Galen added. “This is a safe haven for animals.”

Before the man could mutter a response, Nancy appeared in the clearing leading the two state troopers. They promptly stood Caddler upright, searched and handcuffed him, read him his rights, and led him back to the car.

The three children remained silent, stunned by the suddenness and violence of the event.When the troopers and their prisoner disappeared from sight, Zeus poked his head out of the den and crept toward the three adults, followed by Mercury and Athena. The canines faced the humans. Zeus stepped up to Galen and licked his hand. Mercury followed suit with Edison. Athena, wild by birth, hesitated at first then approached Nancy and rested her head against the woman.

Then the young dog-wolves ventured out and, seeing their elders with the adults, ran toward the children, who took turns stroking their heads and muzzles.

“I think that’s enough excitement for one day,” Galen quipped, and Edison and Nancy let out sighs of relief in agreement.

Freddie was rolling on the ground, rough-housing with one of the pups, when he sat up suddenly and yelled, “Yeah, I guess it’s old man Caddler who’s in the dog house now!”

The others laughed at the attempted pun, and the wolf-dogs yipped and barked even louder.

“Carmelita, would you hand me the serving tray?”

Nancy had just taken a fresh batch of brownies from the oven, and the aroma was beginning to circulate through the house. She knew everyone would soon be gravitating to the living room for their share of the treats. Carmelita retrieved the tray from its place leaning on the countertop against the refrigerator.

“Tia Nancy, do you think the wolves really understand what we did? They seem so tame, so attached to us now.”

Nancy stacked the brownies on the tray and glanced at Carmelita.

Is this how my daughter would have been?

“I don’t know for sure, Carmelita, but the adult animals seem to have bonded with us. Only time will tell if the next generation follows their lead.”

The weather turned mountain-cold again. Gusts of the north wind swept the remaining leaves from their branches, presaging the first snow of the season. Galen’s arthritic right knee, which had been worsening since the summer, drove him to spend more time in the living room in front of the fireplace. Books and diagrams and photos crowded the coffee table, where he went over and over his notes about the wolf pack. The social structure fit no known pattern of prior observations by researchers in the field. Zeus, the alpha, was actually teaching his heir apparent. Mercury and Athena were instructing the younger grey male and red-brown female. It seemed like an ordained succession was being established, but it would take another wolf generation or two to see if the pattern held true.

Galen looked up as Tonio entered the room and peered over his shoulder at the pages of graphs and notes in his lap.

“What’s this about, Tio?”

Galen motioned him to sit, and he explained his conclusions to his eager protégé.

“Tio Eddie, can I come in?”

Freddie had heard the cutting and grinding noises coming from Edison’s wood shop.

“Sure, Freddie. Here, take a look at this.”

“What is it, Tio?”

“It’s a gift, a gift for the mountain. Something Tio Galen said to Mr. Caddler that day struck me as appropriate. Think the old goat will like it?”

He held up a three-foot-long wooden sign. On it, in large letters deeply engraved into the heavy solid oak wood, he had fashioned one word: SAFEHAVEN.

They sat on their haunches, facing the house in the distance and the two-legged pack inside it that was of them and not of them. Their eyes reflected the amber, winter-solstice moonlight in luminescent green.

The three in front kept ears and muzzles on full alert. The alpha male, a full one-hundred pounds, let out a solitary howl of unwavering tone. The male next to him, not as large but sleeker and more streamlined, joined in, their canine bodies taking in large gasping breaths to produce the contrapuntal vibrations of their vocal chords. The female, smaller but even more alert, added the second harmonic. The younger members of the pack sat in quiet respect, observing the ways that would govern their future lives and those of their pups.

They were the Moonsingers of the mountain.

He closed his eyes, feeling the music, feeling the flow of mind to hand, as his fingers spread over the cracked and yellowed ivory keys.

