The guy stood up and walked haltingly toward Ridge. About six feet tall, white, muscular build, maybe early 20s. Blue knit cap, shaved hair at the sides or bald, wearing a Grateful Dead sweatshirt and jeans. The 12-foot flight planning table with glass top covering aeronautical charts, mapping Oregon to Mexico and east to Vegas, sat between them. Ridge moved forward. Slightly. To his end of the table. Grateful Dead shifted slowly to Ridge’s right, then bit by bit moved along the side of the table. Halfway, he stopped, said nothing, stared wild-eyed at Ridge.
CHAPTER 19
“What?’ Ridge said.
“The jacket. The jacket, man. Brown leather aviator. Been lookin’ and lookin’ for one just like that.”
Ridge pulled his black satchel closer. “J. Pierson and Company. On-line. 300 bucks.”
The guy didn’t move closer. Instead, he pulled pen and crushed paper from his jeans and started writing. “Thanks, man. I mean it.”
Ridge relaxed a bit. “When will the lights be back.”
“Not sure, but I’m Ruben—new here, training to be a mechanic on the General Aviation line.”
“I’m Ridge. I fly in and out a lot.”
“Hey man, good to meet you. They’re doing flight planning now out of base ops. Until we get the lights back. That’s your best bet.”
Ridge stepped forward and shook Ruben’s hand. “Glad to meet you. I usually fly the white and blue 172.”
Ruben smiled. “Cool, dude. I’ll keep an eye out for ya.”
Turning to the door, Ridge said, “Appreciate it, man. See you later.”
Ridge hurried to the front of the building and entered the Base Ops Room. After hellos to people he knew, he checked the weather, happy to learn the gray skies broke up ten miles west over the ocean. So, he filed an IFR to VFR-On-Top flight plan. He’d use his instruments to punch through the clouds and then fly Visual Flight Rules to destination. Happy to be on his way, Ridge walked briskly out to the bird with his checklist, satchel, and necessary paperwork. After pre-flight checks, he jumped into the blue and white Cessna and headed to the runway. As he approached the black top, he radioed the tower, “This is Cessna 3-2-1 Alpha, about to take the active, requesting a couple of minutes extra at end of runway.”
“Roger that 3-2-1 Alpha, no traffic, take 3. Cleared for takeoff.”
Ridge clicked the microphone two times. “Roger that. 3-2-1 Alpha, cleared for takeoff.”
Ridge checked visually left and right and left again and taxied into position for takeoff. Plenty of civilian pilots finished their engine run-up checks as they rolled down the runway. But Ridge did it the military way, coming to a stop, feet on the brakes, and running full up at a stand-still. The theory was: If something went wrong during run-up, better to have more runway ahead, and less behind. Ridge liked that idea .
The run-up went without a hitch, and off he went. He punched through clouds and got further clearance straight up the coast. Beyond the overcast deck, the world burst into a fresh, crisp, glorious blue. An almost blinding sun. No clouds. Ridge pulled out his Ray Bans, slipped them on and thought how lucky he was. Below, the sun reflected across the marine layer creating a deck of bright white puffy cotton stretching for miles. As advertised, near the ten-mile point, the sea of cotton became an ocean of blue-green sparkling water. Same world, different perspective. Beautiful.
Thirty minutes later Ridge reached the sun-drenched orange roof tiles and creamy stucco buildings of Santa Barbara. Just as he remembered, the Goleta Airport was easy to spot from the air. Couldn’t miss the UCSB campus. He glanced toward the beach. Normally, after landing, he grabbed lunch at The Café on Goleta Beach. Great fish tacos. No time for that today, though. He was on the clock. This morning’s donut and coffee would have to do. So, Ridge made his approach, and landed—a squeaker. He taxied to the chocks outside the Ops Center, shut down and checked out his rental car—a green Toyota 4Runner. He grinned when he saw the navigation system ready-to-go.
Strangely, though, when Ridge entered the address, the computer only allowed him to pick numbers between 1 and 50 along Sixteen Road. 66 wasn’t in the database. Never one to give up, Ridge typed in 50, figuring he’d wing it to 66 from there. Sixteen Road ran out of a flat industrial-park area, way up into the mountains. Eventually, it bent right, and the pavement turned to compact dirt. Ridge was deep in thick forest, glad to be driving the four-wheel-drive Toyota, when the friendly gal in the computer said: “You have arrived at your destination.”