He was small for his age, wiry with the black hair and piercing brown eyes of countless generations of nomadic tribes. Olive-brown skin delineated a nose carried forward from some long-dead European Crusader seeking solace from the distant memories of his home country. And, maybe, the genes of that ancient warrior conveyed the message of something else.

“
Ibni Faisal, taala ila huna wa aazif lena alhanen alal piano
.”

“Faisal, my son, come, play the piano for us.”

He was a simple man, his father, a baker of breads and honey cakes, as his own father before him had been. Short with powerful arms, hairless and darkened even more by the ever-present heat of the great ovens, he marveled at what Allah had granted him: a son blessed with the gift of music. His arm encircled his wife, as they sat in the little room above the bakery shop, and he nodded with pleasure at his son, who sat down before the old, French upright piano.

The yeasty scents of baked goods interwoven with the aromas of spices and honey used in the special pastries all mingled together in the hot, evening air of the little town.

The boy took his seat, feeling the coolness defeating the searing heat of the day. He turned to his parents and his little yellow-brown dog, Fez, all waiting expectantly for him to work his magic on the keyboard.

He would surprise them with a Chopin polonaise. He had heard it on the shortwave broadcast, and his mind processed the twisted helices of notes, until he could play it for real.

“Sir, everything is secure. We’ve just done a full sweep. I think we’ve got a quiet one tonight.”

Captain Lachlan Douglass nodded to his sergeant, an old man at twenty-four, one year younger than himself.

What the hell am I doing here?

Douglass had just been married and completed his training at the Pennsylvania State Police Academy, when he got the word: His Army Reserve unit had been called to active duty. Now, here he was in hell, experiencing the joys of one-hundred-thirty-degree days and ninety-degree nights in the Middle Eastern battle zone. His six-foot, three-inch, one-hundred-seventy-five-pound body protested the extremes.

Ben, you wouldn’t know me now
.

He missed his gruff patrol-car partner, Ben Castle, in the same way a son misses his father.

The beard would throw you.

He rubbed his stubbled chin to wipe away some of the daytime debris of sweat, salt, sand, and frustration. Then his mind snapped back to the task at hand.

“Okay, sergeant, let’s keep it that way.”

Bachtin was a good noncom—none better. But no matter how hard Douglass tried, he couldn’t get the guy to learn what Castle repeatedly had drilled into his own head: Know your territory, know the people in it, and always be aware of what shouldn’t be there. Kind of like Sherlock Holmes’s dog that didn’t bark.

He walked to the edge of the post perimeter and stared into the darkness: only a few house lights on and the usual sounds of activities after sundown. The odors of mealtime blended with crackling noises, as the ground slowly released the stored heat of the day.

Then he heard a piano, just a smidgen out of tune. He had played trumpet in high school and could still remember the dissonance of the untalented and uninspired. But this … this came from the soul. Yes, Chopin himself would have been proud to play this way.

He stood still, not wanting the music to stop, when he felt the vibrations through his boots. Something heavy, coming up slowly. It definitely did not belong here!

“Bachtin, get the men on point. I think we’re getting a visitor to the ‘hood.”

“Yes, sir. Just picked it up. Standard stop and search?”

“No, I don’t want it getting near the post. Take the spot, shine it directly at them. See what they do.”

The million-candlepower spotlight lit the darkness, outlining the old truck moving slowly toward them.

“Truck bomb!” Douglass heard himself yell out as the magnesium-white explosion detonated. He felt himself blown backward by the moving front of superheated air. He couldn’t hear the sound, but his eyes witnessed in slow motion the collapse of the building that had stood in front of the truck. In an instant the music and the bakery were gone.

“Sir, are you all right?”

His ears were ringing, but he could make out Bachtin’s voice. He felt the hands of the men, as they picked him up slowly and carefully carried him back to the post perimeter. He felt the hands of the squad medic going over him inch by inch and then sighed in relief when he saw the young man give a thumbs-up. The rest of his men also showed relief, as their jaw muscles unclenched. From a distance he heard himself say, “Check for civilian casualties.”

Then he passed out.

“How many, Corporal?”

“Sixteen, Sergeant.”

Bachtin walked around the cloth-covered bodies of the neighborhood dead. He pulled back the sheet on the smallest one, saw the mutilated face of what had once been a young boy, and began to cry. He bent down to adjust the boy’s arms and jumped backward when one of them moved.

“Corporal, get the medic!”

“Captain Douglass, I appreciate how you feel, but it wasn’t your fault the boy’s family was killed.”

The colonel considered Douglass the best man in his unit. He understood the young man’s feelings, but he also had to follow the rules.

“Look, we’ll do what we can for the boy, but we can’t take him back with us.”

The skin grafts had left his body a grotesque, Harlequin patchwork. He still could hear and feel, and his sense of taste and smell were slowly returning, but the darkness permeated him—mind and body. He raised his hands to his face, felt the contortion of burn scars, and then circled the former homes of what had once been penetrating brown eyes. Scarred lips opened in silent scream.

Dearest Di,

I don’t know what to do about the boy. You above all know my soul. I must help him, yet I am powerless against the rules and regulations. I can’t get this out of my mind.

You are always with me.

Lachlan

Diana printed out a copy of the text message and went to the phone. She waited until a deep voice finally answered the call.

“Sergeant Castle.”

Ben drove the patrol car alone now, while his partner served a reserve stint in Iraq. He traveled the winding mountain roads always watching for the out of place. But when he saw the familiar driveway entrance, he slowed down and stopped just in front of it.

What am I doing here? Why should I bother these three with this?

Clenching his jaw, he turned into the long lane and followed it to the house on the summit. He noticed something that hadn’t been there the last time. It was a wooden sign of large, carved letters standing not far from the house: SAFEHAVEN.

Maybe it is a sign
, he thought.

“Bob, Sergeant Castle is here. He wants to talk to the three of us. Is Galen around?”

Startled, Edison jumped up from his recliner.

“Has anything happened to the kids?”

They were in school this time of day.

“No, but he said it was important,” she replied.

“Okay, I’ll see if Old Grumpy is in his room.”

He was halfway down the hall, when he nearly collided with Galen emerging from his room. Edison could tell he was in one of his moods.

“I was just coming to get you.”

“I’m not deaf and blind. I saw the car pull up. What the hell’s going on?”

The two men joined Nancy and Castle, who were now standing in the living room.

“Sit down, please, Sergeant,” Nancy said, nervously. “Do you like tea? I’ve just made some butterscotch walnut cookies.”

They waited for Castle’s cue. When the sergeant understood nodded that he understood, the trio breathed a collective sigh of relief. The three men sat down, and Nancy went to the kitchen and soon returned with a tray and tea caddy.

Castle didn’t know where to begin.

“Do you remember Lachlan Douglass, the young officer who was with me when you had that trouble with Caddler?”

They all nodded, remembering the drunken old farmer who had threatened the children and the wolf pack.

“Well, Lachlan’s reserve unit got called up to serve in the Middle East. Sonofagun if that boy isn’t a captain in his own right. Anyway, a truck bomb killed a bunch of people in the neighborhood he was monitoring. Somehow a little boy survived the blast, but he was severely mutilated. He’s blind now, and his face is distorted. Lachlan wants to bring him to the States for treatment, but you know how it is—regulations, rules…”

Nancy and Edison immediately looked at Galen, who turned to Castle.

“Do you know the unit numbers for Officer Douglass?”

Castle pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the bear-like man. Galen stood up.

“Excuse me.”

As he headed to his room, the officer shot a puzzled look at the Edisons.

“Don’t mind him. He’s in one of his grumpy moods. But if anything can be done, he’ll do it.”

Nancy smiled and offered the man more tea and cookies. He relaxed a little and savored the midday treat.

Galen dialed a number from memory.

”Plastic surgery. This is Dr. Connors.”

Galen grinned to himself.