Looking around, he saw no structures, no addresses, and no side roads. Seemed to be no 50 Sixteen Road. Ridge began to think the database was keying off property records reflecting some contractor’s dream for future development. With few options though, he continued to travel east on the road, finding higher mountains, deeper forest. Suddenly, a side road. Swinging his vehicle to the right, Ridge followed the rutted dirt deeper into the woods. Until he came to a chain-link fence. Six-feet high. Old. And rusty. The gate was open.
The fence ran around two buildings. A dilapidated wood cabin, and a more dilapidated barn—that looked 100 years old. Seeing no signs of life, Ridge crept his vehicle up the long crushed-stone driveway. Toward the cabin. Still no life. He called out. No one home. Ridge pulled the 4Runner slowly to the back of the barn. Nothing there. He parked out of sight from anyone in front and grabbed his satchel. He loaded a magazine in the Sig. Flipped the safety off. And left the Velcro side open. Bending the law a bit, he put the satchel over his left shoulder, intending to draw with his right hand, as he approached the cabin on foot.
It was old. The porch was bigger than the rest of the structure. Looking through the window, Ridge saw one main room and a stone fireplace. A sink and black stove sat in a corner. The furniture, what little there was of it, was beat up and circa-1950. Seeing no signs inside of recent life, Ridge reached into the outer pocket of his satchel and pulled out a small digital camera. He snapped interior photos of the cabin through its small dusty windows. Stowed his camera. And turned toward the barn. Termites had eaten most of the outside planks, and the structure had never been painted in its life. The two large doors were unlocked. Slightly open. Ridge pushed, ever so slowly. They creaked. Inside, Ridge found—well, an old barn and musty, moldy straw everywhere. Including ancient bales on the second level. Dated tools. Pitchforks, shovels, and saws, leaning against the stalls and walls. A big rusty red tractor, built in the 1960s, was parked at the center. Near a block-and-tackle device, probably used to lift the tractor’s engine in and out for maintenance. There was a big old generator on the other side of the tractor, more tools scattered on a nearby wooden table, and not much else.
Then Ridge’s eyes focused on something weird. In the far corner of the barn. A stand-alone room. Rectangular structure with fibrous weather-proofing panels nailed to the outside walls. And the roof. And the door. The only openings, besides that door, were a few slit windows. Near top of the structure. Ridge turned and reached into his satchel. Pulled out his camera. Clicked 360-degrees of photos. Then, tucked the camera and re-focused on the room.
The padlock for the door sat on the floor. Easing the door further open, he found more weather-proofing panels. Nailed to the inside walls. And the ceiling. And, near center of the room, eight large dog cages. Four cages, stacked on a bottom row of four other cages. Each measured 3x3x3. Had its own lock. And seemed almost big enough for a person. Then there was a cot along one wall. And a large wooden box, apparently used as a table. Both were placed near an old stuffed chair in the far corner. The room smelled of stale sweat. But still no signs of life.
Most of the metal dog dishes, inside the cages, were caked with some kind of dried food. There was still a little water in the bowls but it was dirty. Behind the cages, a tarnished brass faucet stuck out of the ground on a 4-foot stem. Had a 10-foot black hose attached. But surprisingly, no dog food bags. Anywhere. Then Ridge reasoned, weatherproofing—inside and out—makes sense. The crappy barn couldn’t keep out winter rain or summer heat. And the panels also work as soundproofing if any dogs act up. But a cot? The chair? What the hell. And where are the dogs? Where in fact is anyone?
As if answering, out of nowhere, came the rumble of a truck on the crushed-stone driveway out front. Ridge made sure he could easily reach the butt of his Sig. He moved to the barn door. With his right eye pressed against a separation in the wooden slats, he watched two men jump from a beat up, jacked-up, brown pickup. Each looked about six-feet tall, fit and around 20. Each wore a beige hunting jacket and matching hunting cap with sides down over their ears. More importantly, each carried a huge rifle strapped to the left shoulder. Without words, both sauntered to the cabin. Climbed the porch. Opened the door. And vanished inside.