“Connors, have you finally learned how to treat hyperosmolar coma?”

Silence on the other end, then the man laughed.

“Dr. Galen, what a surprise! Are you still torturing poor medical students with that question?”

Jim Connors was one of the best students Galen had ever seen, and now he was tops in his field of plastic reconstructive surgery of the face.

“I got one for you, Jim.”

The old doctor relayed the basics of the case, and the young surgeon asked a few questions and promised to do whatever he could to help.

Galen dialed another number, one that stirred mixed feelings. But this person owed him, so he was calling in the marker.

He impatiently endured the Pentagon’s computerized menu voice.

What was so wrong with switchboards?

The others watched silently, as he re-entered the living room and stood in front of the picture window for a few seconds before turning to face them.

“Sergeant, tell Officer Douglass’s wife that the Air Force will fly the boy to Andrews and transport him from there to the military hospital at Bethesda...”

He paused briefly.

“And let her know her husband will be accompanying the boy.”

Castle sat silent, stunned by what he had just heard. Nancy exhaled and smiled. Edison just shook his head at his friend.

“What skeletons did you drag out for that?”

Galen stared at him with haunted eyes and replied, “Some of my own.”

The tall young man in captain’s uniform ran to his wife and surrounded her tightly with his arms on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base, southeast of Washington, D.C. He was elated, but he was no longer the happy soul who had left her. She could see the look of pain relived in his eyes, and she held him tightly as well.

“Galen, it’s Jim Connors. We’ve done what we can. He’ll look human again.”

The surgeon’s voice cracked, as he asked his old teacher the unanswerable question: “Why does a just and merciful God allow men to do this to children?”

Galen hesitated a second before replying. He remembered another time, another war, when children suffered for men’s hatred.

“It wasn’t God, Jim, it was Shaitan.”

The doctor removed the boy’s bandages, and he brought his hands once more to his face: long, delicate fingers touched lips, nose, and ears. Then he felt the prosthetic eye globes now housed in the empty sockets, a pretense of the reality of sight. He began to cry, but there were no tears. There never would be again.

The table held three guests that evening, as the children sat down for their dinner and discussion of the day’s events. Galen, Edison, and Nancy had told them that Sergeant Castle, Officer Douglass, and his wife Diana would be there to talk about something that would affect them all. The adults had agreed that this decision should involve the youngsters.

Carmelita was fifteen now, Freddie nearly fourteen, and Tonio almost thirteen—old enough to contribute their unique outlook as adolescents.

Galen stood, after they all had filled themselves with Nancy’s gourmet meal. He surveyed the eight around the table then addressed the children.

“I’ve already told you about Officer Douglass and his tour of duty in Iraq. And I’ve told you about the young boy who was severely injured by the bomb blast. Here’s what we know about him. He’s about twelve. His name is Faisal Fedr, and he’s lost everything: his mother, his father, his dog, his home—and his eyesight. He has no living relatives, so Mr. and Mrs. Douglass are planning to adopt him.

“He’s just gone through major reconstructive surgery. The doctors have fixed him up on the outside. But on the inside, his soul and mind need help.

“Your tio and tia and I have talked it over, and we’d like to have him stay at Safehaven to recuperate.

“You are nearest in age to him, so he would spend the most time with you. That’s why we want to know what you think.”

The children looked at one another. They were smart enough to understand what their tio hadn’t said: They, too, had been lost and then found.

Nine years ago Galen, Edison, and Nancy had rescued them on Bald Head Island then adopted them and brought them here to live at Safehaven. Memories of their parents, Sandoval and Felicita, of their birthplace in Cuba, and of their harrowing journey across the water, had been steadily fading. This was now their home, and they loved their guardians.

Carmelita was first to reply.

“Tio Galen, does he speak or understand English?”

Galen turned to Douglass, who answered for him.

“Yes, the town where he lived was multilingual, and many residents spoke English fluently. But he hasn’t said anything since the blast.”