Time to get outta Dodge, before the twins get upset. Ridge pulled his Sig. Gently moving the slide back, he chambered a bullet. Holding the weapon down and along his right leg, he crept out the barn door, noting the front gate on the chain-link fence still stood open. He tip-toed backwards around to the 4Runner. Got in. And silently as possible started the rental with his left hand, holding the pistol in his right. Eyes plastered on the corner of the barn, Ridge slowly rolled forward over dirt and grass, until just before the edge of the structure. Then he put the SUV in reverse. Negotiated a slow U-turn. And rolled quietly around the corner of the barn, backwards. He cranked his neck to see toward the cabin and continued to roll rearward over dirt in front of the barn. When he reached the crushed-stone driveway, he steered clockwise until the 4Runner was centered on it. Backwards. Facing the cabin. That way, if the twins heard him crushing rocks, and stormed from the cabin, rifles blasting, he’d have straight-on shots with the Sig. On the flipside, if either twin or both nonchalantly opened the cabin door and got surprised by Ridge, he could throw the SUV in ‘Drive,’ tuck the gun, and feign being a lost soul looking for directions. That was the plan anyway. Good, bad, or ugly.
Centered in the gravel with his eyes forward, riveted on the cabin, Ridge gradually backed down the long driveway. Crushing stones. One pop a time. Staring hard at the cabin door. Breath on hold. It seemed forever. And ever. And ever. But he finally reached the gate. No storms. No surprised twins. No gun blasts. Ridge twisted his head, and slowly backed out onto the public road. Hoping. Listening. Hearing nothing. He looked again toward the cabin and let out a long sigh. Ridge put the 4 Runner in Drive and headed to the airport, wondering, What next?
CHAPTER 20
Two had to do something. Now parked in the Santa Barbara area, he hadn’t left his car since the shooting. Scared shitless. Like when he was little—3 years old—and his father started beating him. He’d hid in closets. Heart pounding. Behind chairs, head down between his knees. But it always ended the same. He was always found. Always caught. Always beaten. For six years, Two could do no right. He tried—oh, how he tried. Then he ran away. For good.
Now Two looked at his hands. At least the bleeding had stopped. But by 6 p.m., he decided, no choice. Got to tell Hess. Sure, Two could cover the chest wound. But not the eye. And anyway, he needed a doctor. Now. Or he’d die. But still…he feared going to the big house. Instead, Two headed for the barn.
He arrived near 7 p.m., saw no one, and went directly to the cage room. Sitting in the stuffed chair, feeling depleted, Two wondered, What have I done? Just wanted to show Hess I could solo. Better than kiss-up One. Planned everything to a gnat’s ass. I knew the woman would be alone. But no one, not even Hess, could have known she had a bobcat and a damn wolf-dog in her apartment. Talk about sick. Who the hell does that? She’s friggin’ nuts. And who in damn hell could know she’d have a gun? Just then, Two peered down, through his good eye, at the bloody rags pressed into the bullet wound in his upper chest. He eased the pressure, which decreased pain, but then blood began to pool. He pushed the rags back, deeper into the wound. The excruciating pain returned, but nothing, absolutely nothing, felt like the fire in his right eye. Two hung his head and, well, gave up. Rocking slowly side-to-side, he picked up his cell, and called Hess.
Hess arrived around 8 p.m., with One and Three. As they entered the barn, Hess yelled, “Two, for Chrissake. How many times have I told you. Close the damn gate. Leave it open again, I swear—I will eat out your heart. What’s going on? Where the hell are you?”
Moments later Hess stood in the doorway to the cage room, the other two Watchmen behind him. Two staggered to his feet and hanging his head, mumbled, “Here, Herr Hess.”
Hess immediately shoved Two back into the chair, told One to get the medical kit from the truck, and ordered Two to explain. As Two recounted his story, Hess’ eyes bulged, and his face flushed redder and redder. By the end, Hess was seething with anger. He barked, “Unbelievable. You asshole. A fuckin’ failure. A damn embarrassment to me, His Eminence and all your ancestors. I should kill you now. Be done with it. But I, unlike you, know discipline. I’ll call His Eminence. Let him decide what the hell to do with you.”
Hess instructed One to replace Two’s bloody rags with compress bandages, and to do and say nothing else. Hess then left the room and called on his cell from inside the barn. When he returned, he spit toward Two, and directed the other Watchmen to lay Two out on the cot. Then, looking down on Two, he said, “His Eminence has decided to spare your life. Despite my urging otherwise. But no doctors. I’ll do what has to be done.”
Reaching into his black medical bag, Hess pulled out a bamboo stick. He shoved it sideways into Two’s mouth, shouting, “Bite down.” Then, Hess went back to his medic bag and pulled out one of the hypodermics. He loaded it through a vial and jammed the needle into Two’s upper chest. He then loaded the needle again and moved it toward Two’s right eye. As the needle point came closer, Two fell unconscious.
